#objectivist

[yovav-kalifon]

[geekysteven]

[echthr0s]

my one dream in life is that some Wolf of Wall Street wannabe ass dude will see me reading The Fountainhead in public and be like "nice 👉😎👉" and start to try to talk to me about capitalism and as soon as he does, a bear trap snaps closed around his leg and I begin to happily infodump at him about how Roark and Wynand are actually fucking each other through the proxy of Dominique, raising my voice by increments to ensure that I am heard over his screams of agony

[vvatchword]

Dr. Lamb sat back in her office. All around her she could hear the nighttime heart of the Drop coming to life. Bawdy music, glass smashing, arguments keening up above the tenements, high-pitched laughter.

In her own mind, there was a deafening silence. Something was battering itself against the upper parts of her brain and she didn’t want to let it out.

She gazed down upon her notes. At first, they were only marks on a page; the slashes of some other person from some other time. She remembered how the group had exited: slowly, some still sniffling. The way arms came out; hands grasped each other. The group had walked into the room one by one, and it had left in a mass.

For individuals to unify: she had not asked for that. She had shown them ways to identify emotional and social problems; she had shown them ways to disentangle emotional reasoning from the logical; how to use lists and writing. She had not said, “Go, leave as a single unit, altogether.”

And they had not been fools. No, they were educated human beings; they repeated the philosophy back to her without trouble. But each person—without more than four or five sentences to one another mere minutes before—had gravitated to the others. The physicist had taken the arm of the actress and the editor, started talking in a low voice to them both; the track star had bumped up into them, tipping his hat; the housewife pulled on the track star’s sleeve and began to chatter breathlessly. Like a pack of dogs, they’d jostled as a unit out into the street.

A memory unfolded: the Sinclair lying battered before her broken window. The mass of humanity that opened before her where they had closed on him—like the jaws of a beast.

She alone stood singular.

She alone.

A horrible shock: did Ryan stand alone? Did Fontaine? Did any industrialist? When had she ever seen them without individuals whirling beneath them like bees below their queen?

She leaned back in her chair, took off her glasses, began cleaning them with a cloth. Her office loomed around her in indistinct shapes and colors.

Bees.

Like bees.

Like termites. Like ants. Like fish. Like birds. Like wolves. Like great apes.

Oh. This was not a good thought. This was not a good thought at all.

If God were objective reality, she felt as though he had turned. She no longer gazed upon his back, but upon his burning face: light years away, and still it burned.

“You fool,” she said to herself, first. Then: “You fool.” For she thought of Ryan.

Of course the truth was all around him. It was all around her, too. It had always been, hadn’t it? As a child, she had been unsettled about all she could not know; how could one make the most satisfactory choice without knowing everything? And here she was, at least one foot on shifting sand.

Oh, God. Oh, what if both her feet…

No helping that. Here was the problem: if man was an animal, he was a social one. Was he not? Did he not instinctively seek out the city rather than the hermitage? And where in the philosophy was there allowance for man’s sociability? Sociability with true intimacy, flesh upon flesh, hand upon hand, without fear of destruction. When animals interacted with their groupmates, there was mutual grooming; safety in numbers; alerts for both danger and opportunity; singing; play for both practice and relaxation; protection; aid without expectation. Whereas in the philosophy, individuals walked side by side, but between them were gulfs; they feared each other, they hated each other, they resented one another. A man who reached out to another with the intent to help or soothe would be feared, not welcomed.

The philosophy’s weakness opened up to her like a terrible secret. For by forcing gulfs between individuals, it created a physical need in those animal bodies—to be touched, to be needed, to be held—until they could not resist any such call at all. Any vulnerability, any show of possible allyship, and suddenly they fell utterly helpless to the siren calls of their own bodies.

Did the physicist really have anything in common with the editor or the track star or the chemist? Perhaps in the actress, for she was conventionally pretty, and he was probably heterosexual. But the way he had instantly leaned into the older women, the way he had happily shaken hands with the track star… the joy on all their faces, as though meeting old friends.

It was far easier to imagine relationships in terms of sex. It was easier for her to think: of course the physicist would like the housewife and the actress; they are young and pretty, and he spoke of no romantic attachments. But that was too easy. That was how children looked at relationships: Mr. X likes Ms. Y, therefore they shall get married, and have a little X and a little Y. All this when relationships could fractal out beneath a human being in a thousand flavors, feelings, meanings, needs, of which sex was only one possibility—as equally complex and compelling as a friendship, but also only a possibility among possibilities.

