Ayn Rand: In Her Own Words (2011) - full transcript

We are, as religious

people might put it,

children under God and

responsible, one for the other.

Now, why do you rebel?

What's wrong with this philosophy?

But that is what, in fact, makes

man a sacrificial animal.

I say that man is entitled

to his own happiness

and that he must

achieve it himself,

but that he cannot demand that

others give up their lives

to make him happy.

I hold that man should

have self-esteem.

Who are you, Ayn Rand?

When I say that,

I would like to know just a little

bit of your vital statistics.

You have an accent, which is...?

- Russian.

- Russian.

- You were born In Russia.

- Yes.

February 2,1905.

Petrograd, Russia.

At that time, it was

called St. Petersburg,

which is Leningrad now.

That used to be the largest

city in Russia at the time,

and comparatively considered not

very old by European standards

because it dates only

from the 18th century.

There's two sisters

younger than myself.

That is, there were three

daughters altogether.

I was the oldest, and then

there were two younger girls.

There were exactly

two-and-a-half year intervals.

That is, the second sister was two

and a half years younger than I,

and the youngest, five years.

That would be my father.

He was a self-made man,

and he owned a small business

which he had created himself,

and that is very

unusual for Russia.

By the time I was born, he

was already quite well-off.

I wouldn't call it

unusually wealthy,

but I would call it middle to

upper-middle class financially.

He had achieved it all himself

and had, besides, sent his

six sisters through college,

plus a younger brother.

He had six sisters

and two brothers.

He was a man who held ideals,

which I didn't discover

until I was 15,

very strong ideals, a man

of very firm conviction.

But you would never know it.

He was predominantly silent,

argued very little,

and he was one of the most

conscientious persons

about his work,

and that I have heard from

colleagues and other people.

He apparently was very good.

And strangely enough,

I learned later that what he would

have wanted to do

was to be a writer.

But I liked him as a person,

only, in childhood, I had

very little to do with him.

It's after we began to

be political allies

that I really felt a

real love for him.

I probably loved him even

then much more than Mother.

I'll say, frankly, it's a slightly

painful subject in

one respect only.

She was so wonderful

in being instrumental in

sending me to America

that I feel unfair in

saying anything critical,

so anything I say, can I

say it under the preface

that I appreciate what

she did enormously?

During my childhood, I

disliked her quite often.

We really did not get along.

My big clashes with

Mother in childhood

were the fact that I was

antisocial, as she would call it.

She always demanded that I be more

interested in other children.

Why didn't I like to

play with others?

Why didn't I have any girlfriends?

That was kind of the

nagging refrain.

I also knew that she disapproved

of me in every respect except one.

She was very proud

of my intelligence.

She was very proud to show me

off to the rest of the family.

I was very aware that there

was a definite rivalry

between her and her

sister's husband,

who was a rival with Mother

about the accomplishments

of their children.

It was too obvious, and

slightly embarrassing,

that I obviously was the

most brilliant of the six

by every kind of standard,

and this uncle resented it.

But that was her

attitude towards me.

In other words, she

would show me off,

and I suspect, in retrospect,

that she really liked me better

than the other children,

that I was the first one,

and she made, I think, more

fuss over me than the others,

but at the time, I would never

had said that I'm her favourite

nor that any of us

were her favourite.

She also was unusually

very badly temperamental.

She would have fits

of temperament,

during which she would declare

that she never wanted

to have any children,

that she is taking care of

us because it's her duty

and how much she hates it.

And I remember

thinking indignantly

from as far back as I can recall

that we did not choose to be born

and what is it that we are

expected to do about it,

that since we could not help it,

under what sort of obligation

should we consider ourselves?

It's the injustice,

the irrationality

of that kind of accusations

that I resented very much,

and as far as I was concerned,

I simply ignored it,

in the sense that it didn't

make me feel guilty,

it made me feel resentful.

My feeling about the family

was only to wait for the time

when I would grow up

and get out of there.

It isn't that I considered

myself so unhappy,

it's just that I had a very

strong sense very early

that anything that I

like had to be mine

and not Mother's and

not the family's,

because my difference

and my intellectuality

always took the form of values.

It would always be a

succession of people, books,

heroes in books, later in movies,

that became the symbol of,

"This is my world, and other

things are not my world."

1914 was a big turning point

in my life, anyway.

Mother subscribed, for me,

to a boys' magazine

because of the adventure stories.

Now, I remember

one illustration impressed me.

It was a picture

of that Englishman

you see standing at a wall

with a sword or something,

waiting for someone.

But this hero, and

his name was Cyrus,

was the perfect drawing

of my present hero:

tall, long-legged, with kind of...

You know, trousers and leggings,

the way soldiers wear,

but no jacket,

just an open-collared shirt, torn

in front, kind of open very low,

sleeves rolled at the elbows and

hair falling down over one eye,

elements of my...

At least the appearance

of what is my bromide

about my type of man

were completely taken

from that illustration.

The first time they're

presented in a story

is that they're all in a cage,

and the cage is being

rolled through this valley

to some kind of temple ceremony,

and they're all scared

except the hero.

And I remember the image...

The first illustration.

He is standing, holding

onto the bars of the cage

Where everybody else

is on the bottom,

sitting down or cringing.

Thereafter, up to the age of 12...

That's the next three years...

That was my exclusive love.

It was almost mystical in this

sense, that I felt it's...

I'm totally out of the concerns

of the reality of anybody.

What they're interested in

doesn't matter at all to me,

because I know

something much higher.

The next important highlight

would be the summer of 1914,

which is when we went to Europe.

Switzerland is my idea of heaven.

It was kind of a world of its own,

both the country and the whole

spirit of climbing the mountains

and seeing something unusual.

We were on our way from

Switzerland to Paris

when the war was declared.

And from then on, it was...

That was the end of a world,

which I didn't know at the time.

I remember thinking that

I was enormously annoyed

and hoped it would be

over with quickly.

Well, the original plan was to go

to several countries, you see,

predominantly Switzerland.

And we were caught

by the war in Europe.

And that was a big problem,

because you couldn't

come back, you see.

Russia was cut-off.

