Атлант расправил плечи
The Man who belonged on Earth
ThenovelisthadcomefromEuropetowriteanarticleabouthim—andhe,whohadoncedespisedinterviews,hadtalkedeagerly,lengthily,toolengthily,seeingapromiseofintelligenceinthenovelist’sface,feelingacauseless,desperateneedtobeunderstood.Thearticlehadcomeoutasacollectionofsentencesthatgavehimexorbitantpraiseandgarbledeverythoughthehadexpressed.Closingthemagazine,hehadfeltwhathewasfeelingnowatthedesertionofasunray.
Allright—hethought,turningawayfromthewindow—hewouldconcedethatattacksoflonelinesshadbeguntostrikehimattimes;butitwasalonelinesstowhichhewasentitled,itwashungerfortheresponseofsomeliving,thinkingmind.Hewassotiredofallthosepeople,hethoughtincontemptuousbitterness;hedealtwithcosmicrays,whiletheywereunabletodealwithanelectricstorm.
Hefeltthesuddencontractionofhismouth,likeaslapdenyinghimtherighttopursuethiscourseofthought.Hewaslookingatthebookonhisdesk.Itsglossyjacketwasglaringandnew;ithadbeenpublishedtwoweeksago.ButIhadnothingtodowithit!—hescreamedtohimself;thescreamseemedwastedonamercilesssilence;nothingansweredit,noechoofforgiveness.Thetitleonthebook’sjacketwasWhyDoYouThinkYouThink?
Therewasnosoundinthatcourtroomsilencewithinhim,nopity,novoiceofdefense—nothingbuttheparagraphswhichhisgreatmemoryhadreprintedonhisbrain:"Thoughtisaprimitivesuperstition.