She had begun writing. When had she begun writing? She wrote madly, pen shivering under the light. The face of God burned down upon her. The face of God burned down and she, too, burned. She burned alive.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

[235uranium]

every day i barely restrain the urge to bitch about the social sciences

[kurakurakura99]

Cis guys are a fucking enigma to me man. "Fountain" is over 100 years old Duchamp is reaching across centuries to make you assmad about your preconceived notion of art

[8one6]

[visenyaism]

eagerly awaiting the reveal of what political science 101 concept is she going to stop the plot to teach middle schoolers about. we got bread and circuses we got the extended work on thomas hobbes my money is on haymitch starting this book as an objectivist and having to unlearn that in the face of true struggle

[master-gatherer]

Y'all do not reinvent Brad Bird Pixar discourse again I can't I just cant

[passengerpigeons]

I think I'm warming up to cid corman + susumu kamaike's translation of basho's oku no hosomichi (besides the title, "back roads to far towns," for self-serving reasons) stylistically as compared to the penguin trans. It seems that the consensus is it may not be scholastically as sound but flows closer to the original and reflects some of basho's stylistic prose quirks better

[lorec-x]

disagree with the particular point that one needs to rest if one finds rest boring,

and also disagree that one needs to embrace suboptimality in order to stop hitting oneself

but

more or less yeah

Stop trying to be productive

[vvatchword]

Hobnobbers

Sinclair’s apartment was in Athena’s Glory, only a 30-minute railcar ride from Naomi’s apartment, and “lavish” was an understatement. He had an entire floor to himself. More marble. More gilding. Servants in uniforms, flowers in their buttonholes. A foyer filled with paintings of plantation mansions, figures crushed in their shadows.

When Sinclair had said “small party,” John had imagined a group of a dozen people or fewer. Instead, there were nearer to a hundred, mostly men of middle-age or greater, and a record player crooning beside an open bar. The room was hazy with smoke. Everyone was in black, reflected against windows and polish like a throng of monoliths.

Breathless, Naomi clenched John’s arm, eyes flicking this way, then that, like a cat who had just spied a roomful of mice. He gave her a twisted grin.

“Jesus, kid, what are you so worried about?” he asked. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be out of my element here.”

“Nothing!” she said. “Only this is wonderful! I haven’t met so many of these people.”

“Go wild,” he said, loosing his grip.

But she clung with extra fervor.

“They want to see you, remember?” she whispered.

“Are you kidding?” John asked. “You’re adorable. Every hot-blooded man here would be ecstatic to meet you.”

Her face brightened, and when she turned to him, it was as though her soul embraced him. For a moment, they were both in a little world only they knew. Their noses nearly touched; he could feel her breath on his throat.

“No,” she said softly, her cheek brushing against his. “I’ll go with you.”

“All right.” He hugged her arm against him. “Point the way, then.”

“Sinclair, first,” she said softly. “Oh, he’s one of the biggest players in the whole city. I can’t believe…”

Sinclair was impossible to miss. He had misplaced both jacket and hat. He reclined at the bar on one of the stools, leaning on one elbow, legs flung out, fresh cigar in hand. Another man perched on the stool beside him with a drink, fedora pulled down over his ears. When Sinclair saw them coming, he slapped his neighbor on the arm.

“Well, if it ain’t Johnny Topside and friend,” he said. “Ms. Spunky-second-cousin-from-Boston.”

“Yes, thank you!” Naomi giggled, and took his hand. “Naomi Lucas. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope you enjoyed the play.”

“Very much!” Sinclair slapped the bar. “Hey, Vince, get me a mint julep. You folks like bourbon?”

“Of course,” Naomi said. She flushed so prettily. A sweat-dampened curl glistened above her ear.

And she’s coming back with me, John thought, giving her a squeeze.

“And you, Mr. Topside?” Sinclair shook his hand emphatically.

“I never turn down a drink,” John said with a grin.

Sinclair threw his head back and laughed. “That’s what I like to hear! Vince! Two bourbons, neat. Thanks.”

“Who’s your friend?” John asked.

“Me?” The man on the stool squeaked around. The baby-face was unmistakable. “You don’t remember? I’m hurt.”