So we had to go via the

Scandinavian countries

over a mined sea, and the

boat before us was exploded,

and the one after us.

We got through.

I thought it was...

at the time, it

didn't have full reality for me,

but I knew that Mother

was terribly worried,

that something very

serious was going on.

Ah, then the Russian

Revolution was February 1917.

Then the communist revolution was

the so-called October Revolution,

and that was in the... In

that same year, October '17.

And we left in the fall of 1918.

By that time, there

was a civil war

going on in the south,

in the Ukraine.

And there were so-called

White Russian armies.

And we wanted to get out, to

escape communism, simply.

And Father got the

permit to travel

on the grounds that my sister,

who had had pneumonia twice,

needed to go to the Crimea.

So that's how we managed

to get out of Petrograd.

Now, that was in the fall of

1918, and we came back in 1921.

By '21, the civil war was over,

and all Russia was communist.

I began to suddenly

find myself, In effect.

Asking a lot of whys,

in an abstract manner,

but beginning to define the

reasons for what I believe.

And then I realised that

What I was now doing

is thinking in principle.

Today, I would say it was a

process of integration, really,

but that I wouldn't

have known then.

I think it may not

be irrelevant that

that was the year of the

start of the revolution.

The first, the springboard for it,

was the fact that I was

very much in sympathy

with the February Revolution,

because, you know, it was

the bloodless revolution,

Where everybody was for freedom.

And the whole atmosphere,

though it was in a kind of

a sentimental Russian way,

nevertheless, it was all the

glorification of freedom.

In my terms, it was

the individual.

But today, I would call it the

rights of the individual.

Why the individual's right? Why

is it right for him to be free?

Why is the strong,

independent man important?

By what right can

anybody tell a man

What he should do or

What he should live for?

And, of course, then, when the

October Revolution happened,

that's when my first

conviction began

of a kind which I

remember specifically

concluding the one

that I mentioned...

I prefaced with it earlier...

That nobody has the

right to tell men

to exist for the

sake of the state,

that the evil which before that I

would have called collectivism,

although I wouldn't

know the word...

It would be the group, the herd...

That kind of entity now began

to be statism... conscious.

As far as I can

account historically,

that from as far back

as I can remember,

I was so busy mentally

with my own concerns

that I didn't develop

any social instinct.

In that sense,

the idea of having friends

was never my first concern.

What I can't quite communicate

is the unimportance of people,

in that social sense, had for me.

I decided at that time

that I could never be in

love with an ordinary man.

And I told Mother and...

And the older people...

I was not secretive in

this sense at all...

That I'm in love with Kerensky.

I remember them objecting to it,

some of them sarcastically,

and Mother just a little... Oh,

indifferently, but

slightly annoyed.

She was always annoyed

because my enthusiasms

were always too strong.

But I remember them telling

me, how can I call it love?

And I remember them saying,

"This is just infatuation,"

or "puppy love," you know,

terms of that kind,

which made me stop

talking to them,

but it didn't bother

me particularly,

because I could not be in

love with anyone but a hero.

That was the only adult and

important issue in this.

And that attitude remained until

my first year in college.

In my last years in high school,

when girls were beginning

to go out on dates,

I remember feeling a

very superior contempt,

"How can they be

interested in just boys?"

I have to have a hero.

From the earliest age,

I had the impression, even

before the revolution,

that culture, civilisation,

anything which is interesting,

as I would have put

to me, is abroad.

Now, I, in a general

sort of sense,

thought that I would probably

be a writer in Russian.

Therefore, I don't think I

thought of settling abroad.

But what it amounted to would be

that I would probably live abroad,

as many Russians

in those days did,

that in one way or another,

what I would have

considered my home

would have been European culture.

I didn't begin to

even discover America

till about the last

years of high school.

For the first time, incidentally,

it was only the last

year of high school

that they gave us a small

course on American history.

Before that, in all history

courses, they gave

you only Europe,

Russian history, of

course, and European.

And it's in this particular

high school in the south

Where I graduated,

they had one course on America.

And to me, it was the

most incredible thing.

Before that, America was

mentioned in geography books,

but not as history.

I didn't really know about the

Declaration of Independence

or what the American system

is until the last year.

And I'm not sure that I even would

have grasped it all correctly.

I would not have had a clear idea

of capitalism or collectivism.

All I knew is that that's the

country of individualism.

That summer of 1921, we

returned to Petrograd.

And I went to college,

started college that year.

I went to two different schools

in two different cities,

and I was the top student there.

In addition to being

the top student,

did they ever measure

your intelligence

and tell your mum and dad,

"Oh, this girl is so bright.

This girl is a jewel"?

No, by... in my times,

they didn't have those

tests, and not in Russia.

But you knew that you were smart.

Oh, yes.

Did you feel that

school was too slow,

that you were so far

ahead of the material?

- Yes.

- How did you handle that?

How did you school

yourself, really,

beyond the... the curriculum

or curricula in the schools?

Is that of interest to you?

Yes, it really is.

I always tried to sit in

the back row of the class,

and I put a book in front of me,

and I was writing novels

from the age of 10.

I was writing screenplays at 8,

but I was writing novels

in class because I was...

Otherwise, I would

be terribly bored.

I was never discovered

because we had textbooks.

And if you read ahead of the

lesson that they present in class,

you could know what

the teacher said.

I had to read the textbook just

once, and then I knew the course.

So, I really think it had

a bad influence on me,

on my working discipline.

It was too easy and too boring.

But how did it affect

your working discipline?

I never had to make an effort.

I certainly did have to when

I began writing novels.

That's really difficult.

But in school, I had

no difficulties.

Oh, one horrible element was

the epidemics of typhus,

which, you know, is

worse than typhoid.

Typhoid is also a dangerous,

contagious disease,

but typhus is something

that exists only in Russia

and, I believe, China and

some oriental countries.

And it's a disease of dirt.

It's transmitted by lice.

And it's very deadly.

Most people die from it.

In other words, the mortality

is greater than the recovery,

plus the fact that

those who recover

can have all kind of

consequences for life,

like weakened eyesight or

all sorts of disabilities,

and there's very little

medical help for it.

