On Housekeeping in Galt’s Gulch

I am going on and on about how PLEASED with myself I am that I’m actually in the process of vacuuming and dusting the downstairs public rooms, the parlor and the living room and dining room.

Me: “I mean, it just feels so GOOD!  I meant to clean tonight; on Sunday I set an intention to clean tonight, and now I’m DOING it!”

My cousin/housemate Gabe: “You willed it, and now you’re doing it… you’re like the perfect Randian man right now.”

Me: “I am John Galt.”

Gabe:  “You are John Galt.”

Me: “Except I’m wearing a skirt… and I’m standing here eating a piece of frozen mango while chewing gum at the same time.  I don’t think John Galt would do that.”

Gabe: “No! No!  You are the new version!  You’re the superman!”

It occurs to me that if I am going to keep being snarky about Atlas Shrugged I should probably read it…


4 responses to “On Housekeeping in Galt’s Gulch

  1. If you do, I think you get time off from purgatory.

  2. Dianna listened to it on tape, just to see what the fuss was about. She found it inexplicable. Not incomprehensible; she understood it, all right.

  3. Do not worry; you are not John Galt. I have only read to The Fountainhead so far in Rand’s fiction, but the story reminds me much more of Sherlock Holmes, who only got around to cleaning his Baker Street quarters and organizing his case material every year or two, often at the prompting of Watson.

  4. “Paul Ryan requires his staffers to read Ayn Rand. Now we know where he stands on torture.” — Andy Borowitz

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