John’s smile wavered.

“Fontaine,” he said.

“That’s right,” he said. Smoke curled out of his nostrils. “You been making a splash ‘round here lately. I’m ‘preciative. You got that monkey off my back for a while. Hell, that thing you did last night? Fuckin’ glorious. I’ll be laughing for weeks.”

“What?” John asked. “What’d I do?” He started running through his memories. Fuck, they were all so fuzzy. Why’d he have to drink so much?

“He don’t know what he did!” Fontaine said, slapping Sinclair on the shoulder. The two of them started cackling.

“Come on,” John said. “I’m new here. I know jack-shit.”

“Ryan actually went to a party last night,” Fontaine said. “Ava Tate’s. Actress. You know that bird? Yeah? No?”

John scowled, eyes wandering the floor as though her identity might be listed there.

“Of course we know Ava Tate,” said Naomi, perhaps too eagerly.  “She’s a legend!”

“Yeah, well, Ryan almost never goes nowhere, but this time he did, and what do you know? Almost no one came,” Fontaine said. “Because everyone went to see you.”

John groaned. “Oh, shit!”

He’d said it too loudly. Some of the partygoers turned to look.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t wanna be you,” Fontaine said. “All I gotta say is, get some padding between you and that bastard. Something to remember around this joint: money solves everything. So I hope you got more fortunes tucked away in those pockets, Johnny-boy.”

Naomi squeezed his arm, hard.

“What can he do to me?” John asked softly.

“Fuck, what can’t he do?” Fontaine asked. “He disappears my boys all the time.”

“Where do they go?” John asked.

Fontaine glanced at Sinclair. Sinclair shook his head, shaking with silent laughter, and took another drag on his cigar.

“To the dirt,” said Fontaine. “Whaddaya think?”

“I thought there was no death penalty here,” John said.

“There is if no one’s looking,” Fontaine said. “So if I were you, I’d make sure everyone’s looking all the fucking time. Except for now, maybe.”

“Now?” John asked. “What’s different about now?”

“It’s just not a good look, us talking here.”

“You mean there are spies?” John asked.

“Not conventionally,” Sinclair said lazily. “I don’t invite the press. But you know how word gets out. And folks do like to talk.”

“Shit,” John said, and grabbed his bourbon.

“Don’t take Frank too seriously,” said Sinclair, snipping a cigar and extending it to John. “He likes seeing folks squirm. And as long as you aren’t buying and selling contraband, well. I can’t imagine how Andy is going to justify a disappearance. Even his security team has standards.” He turned to Naomi. “Sorry about this conversation, miss. Not my usual fare, I must admit. Would you be amenable to a cigarette?”

“Yes, please,” she said. She was no longer bouncing on her feet. A veil had passed over her eyes.

“So you’re the dame who gave up a million dollars,” said Fontaine.

“I am.” She smiled up at him as she lit her cigarette. The lighter lit twin stars in her pupils.

“Is he worth it?” Fontaine asked. “I woulda turned him in, myself.”

“Of course he’s worth it,” said Naomi. “I wouldn’t have done it if he weren’t.” She gave his arm a little squeeze.

John stared glumly over his empty glass, turning it in a little circle.

“Worth it how?” Fontaine asked. “You got yourself a redneck in a tux. I could buy six hundred of those for a year each with that kinda money.”

“You’re talking to me now, aren’t you?” she asked. “I am in a party hosted by the Augustus Sinclair today, am I not?”

“Oh boy,” Fontaine said. “It’s one of these.”

“Frank, Frank. You’re going to give Johnny an ay-poh-plectic fit,” said Sinclair. “Would you folks believe he’s actually in a good mood?” He motioned at the bartender, jerked his thumb at John’s glass.

“I do,” Naomi said. “I’ve met many like him.” Her voice was freezing.

“And yet,” Fontaine said, hitting the last t like a cue on a pool ball, “you’re not my date, thank Christ.” He took a sip of his drink. “Gotta say, you two have been lookin’ cozy.” He made the adjective feel filthy.

“And you opened yet another charity,” said Naomi softly.

“Yeah, I can’t help myself.” He laughed. “You one of those die-hard believers, then? How does it feel, making Ryan squirm?”

“I’m not Ryan,” she said. “Why should I care?”

She could have delivered the question any number of ways. It came out sounding earnest. When she fixed her eyes on Fontaine, it was with a flat expression, like a blank piece of paper.