Well, anytime you

went on a streetcar,

you took a chance on your

life in this respect,

because you could see vermin

on the people you are

squeezed up against.

Now, we used carnation oil

and kerosene on your hair,

which certainly smells awful,

but that's protection.

And in the middle of that...

This was my entrance

into youth you know,

I was trying to be glamorous.

It was not very easy.

My last year in university,

more theatres were

opening, smaller ones.

And I began to be

able to go and see

a few on the third, and

fourth-run houses, in effect.

And that fascinated me,

particularly because that

was a much more specific,

not merely symbolic,

View of life abroad.

As that was the reason why

for my last year in Russia

and getting ready for

hoping to come to America,

I decided to go to

that movie school

to learn the technique of movies

and production, generally.

And the great advantage

of going to that school

was that they gave you free

passes to all movie theatres,

since they were all state.

And then I began to see movies

every night, practically.

And that was the most

wonderful period,

so that those movie stars and

movie magazines from abroad

became, well, the world from Mars.

And I remember, there was

some American movies

Where you could see New York,

just shots, usually long shots,

and I would sit through two

shows just to catch it,

because it would be very brief.

They never had one

that showed much.

But you could get that

glimpse once in a while.

I can't tell you how glamorous

it was at that distance.

Well, it still is.

So, after I graduated from school

is when I got the job as a

guide through a museum.

And the museum was the

Peter and Paul Fortress

in Petrograd,

Where I had to lecture

on the history

of the place for excursions.

And I held that job until

I left for America.

It's about that period

after graduation

that we received letters from

some relatives of Mother's,

who... her first cousins, who

had left before the revolution,

long before I was born, actually.

Mother had met them

as a child, but

I wouldn't have known them at all,

and they were writing

to inquire how we were

and what was happening to us.

And Mother began a correspondence,

and that is when I and

Mother both had the idea

that perhaps they could

help me to go abroad,

because I was speaking of going

abroad in one way or another.

I was desperately anxious to go,

so we wrote to these relatives

that I would like to

come as a visitor,

and they sent me the affidavit,

the papers necessary,

and my main interest was

getting ready for this trip,

and studying English, which

I didn't know at all.

And I left for America

then in January 1926.

I left in 1926, alone.

All right.

Well, did you leave in fear,

or do you have childhood

memories of the...?

- In fear of what? Of Russia?

- Yeah.

- In complete loathing.

- Loathing?

For the whole country, and

including the tsarist period.

Look, it's very hard to explain.

It's almost impossible to

convey to a free people

what it's like to live in a

totalitarian dictatorship.

I can tell you a lot of details.

I can never completely convince

you, because you are free.

And it's in a way good

that you don't...

You can't even conceive

of what it's like.

Certainly, they have friends

and mothers-in-law.

They try to live a human life,

but you understand that

it is totally inhuman?

Now try to imagine what it's like

if you are in constant

terror from morning to night

and at night you're waiting

for a doorbell to ring,

if you are afraid of

everything and everybody,

if you live in a country where

human rights is nothing,

less than nothing,

and you know this.

You don't know who, when,

is going to do what to you

because you may have

friends somewhere,

Where there is no law and

no rights of any kind.

It is the ugliest,

and, incidentally,

most mystical country on earth.

They have a materialistic

mysticism of their own.

Because if... the mystics,

the religious people,

tell you that usually the soul is

the only thing of value about you,

the body is evil,

and the Russians will think,

"No, there isn't such a

thing as a soul or a mind.

There's only your body."

It's materialism.

They believe that you are not a

man, but a collection of atoms.

And give that body to the state

for the collective

effort of the...

That's right.

For the good of the whole

and sacrifice to the state.

And whoever says it is or

wants to be the state.

I arrived in New York.

I stayed in New York

only a couple days

with some friends of my relatives,

Whom they had asked to meet me,

and then proceeded to Chicago.

Stayed there for six

months with my relatives,

and then went on to

Hollywood on my own.

I borrowed money from

the relatives, $100.

I felt that I had

to sell something

or make a name for myself

as fast as possible.

I was here on a six months permit.

Because I couldn't yet hope to

write in a literary English,

I had figured out that,

since this was the day

of the silent movies,

I could write, even if it's

slightly broken English,

enough to write an

outline, the scenario,

just the original of a story,

and then they could...

Somebody else... Could

write the titles.

And one of my relatives,

one of Mother's cousins,

owned a movie theatre in Chicago,

at small neighbourhood theatre.

So she gave me, through

a distributor,

a letter of introduction from

the distributor in Chicago

to the DeMille Studio.

DeMille, at that time,

had an independent studio

of his own in Culver City.

What he was famous for is society,

glamour, sex, and adventure.

And I liked almost all of the

ones that I had seen in Russia,

so he was my particular idol

of the American screen.

When I arrived at the studio...

And I went to the publicity

department and

presented that letter,

and I told him what

I was interested in

was a junior screenwriter's

job, if it was possible.

I walk out of the studio,

and, you know, it's the colonial

kind of mansion in Culver City,

which was Pathé later.

And it has a driveway in

front of the main building

that goes to a gate.

And as I start to walk

down the driveway,

I see an open roadster parked,

and a man at the wheel talking

to somebody outside the car.

And it was DeMille.

And it wasn't too long

before he started driving.

He drives up to the gate, stops,

looks at me, and asks, "Why

are you looking at me?"

So I told him I had

just come from Russia,

and I'm very happy to see him.

So he opens the door of the

car and says, "Get in."

I didn't know where we were going.

I got in, and he started driving.

Now, isn't that a fantastic story?

And on the way I told him

that I wanted to be a writer,

and he was my favourite director.

And my English was atrocious,

as you can imagine.

I'm not sure how

much he understood,

but he seemed very pleasant,

sort of amused and interested.

Where he was driving

was the back lot.

They were shooting

"The King of Kings."

And they were on location.

What they called the

back lot of the studio

was some distance

away in the hills.

And they had the Jerusalem

streets built there,

and they were right in the

middle of the picture.

