Атлант расправил плечи
The Man who belonged on Earth
Hereyeswerehalf-closedinthemocking,conscioustriumphofbeingadmired,buthermouthwashalf-openinhelpless,beggingexpectation.Hestoodacrosstheroom,lookingather,atherflatstomachdrawnin,asherbreathwasdrawn,atthesensitivebodyofasensitiveconsciousness.Hesaid,hisvoicelow,intentandoddlyquiet:"Dagny,ifsomeartistpaintedyouasyouarenow,menwouldcometolookatthepaintingtoexperienceamomentthatnothingcouldgivethemintheirownlives.Theywouldcallitgreatart.Theywouldnotknowthenatureofwhattheyfelt,butthepaintingwouldshowthemeverything—eventhatyou’renotsomeclassicalVenus,buttheVice-Presidentofarailroad,becausethat’spartofit—evenwhatIam,becausethat’spartofit,too.Dagny,they’dfeelitandgoawayandsleepwiththefirstbarmaidinsight—andthey’dnevertrytoreachwhattheyhadfelt.Iwouldn’twanttoseekitfromapainting.
I’dwantitreal.I’dtakenoprideinanyhopelesslonging.Iwouldn’tholdastillbornaspiration.I’dwanttohaveit,tomakeit,toliveit.
Doyouunderstand?"
"Ohyes,Hank,Iunderstand!"shesaid.Doyou,mydarling?—doyouunderstanditfully?—shethought,butdidnotsayitaloud.
Ontheeveningofablizzard,shecamehometofindanenormousspreadoftropicalflowersstandinginherlivingroomagainstthedarkglassofwindowsbatteredbysnowflakes.