“It puts a target on your back,” Fontaine said, sticking his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “You care about that? Because you’re a nobody, lady, and being a nobody is dangerous business.”

Although Naomi laughed, she did not blink.

“You’re right,” she said. “Although not in the way you think. Ryan thinks nothing of women, and he will never begin. Nor, I believe, will you. No, of all of us, I am the safest. And that is if Ryan turns against every honest value he has ever cultivated, which I am certain he will not.”

“All of us?” Sinclair said, pressing his hand to his breast. “Damn, darling, what’ve I done?”

“You’re sitting here with Frank Fontaine, darling.” She smiled down at him.

Sinclair slapped his forehead. “Guilty as charged!” he said. “They’ll throw me in the trench at this rate.”

John had turned his shoulder to the trio and focused on his bourbon, calculating exits. But Sinclair grabbed at his elbow.

“Johnny, did you have any idea this woman is using you to get into parties?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, fellas,” John said, knocking back the rest of his drink. “I don’t think this conversation is for me.”

“No, no, Johnny, don’t head out.” Sinclair rocked up to his feet in one fluid motion, cigar champed down. “This is Frank’s real crime: chasing away my guests.”

“Now I’m confused,” said Fontaine. He drew a circle with his cigar. “I thought we was having a good time.”

“You always have a good time,” said Sinclair. “Don’t get too rowdy while I’m gone, you hear?” He slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Johnny. You, me, let’s go work the room, eh?”

Naomi took a sip of bourbon, her eyes hooded. Her overcoat gapped a little, and all that John could see underneath was skin. Fontaine stared without reserve.

“Naomi,” John said pointedly, throwing out a hand, “you said you wanted to meet some folks?”

“Of course,” she said, rising languidly. “I think I just saw my old ad manager. I’d love to say hello.”

“Good! Good!” Sinclair threw his arms over their shoulders. “This way.”

John staggered a little as he dropped off the stool.

“Good luck there, buddy,” said Fontaine. “Enjoy the time you got left.”

“Don’t worry about Frank,” Sinclair said as he pushed them into the crowd. “He loves drawing blood.”

“And you?” Naomi asked.

“Oh, I do imbibe,” Sinclair said. “But I’d hate for that to be your only impression of me. Frank brings out the worst in everyone. Alas! I am no exception. Now, what say we meet some more cheerful sorts?”

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

[kinsey3furry300]

A fun fic idea…

Step one: re-write the works of Ayn Rand. Change Nothing about the prose, plot, tone, nothing about the protagonist, not his name, motivation or core beliefs, the terribly written romance, keep it word for word identical…

But the only change is you make it explicitly clear that the soul destroying, anti-individualistic oppressive society he’s rebelling against is late-stage Neoliberal capitalism.

“The Fountainhead” but the architect blows up the building he’s designing in disgust at the fact Goldman-sachs are leasing a floor.

“Atlas shrugged” except the oppressive regime all the world’s scientists and creatives are fleeing is very explicitly the Regan administration. You get the idea.

Step two: Post to r/libertarianism as your original Libertarian Fic. Never mention Ayn Rand. If confronted, claim you’ve never heard of her and any similarity of existing works is coincidental.

Step three: See if them have even read Rand enough to spot it, or if they immediately denounce the entire work as the product of a mentally ill hack.

Step four: invite the ones that do notice into a private channel and ask them why they no longer want to smash the system and free themselves when it’s this particular system, and not a made-up one where they, and only they, are the victim. Ask if they really want the boot off their throat of if that particular boot is their emotional support footwear. Call them a grasping hand, and point out that they've got to stop being a bleeding heart and getting emotionaly invested in this, it's just a civil philoshophical debate.

Name the private channel “Trickle down giving-a-shit.” and post their replies to r/butthurt.

[ldknightshade]

i find it so fkin funny that not one, but two of my best performing posts are writing tips abt morality that never woulda gotten made if i didn’t get so incredibly autistic abt vic sage for a hot minute

[sjbattleangel]

Who needs a litter box when a statue of an Objectivist cult-leader will do just fine.

do you guys wanna see the most perfectest png of my cat

[cafeleningrad]

When a colleague you actually like, and you know had to shed a lot of structurally oppressive thinking to become her own person says that this is the reason she likes Ayn Rand. :/