He told me on the way, as we

were approaching the set,

"Well, if you want

to work in pictures,

you should begin by watching

how they work on the set,

and by observing and learning.

So this will do you

good, you see."

So he brings me on the set,

and it's my first View of

motion-picture shooting,

and my actual first

full day in Hollywood,

the day after my arrival,

and it was fantastic.

I was so breathlessly

numb and shocked

that to this day, I can

remember the feeling.

During the rest of the day,

I did nothing except

watch the shooting.

And at the end of it, he

himself approached me.

I didn't ask.

He said, "Do you want

to come tomorrow?"

I said, "Certainly."

So he gave me a pass,

personally signed.

And I went home literally dazed.

And that was several

days in succession

that he gave me that pass, and

I'd come and watch the shooting.

Now, then, after the

first week or so,

he asked me what was

I doing financially.

So I told him, "I'm all right. I

have enough. But I need work."

He said, "Well, then, you

can work as an extra."

I had never thought of acting,

but this was not...

Wasn't really acting.

And I give him credit

for being sensitive.

I think he understood.

And, now, the extras,

they had by that time,

the big mob scenes where

there was 300 people,

and the lowest salary

began at $7.50 a day.

For me, it was really a fortune.

When they called a very

large set, a large crowd,

you had to be at the studio

by 6:00 in the morning.

And there were no buses going

to Culver City that early.

So in order to get to

the studio by 6:00,

I had to take a streetcar when it

was still dark to Los Angeles,

and then a street car

from Los Angeles

that went to Culver City.

It was the only form

of transportation.

It took something over two hours.

It was on the streetcar

out of Los Angeles,

the one going from Los

Angeles to Culver City,

that I first saw Frank.

I didn't see him enter,

so he was sitting some benches

further away, but facing me.

And I remember I suddenly

caught sight of this face,

and that was it.

I couldn't really say love,

except that... at that stage,

except that I was

desperately overwhelmed.

And then comes the Culver

City stop, the studio stop,

and he gets up and was

getting off the streetcar.

Well, that really delighted me.

Then I saw him on the set,

and he was magnificent.

I later, from memory, drew

a... A picture of him,

which I still have

somewhere, locked.

And it's quite a resemblance.

What I couldn't forget

was the profile,

the way he looked

with that headdress.

So I spent about three or four

days staring at him on the set.

And I was trying to figure

out some way to meet him.

I was watching him every minute.

He was always sitting

somewhere alone,

and no matter what

position he took,

you know, he was graceful

in any position.

Then it was about the

fourth or fifth day

that I figured where

I could do it,

and it was in this big scene

in the street of Jerusalem.

That was the part of the picture

Where Christ is carrying

the cross on his way,

you know, to the crucifixion.

Well, I watched very

carefully where he went,

because being a bit player,

he had special routines

that had to be specific

and repeated each time.

So then I decided,

"I'll get in his way."

So the next take, after I

had it all calculated,

I got right in his way

during that chaos,

While they were shooting,

and he stepped on my

foot and apologised.

The rest is history.

The sad part was that he

finished his work that day.

And I thought that they

might call him back,

because you never could tell...

For any takes or any continuity.

So 11 days after, I waited,

and he didn't come.

Now, I knew his name, but I

didn't know the address.

And I didn't know how to find out.

And because by then, I

was in love, seriously.

In fact, I knew I was in love from

the time I saw him on the set.

Now, what was happening

in my career was,

that when "The King

of Kings" was over,

DeMille offered me the

job as a junior writer.

Now, he really was wonderful.

The first story he gave me was

a story entitled "My Dog,"

and then another story was

called "The Skyscraper."

Because it was an

original he had bought,

and it involved a rivalry

of two rough and tough

construction workers

who were in love

with the same girl.

And he told me that he didn't

like the story very much,

but he liked the idea of a story

about the construction

of a skyscraper.

But it's because of that story

that I found Frank again.

There was a construction job

going on right in Hollywood

on... you know what is now the

Broadway department store there

on the corner of

Hollywood Boulevard?

And I made an appointment

with the superintendents

through somebody at the studio

to come to interview him

and watch the construction.

When I got there, he

had left a message

that he had been

detained somewhere,

and could I please

come an hour later?

I didn't want to go back home,

so I decided I would wait

in the public library,

which was just a block from there.

And I entered the public library,

and the first thing I see

is Frank sitting there.

And the thrilling thing

was that I stopped dead,

and he looked up.

I was some distance away.

And the way he smiled, I knew

he recognised me immediately.

And almost implicit in it,

I kind of sensed he

hadn't forgotten me.

So he got up.

And since you couldn't

talk there, he said,

"Let's go out," and we walked

around blocks, and we talked.

And this time, I remember, we

talked about movie originals

and what he wanted to do.

He had some ideas for originals.

They were all outrageous comedies.

I mean, outrageous in the

sense, almost blasphemous.

Some were religious subjects

or something like that.

So right then, he

invited me to dinner.

And from then on, we

were going steady.

Now, how the question

of a marriage came up,

I believe that one day,

Frank just talked about it.

I didn't ask him to.

And we were married

on April 15, 1929.

And it was just a proper,

non-religious ceremony.

The judge's chambers in the...

You know, I think it's the Hall

of Justice in Los Angeles,

Where the... which they show very

often in the "Dragnet" movies.

Anyway, once I was checked

in as the wife of a citizen,

I felt security for the

first time in years,

at least politically.

- You are married?

- Yu.

Your husband, is he

an industrialist?

No, he's an artist. His

name is Frank O'Connor.

- And he... not the writer?

- He paints.

- No, not the writer.

- He paints.

And does he live

from his painting?

He's just beginning

to study painting.

- I see.

- He was a designer before.

Is he supported in his efforts

by the... by the state?

Most certainly not.

He's supported by you

for the time being?

No, by his own work,

actually, in the past.

By me if necessary, but

that isn't quite necessary.

And there is no...

There is no contradiction

here, in that...

In that you help him?

No, because you see, I am

in love with him selfishly.

It is to my own interest to

help him if he ever needed it.

I would not call that a sacrifice,

because I take selfish

pleasure in it.

