Атлант расправил плечи

           Theywerethenightsspentatscorchingovensintheresearchlaboratoryofthemills-—thenightsspentintheworkshopofhishome,oversheetsofpaperwhichhefilledwithformulas,thentoreupinangryfailure—thedayswhentheyoungscientistsofthesmallstaffhehadchosentoassisthimwaitedforinstructionslikesoldiersreadyforahopelessbattle,havingexhaustedtheiringenuity,stillwilling,butsilent,withtheunspokensentencehangingintheair:"Mr.Rearden,itcan’tbedone—"-themeals,interruptedandabandonedatthesuddenflashofanewthought,athoughttobepursuedatonce,tobetried,tobetested,tobeworkedonformonths,andtobediscardedasanotherfailure—themomentssnatchedfromconferences,fromcontracts,fromthedutiesofrunningthebeststeelmillsinthecountry,snatchedalmostguiltily,asforasecretlove—theonethoughtheldimmovablyacrossaspanoftenyears,undereverythinghedidandeverythinghesaw,thethoughtheldinhismindwhenhelookedatthebuildingsofacity,atthetrackofarailroad,atthelightinthewindowsofadistantfarmhouse,attheknifeinthehandsofabeautifulwomancuttingapieceoffruitatabanquet,thethoughtofametalalloythatwoulddomorethansteelhadeverdone,ametalthatwouldbetosteelwhatsteelhadbeentoiron—theactsofself-rackingwhenhediscardedahopeorasample,notpermittinghimselftoknowthathewastired,notgivinghimselftimetofeel,drivinghimselfthroughthewringingtortureof:"notgoodenough...