brynji

Page 64 of Atlas Shrugged is quite possibly the finest single page of literature ever. There are two passages on this one page that are absolutely magnificent...

"I like cigarettes, Miss Taggart. I like to think of fire held in a man's hand. Fire, a dangerous force, tamed at his fingertips. I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking. I wonder what great things have come from such hours. When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind-and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his one expression."
...and...
" 'They used to rush through here, and it was wonderful to watch, it was the hurry of men who knew where they were going and were eager to get there. Now they're hurrying because they're afraid. It's not a purpose that drives them, it's fear. They're not going anywhere, they're escaping. And I don't think they know what it is that they want to escape. They don't look at one another. They jerk when brushed against. They smile too much, but it's an ugly kind of smiling: it's not joy, it's pleading. I don't know what is happening to the world.' He shrugged. 'Oh well, who is John Galt?'

'He's just a meaningless phrase!' She was startled by the sharpness of her own voice, and added in apology, 'I don't like that empty piece of slang. What does it mean? Where does it come from?' "

Who is your John Galt? Why does their irrelevance seem to affect you so intensely?