Now, after, I had to do something,

and this was the

Depression approaching,

so that it was very, very

difficult to find anything.

And the only things that were

available were waitresses' jobs.

And so I tried that.

And I didn't even know

the names of the foods.

So the first restaurant, I

was fired the same day.

The last one, I

lasted a whole week.

And then I did envelope-stuffing

and tried to sell subscriptions

to the Hollywood Citizen.

I hated those jobs. I

hated that whole period.

I regarded it like

"Rock in the Quarry,"

only much worse

because Rock would at least

be much more conscious

of what he was doing and

do it intentionally.

I felt that this was

despair and horror.

It's at that time that

a friend of ours,

who was a... he... He

was a Russian actor.

He got me a job in

the RKO wardrobe.

A friend of his had just got

the job of art director

in charge of all

those departments,

and that's the only job where

they could use someone

who couldn't type

or take shorthand.

And I got this job at $20 a week.

Within six months, I got $25.

I got a raise, without

having asked for it.

And a year later, I was the

head of the department.

And I really did very well,

loathing and hating it.

But it was really a happy

period, in every sense.

Now, the RKO job, of

course, solved everything,

which is why, in spite of hating

it, I was delighted to have it.

To begin with, I had

a steady income.

And at that time, Frank

was working fairly well,

so we could take an apartment.

And we took an apartment right

across the street from RKO.

It was our first home,

and he decorated it,

and it's the first time I

saw his artistic ability.

He did it really out of nothing.

It was a furnished apartment,

but he built extra shelves

and framed pictures...

Or the kind of little objects

that he could always find

in second-hand shops... And

he did it beautifully.

It looked much, much

more than what it was.

And then, through the

RKO connections,

I got a pull, in effect,

with Central Casting,

so that Frank was kept

working almost steadily,

which didn't mean every day, but

certainly several days a week,

and long jobs, you know, where

he was on one set for days.

And then we began to

really breathe a little,

and we bought our first car.

It was a second-hand

car, a convertible,

and it was wonderful... a hash.

We bought it on time,

but we paid for it.

And that was the period

when Frank gave me my desk,

which he had made to order,

the one that's still there,

and my first portable typewriter,

which I have, and a radio.

So the years in wardrobe were

comparatively secure for us.

And, you see, the Depression

was the fall of that year.

After that, when everybody

was losing jobs,

I worked all through

the Depression,

and that was fortunate,

as during that period

that I began to write.

And it's in that period when

I was at RKO that I began...

I decided I was ready

for my first novel.

And it was partly, as I said,

Frank's and his

brothers' influence

that made me decide

on "We The Living,"

because they were telling me

that I must do a novel on Russia

and saying just what... All

the things I had been saying

in conversation about

communism in Russia.

The situation of "We The Living"

is practically biographical...

Autobiographical in the

sense of background.

I was taking chronologically

the exact events

as they were happening

at that time.

In the first year, when I

first went to college,

students were quite outspoken.

And I attended my first

student meeting,

just as I describe

in "We The Living,"

and almost fell in love

with one of the young men

who was a conservative

and was making violent

anti-soviet speeches,

and I felt very romantically

impressed with him

for a single value.

He was anonymously,

arrogantly outspoken

against the communists.

And the first meeting

that I attended,

they were making the speech...

He was making the speech

which I quoted in "We The Living."

That was an authentic one,

that Russian students had

always been in the vanguard

of any fight against tyranny,

no matter what colour.

And statements like that, they

were quite anti-communist.

And in among the students,

there was an official communist

cell in the university,

and the people who belonged to it

wore a certain kind of red badges.

And they were very much despised

by the majority of the students.

They were practically ostracised

in a quietly hostile way,

so that the atmosphere was quite

free, just that first year.

And I made quite a few very...

Varying statements

at those meetings.

I wouldn't be allowed

to make speeches yet.

See, the freshmen, the

first-year, was not allowed.

We were allowed to vote.

This was elections

for student council.

But you weren't allowed

to make speeches

or do anything until

the second year.

By allowed, I don't mean by law,

but simply by student conventions.

And then I started

arguments with communists.

And I remember one day

telling one of them

that they will all be hung

from street lanterns someday,

from lampposts, and then

went home terrified.

And that night, I

really was afraid,

because I realised that I had

put my whole family in danger.

By the end of that first year,

there was a purge of students.

They began to tighten.

And that same young man,

plus a lot of others,

and girls who had

gone out with them

but weren't political

in any sense,

were all sent to Siberia.

By the second year, there were

no more political speeches.

Why is it so... I'm

still not quite sure

Why you're so harsh on those who

would sacrifice for other people.

Because they are...

They don't hesitate to

sacrifice whole nations.

Look at Russia. Communism

is based on altruism.

Look at Nazi Germany.

The Nazis were more explicit

than even the Russians

in preaching self-sacrifice

and altruism

and self-sacrifice for the state,

for the volk, the people.

Every dictatorship is

based on altruism.

Now, you can't fight

it by merely saying,

"It's a difference of opinion."

It's a difference

of life and death.

I also wrote two screen originals,

both of them laid in Russia,

and I sold one of them,

which was "Red Pawn,"

to Universal Pictures.

And along with the sale

went a six-weeks job

to write the first adaptation

of it in screen form,

because the original was

just an eight-page synopsis.

Now, on the proceeds

of "Red Pawn,"

I wrote "Night of January 16th."

MGM took an option on

"Night of January 16th."

It was called "Penthouse Legend."

I wrote it as a stage play, and

I had an agent in Hollywood

who had a representative

in New York.

In the meantime, MGM

became interested

and took one of the producers,

and they took an option on it,

and I went to MGM to write

a screen adaptation,

which I had a miserable time with.

And I wrote the screenplay, but

they didn't like it, apparently,

and they didn't

pick up the option.

But that gave us some more money.

Then I finished "We The Living"

and sent it off to New York,

and I had a terrible time with it,

because I began waiting for

letters from the agents.

I had asked them to report

to me what happens.

And it would be one

rejection after another.

Our main income by that time was

Frank's... his work in pictures.

I mean, I think by the time

we landed in New York,

we had $50 between us.

