In Galt They Trust

Ayn Rand hated both God and Ronald Reagan. Something to consider for the Tea Partiers. After all, she’d hate them, too.

When the novelist, philosopher, and social critic Ayn Rand died in New York in 1982, her world had been reduced to a small group of sycophantic disciples, ironically dubbed "The Collective." Twenty-plus years later, though, the circle of Rand’s influence is arguably wider than ever. While Rand has never lacked for book sales–the nature of her fiction virtually guarantees a self-renewing audience of underappreciated adolescents and self-righteous business executives–at present, her work is exerting far more political influence than it has enjoyed since the earliest days of American libertarianism. As Jonathan Chait of The New Republic and others have explained, Rand’s denunciations of government taxation and regulation as "looting" and her moral defense of capitalism are crucial to conservative rhetoric these days, especially within the militant "Tea Party" movement.

What a coincidence, then, that two well-researched, serious books on Rand should appear this year. Jennifer Burns, a University of Virginia historian, has penned a fine account of Rand’s life that particularly focuses on her place in the pantheon of the American Right, while veteran magazine editor Anne C. Heller (her resume ranges from The Antioch Review to Lear’s) has written a more conventional biography that thoroughly explores the heretofore darker corners of Rand’s life, including her childhood and adolescence in revolutionary Russia. While neither are Rand disciples (although Burns, unlike Heller, was given access to Rand’s private papers, zealously guarded by her institutional monument, the Ayn Rand Institute), both defend her philosophical originality and her literary talent, and both view her as a tragic figure whose greatness was spoiled by her intolerance for dissent and her abusive private behavior toward her closest associates and potential allies. They also think she has been vindicated by her posthumous impact on the libertarian movement and a variety of writers and entrepreneurs, including the founders of Wikipedia and Craigslist.

But much as Rand craved appreciation for her work (as sadly reflected in the worshipful eyes of The Collective and her bitterness about every negative book review she ever received), it’s hard to imagine that she would have been terribly happy about its current appropriation by a motley assortment of conservative populists, who mix quotes from The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged with Christian Scripture and the less-than-cerebral perspectives of Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck. In her own view, Rand was nothing if not a systematic philosopher whose ideas demanded an unconditional acceptance of her approach to metaphysics, epistemology, ethics, psychology, literature, and politics.

Rand’s famous intolerance should not be dismissed as simply the psychological aberration of a flawed genius. She feared, for good reason, what lesser minds might do with the intellectual dynamite of her work when divorced from its philosophical context. The prophetess of "the virtue of selfishness" made rigorous demands of herself and all her followers to live self-consciously "heroic" lives under a virtual tyranny of reason and self-mastery, and to reject every imaginable natural and supernatural limitation on personal responsibility for every action and its consequences. Take all that away–take everything away that Rand actually cared about–and her fictional work represents little more than soft porn for middle-brow reactionaries who seek to rationalize their resentment of the great unwashed. This is why Rand was so precise about the moral obligations and absolute consistency demanded both of her fictional "heroes" and her acolytes. She hated "second-handers," people who borrowed others’ philosophies without understanding or following them.

Rand’s biography is rather remarkable. She was born as Alissa Zinovievna Rosenbaum in the proto-revolutionary year of 1905, the daughter of a wealthy Jewish chemist in St. Petersburg. After a precocious childhood spent in a luxury and privilege that was somewhat undercut by the innate insecurity felt by all Russian Jews, Alissa struggled toward adulthood amid the steady dispossession of her father’s livelihood and property by the Bolsheviks (an early prototype for John Galt, her father refused to work for the state). Having come to hate both the God of Old Russia and the State of the USSR, she escaped Russia in 1926 as a budding Soviet film critic by convincing the authorities that her value to the international revolution would benefit from a brief sojourn in Hollywood. It was a trick: Once in America, she never considered living anywhere else.

Rand arrived in Hollywood with a new name (the origins and meaning of which have been a source of eager and inconclusive debate among her acolytes), a worldview mainly derived from Friedrich Nietzsche, and a fierce determination supported by equally fierce self-regard. A chance encounter with Cecil B. DeMille gained her a toehold in the film industry as a copy-writer (after a brief stint in the wardrobe department), and a glimpse of a handsome young actor named Frank O’Conner eventually gained her the husband she alternately adored and disrespected for 50 years.

• 1
• 2
• 3

Post a Comment

Name

Email

Comments (you may use HTML tags for style)

Verification

Note: Several minutes will pass while the system is processing and posting your comment. Do not resubmit during this time or your comment will post multiple times.