Frank's brother was here,

and so we had someone at least

to borrow from a little.

But not much, because he

didn't have much himself.

That's when we lived

in the furnished room,

and that was as near as we

came to real starvation.

It was much worse than Hollywood.

It was already after 1929 and...

And the Depression, you see.

So the only thing I got

was being a reader,

not for Paramount,

which came later,

but for RKO, first, and then MGM.

And I was doing outside reading.

We lived... I remember our budget

was approximately $11 a week,

which was all I could count on.

But my one advantage was I could

read several languages...

French, German, and Russian.

I could read German enough

to make a synopsis.

And so they were giving me

most of the foreign stuff.

They even had some

Soviet Russian plays

that I synopsised for them,

which nobody would ever buy.

Now, nothing was happening

on "We The Living"

except rejections

during that year.

But the offer from Macmillan came

when we were in Philadelphia

on the try-out of "Night

of January 16th."

I got a letter from

Ann Watkins saying

that Macmillan wants to buy it.

The first idea for

"The Fountainhead"

came while I was still

on "We The Living."

I don't remember the

exact date specifically

as the birth of "The

Fountainhead" as such.

And this was the

question in my mind

about the difference between me

and one girl I knew in

Hollywood in pictures.

It was a girl whom we met.

She happened to live in the

same apartment building,

and she worked at RKO.

She seemed to be

enormously ambitious.

She was definitely a

Hollywood climber.

And a question I asked her is,

can she tell me what

is her goal in life?

She said, "If nobody

had an automobile,

I would not want one.

If some people have

two automobiles,

I want two automobiles."

It was literally like one

of those light bulbs

going off in my mind, like

a dramatic revelation,

that I saw immediately

the principal difference

between me and this girl, and

that was Roark and Keating.

It was in the fall of 1935, after

"January 16th" had opened,

that I made my first

notes for the novel,

and I remember the date because

my first notes I still have,

and the date is marked on them.

And then, of course, one

of the first things I did

was read Frank Lloyd

Wright's biography.

There were very few books except

Frank Lloyd Wright's biography

on the careers of architects...

Practically none.

And then while I was studying

architecture generally,

which was one line of work that

the plot line consisted of

now working out the

theme in action.

And it was really worked

out theoretically.

For instance, the characters

of Wynand and Toohey

were the next step.

The procedure of my thought was

that if we take the ideal

man at the centre...

That is really the peak of

the story, that's Roark...

Then, in relation to him, I show

three other types in this way.

Roark is the man who could

be the ideal man and was.

Wynand is the man who

wasn't but could have been.

Keating was the man who

wasn't and didn't know it.

Toohey is the man who was not

the ideal man and knew it.

That... that was the

definition for myself

as to why I take these

four as the key figures.

What I liked most was that,

of any predominant group

of the population,

the majority of the letters,

and all of them good,

were from men in the

armed services.

This was during the war.

And I remember letters

from flyers, for instance,

saying that after every mission,

they would gather around a candle

and read passages from

"The Fountainhead."

And others, an awful lot

from young aviators...

Another letter that said he

would have felt much better

if he thought that what

this war is fought for

is for the ideals of

"The Fountainhead."

And all those letters

coming from overseas.

I answered as many

as I could of those.

They were the best.

And so, this telephone call came

and said they were interested

in the movie rights

to "Fountainhead."

And they want to know

What price I would take.

I said, "$50,000."

They said, "I want to warn you

that you are running the

risk of losing the sale."

I said, "I'll take that chance."

And then there was...

There was a delay of I

think a week or 10 days.

In the meantime, I

had an appointment

with some businessman to meet him

for lunch to discuss my idea

of the conservative

campaign for the book.

I come back home, and the

moment I open the door,

Frank is standing somewhere in

the middle of the living room,

and I knew something had happened.

There was an abnormal look on

his face... a benevolent one.

He said, "Well, darling,

you've earned $50,000 while

you were out to lunch,"

meaning that Warner

Bros. Had accepted it.

And they made only one condition,

that I come to Hollywood

to adapt it...

They'll pay the transportation...

And that I give them four weeks

free, included in the price.

What I remember, immediately

after this telephone call,

Frank and I go out to dinner.

And usually, you see, if I

was busy in the afternoon,

I had no time to cook.

We ate in a little cafeteria.

It was a pretty bad place to eat,

but very convenient

when we couldn't cook.

So we go out to dinner,

and we both had the

same experience.

We always, you know, selected food

by the right-hand side of

the menu, by the price.

And I think there were two types

of dinners... 65 cents and 45.

We always ate the 45 dinner.

And it comes that we both,

after we compared notes,

started looking at

the 45-cent dinner

and suddenly remembered

we can have the 65.

This made the most...

The... the issue of wealth,

that made it realer

than anything else,

that fact that we

suddenly could order

a 65-cent dinner if we wanted to,

and it was a marvellous feeling.

And then that night, I

couldn't sleep, of course.

I sat at my desk, just gloating,

and I had a small light so

that Frank could sleep.

And I'd hear him turning and

twisting, and I

finally asked him...

It was hours in the

middle of the night...

I said, "Frank, what's the matter?

You can't sleep, either?

Are you gloating, too?"

He said, "Yes, I'm

afflicted, too."

What was also very thrilling was

our going to Hollywood by train.

I remember, I had only gone there

once before on a day coach.

We had come back to New York

by car, which had broken down.

So we were on the bottom

of the travelling list.

The next step is we go to

Hollywood in top luxury

because Warner Bros. Was providing

the tickets and everything.

And the transition to this

way of life was incredible.

That whole trip, to this day,

we both remember it as

an enormous highlight,

because, again, it was

dramatically sudden.

It was the feeling that we

can that was marvellous.

The only advantage of poverty

is if you can get the

contrast that way

and also to know that

we had earned it.

This was marvellous.

I remember the time

when I was working

on "The Fountainhead"

at Warner Bros.

An Associated Press

man interviewed me.

He was not assigned to

Hollywood, you see.

And he interviewed me on

the Warner Bros. Lot,

and he questioned me

about my new novel,

on which I was then working, and

he wanted to know the theme.

I didn't state the whole theme.

But I told him just

the background...

It would be railroads

and heavy industry.

And I said to him, "The novel

will combine metaphysics,

morality, politics,

economics, and sex."

I started writing on

September 2,1946.

And the reason why I used

the date September 2nd

was simply because that was the

day on which I started writing.

And since it's the same time

of the year in the story,

I thought it's a

convenient private

joke or private symbolism.

"Atlas" was the one central

integrating purpose

of everything I did.

The first step was to project

in a generalised way

a kind of philosophical

progression

of what would be needed,

What kind of men or characters

would be needed to carry

a story of that kind.

Galt and Dagny were the two

set almost immediately.

Dagny was always the type

that I intended to present

someday as my ideal woman,

or as the feminine

Roark, in effect,

to do in my metaphysics

What Roark did.

And for this type of story,

a woman engineer

would be just ideal.

The difficulty with Galt's speech

was that I knew in advance it

would have to be along speech,

summing up the essentials of

all the issues in the novel.

However, I had no idea what a

difficult job it would be.

I knew that this is going to be

the hardest chapter

in the whole book,

and that the climax will be passed

when I finished that speech.

And do you know,

the underestimation of my whole

life was that I thought...

Well, somewhat dreamt

that it would take

at least three months.

But, you know, it took two years.

It was after I had

finished Galt's speech

that I decided to start

submitting it to publishers.

And, you see, I had a

contract with Bobbs-Merrill

for "The Fountainhead"

which included an option

on my next two novels,

on terms to be agreed upon.

And Alan Collins had told me

that it's a mere formality.

I have to submit it, and then

we will not agree on terms.

He did not think they would

give me the kind of terms

that we thought we would

ask from other publishers.

And I explained to

Random House boys

just what my problem

was as they opened,

and it's then that Bennett Cerf

came up with a brilliant idea...

A philosophical contest.

He said, "Why don't we select

four or five publishers

Whom we are most

interested in, and

submit the book simultaneously?"

And it wouldn't be an issue

of bidding for conditions,

that I would ask the

publishers to read it

and to tell me what

their attitude would be

philosophically and ideologically.

I was very startled

by Donald Klopfer's

philosophical acuteness

when he asked me the

following question.

He said, "But if this

is an uncompromising

defence of capitalism,

wouldn't you have to clash

with the Judeo-Christian

tradition of ethics?"

And that was the second

that just got him the book.

And what's wrong with

loving your fellow man?

Christ, every important moral

leader in man's history,

has taught us that we

should love one another.

Why, then, is this kind of

love, in your mind, immoral?

It is immoral if it is a love

placed above one's self.

It is more... more than

immoral. It's impossible.

Because when you are asked to

love everybody indiscriminately,

that is to love people

Without any standard,

to love them

regardless of the fact

of whether they have

any value or virtue,

you are asked to love nobody.

But in a sense, in your

book, you talk about love

as if it were a business

deal of some kind.

Isn't the essence of

love that it is above...

Above self-interest?

Well, let me make it

concrete for you...

What would it mean to have

love above self-interest?

It would mean, for

instance, that a husband

would tell his wife,

if he were moral,

according to the

conventional morality,

that, "I am marrying you

just for your own sake.

I have no personal interest in it,

but I am so unselfish

that I am marrying you

only for your own good."

Well, should husbands

and wives...?

Would any woman like that?

Should husbands and wives, Ayn,

tally up at the end of the day

and say, "Well,

now, wait a minute.

I love her if she's done

enough for me today,

or she loves me if...

if I have properly

performed my functions"?

Oh, no, you misunderstood me.

That is not how love

should be treated.

I agree with you that it should

be treated like a business deal,

but every business has

to have its own terms

and its own kind of currency.

And in love, the

currency is virtue.

You love people not

for what you do to...

for them or what they do for you.

You love them for their values,

the virtues which they have

achieved in their own character.

You don't love causelessly.

You don't love everybody

indiscriminately.

You love only those

who deserve it.

And that is one of the main

points I'm presenting...

new morality, a moral

defence of capitalism,

without which it can't be

defended, because it does clash.

How was writing novels

difficult for you?

Because it's an enormous context

that you have to keep in

mind, an enormous structure.

You can't do it inspirationally.

You can't do it by just looking

at the big piece of paper once

and deciding what

you're going to do.

It's a whole enormous structure,

much more complicated

than a building.

And you have to keep

it all in your mind,

never contradict your

outline, and carry it out.

It's killingly difficult, but

wonderful when you've succeeded.

My philosophy, in essence,

is the concept of man

as a heroic being

with his own happiness as the

moral purpose of his life,

with productive achievement

as his noblest activity,

and reason as his only absolute.

Do you consider yourself

primarily a novelist

or primarily a philosopher?

I would say I'm primarily

both. Finally.

And for the same reasons.

You see, my main

interest and purpose

both in literature

and in philosophy

is to define and present

the image of an ideal man,

the specific, concrete image of

What man can be and ought to be.

And when I started writing,

when I approached the

task of literature

and began to study philosophy,

I discovered that I was

in profound disagreement

with all the existing

philosophies,

particularly the code of morality.

Therefore, I had to

do my own thinking.

I had to define my own

full philosophical system

in order to discover and present

the kind of ideas and premises

that make an ideal man possible.

At the sales conference

at Random House

preceding the publication

of "Atlas Shrugged,"

one of the book salesmen asked

me whether I could present

the essence of my philosophy

While standing on one foot.

I did, as follows.

Objective reality.

Reason.

Self-interest.

Capitalism.

If you want this translated

into simple language,

it would read, "Nature to be

commanded, not be obeyed,"

or, "Wishing won't make it so.

You can't eat your

cake and have it, too.

Man is an end in himself.

Give me liberty,

or give me death."

If you held this concept

with total consistency

as the base of your convictions,

you would have a full

philosophical system

to guide the course of your life.

But to hold them with

total consistency,

to understand, to define,

to prove, and to apply them

requires volumes of thought,

which is why philosophy

cannot be discussed

While standing on one foot,

nor while standing on two feet

on both sides of every fence.

This last is the predominant

philosophical position today,

particularly in the

field of politics.

My philosophy, objectivism,

holds that reality exists

as an objective absolute.

Facts are facts independent

of man's feelings,

Wishes, hopes, or fears.

I would like to think

that there is something

beyond the end of this

thing we call life.

But tell me... supposing you

were convinced that there isn't.

What difference would

it make to you now?

Oh, it would make a

tremendous difference to me.

Yeah, I think so.

But I think for the better.

Well, you see, I

think for the worse.

I wouldn't... I wouldn't like to

believe that when this body dies,

that this spirit is

all... is now gone,

that it's... it's...

it's defeated.

It's not... not defeated.

Think of it the other way.

If you know that this life

is all that you have,

wouldn't you make the most of it?

Reason, the faculty which

identifies and integrates

the material provided

by man's senses,

is man's only means of

perceiving reality,

his only source of knowledge,

his only guide to action,

and his basic means of survival.

Why can't I be a reasonable

philosopher walking around,

wondering what it's all about,

struggling, striving,

trying to understand,

enjoying the quest

and the journey,

and... and then in the last...

The last little part

of my consciousness,

I say, "I know you're

there somewhere.

I don't understand why

you did it this way,

but I certainly can't wait

to die and find out"?

Do you appreciate the

question? Do you understand?

Why are those two

things not possible?

Yes, you've said it, I

think, unintentionally.

You said, "So I can't wait

to die and find out."

That... I am serious...

Is one of the results

of acting on faith.

You can't wait to get

out of this life.

And there... what's

wrong with that?

Because this life is

wonderful, as you said.

Because if you look at the

universe, it's wonderful.

And you have to use your life to

the best of your understanding.

If you go by emotions, not reason,

it means you're going

against reality.

Something exists,

something is right,

and you say, "No, I don't like it,

because I want to believe

something else."

I see.

You, in effect, go by emotions,

by your whims, not by reason.

And religion or the God

concept or faith or worship

has people...

Has people thinking of

life as a veil of tears...

That's right.

Through which you will probably

not get without falling.

You are essentially an evil

person who is bent toward...

Well, most religions

do preach just that.

And you don't believe that?

God, no.

I hold that if man

wants to live on Earth

and to live as a human being,

that his highest moral purpose

is the achievement of

his own happiness,

and that he must not

force other people

nor accept their

right to force him,

that each man must live

as an end in himself

and follow his own

rational self-interest.

What... so what's bad

about the person

who wants to help other people?

Well, to begin with,

that's the big mistake.

People can want to

help other people,

properly, and with

very good reasons,

but that isn't altruism.

Altruism doesn't mean

merely helping people.

It means sacrificing

yourself for others.

Placing the interests of

others above your own,

is the self-sacrificing

person who is an altruist.

And what's wrong with that?

Well, what's wrong with

committing suicide?

What's wrong with giving up life,

and why is the happiness

of another person

important and good,

but not your own?

Why are you always the outsider

and the sacrificial animal?

For a good relationship,

there should be no victims.

The ideal

political-economic system

is laissez-faire capitalism.

It is a system where men

deal with one another,

not as victims and executioners,

nor as masters and slaves,

but as traders,

by free, voluntary exchange

to mutual benefit.

It is a system where no man may

obtain any values from others

by resorting to physical force,

and no man may initiate

the use of physical

force against others.

The government acts

only as a policeman

that protects man's rights.

It uses physical force

only in retaliation

and only against those

who initiate its use,

such as criminals or

foreign invaders.

And you believe that

there should be no right

by the government to tax?

You believe that there

should be no such thing

as welfare legislation,

unemployment compensation,

regulation during times of stress,

certain kinds of rent controls

and things like that?

That's right. I'm opposed

to all forms of control.

I am for an absolute

laissez-faire,

free, unregulated economy.

Let me put it briefly.

I am for the separation

of state and economics.

Just as we had separation

of state and church,

which led to peaceful coexistence

among different religions

after a period of religious wars,

so the same applies to economics.

If you separate the

government from economics,

if you do not regulate

production and trade,

you will have peaceful cooperation

and harmony and justice among men.

Capitalism was the system

originated in the United States.

Its success, its progress,

its achievements

are unprecedented

in human history.

America's political philosophy

was based on man's right to his

own life, to his own liberty,

to the pursuit of

his own happiness,

which means a man's right

to exist for his own sake.

That was America's

implicit moral code,

but it had not been

formulated explicitly.

This was the flaw in her

intellectual armour,

which is now destroying her.

The trouble with this country

is that it was based on the

right philosophy originally,

by the Founding Fathers,

but they did not have a moral code

to match the... the political

ideas which they had.

You love this country, don't you?

- Passionately.

- Yeah.

Very, very much. And consciously.

I love it for its ideas.

And I've seen enough

of the other side,

so I can appreciate this country.

You might even get emotional

about this country, huh?

Oh. Oh, yes.

Why? You want me to get emotional?

You might even thank

God for it, huh?

- Yeah.

- Yeah.

I may not literally

mean a God, but

I like what that expression means.

"Thank God" or "God bless you."

It means the highest

possible, to me.

And I would certainly thank

God for this country.

What I've always thought

was a sentence from some

Greek philosopher...

I don't, unfortunately,

remember who it was.

I got it at 16, and it's

affected me all my life.

"I will not die. It's the

world that will end."

And that's absolutely true.

And, you know, for me now, it

should be a serious question,

because my time is fairly limited,

and I have the same feeling...

That I will enjoy life

to the last moment.

And when it's the end, I don't

have to worry about it.

I'm not sad.

It's too bad that

the world will end,

and I think a very wonderful

world will end with me.

But I've had my time.

I can't complain.

And at the conclusion, I will say

it's a very benevolent universe,

and I love it, and any struggles

were worth it, and how.

And I don't regret a minute of it.

What I mean is that the struggle,

all of the unhappiness is

enormously unimportant.

But the positive is wonderful.

And if it's the last

interview of my life,

I would... I hope I will... I

know I will be saying it at 80.

It's a benevolent universe.