Dagny Taggert rules!

I read Atlas Shrugged back in 1964. I was in the process of divorcing my first husband, just 20 years old, and probably not in full possession of my wits at the time. I lived in San Francisco, with 3 or 4 other women, in a 3 bedroom house on Eureka Street, just a couple of blocks from the Castro, which was then just another rundown neighborhood. Every weekday morning, I pulled on my girdle, slipped into witchy pointy-toed heels, and plied Market Street in the 8 Castro bus, if I was early enough, or caught the steetcar coming out of the tunnel at full gallop, if not. City transit riders are a vapid lot. Most sit staring at nothing in particular, patently ignoring anyone in their vicinity. You couldn't smoke on the buses or streetcars. That vexed me. And one day I saw a particularly intelligent looking being reading a book. Well, this was the book I chose to lug with me day after day. It wasn't as big as this version, but a paperback thick as a brick. It took me about six months to slog through the first 400 pages. Then Dagny crashlanded, and it all took off from there. I wore out that first version, and asked for a new one a few years ago for my birthday. I read it again. I am now preparing for a fourth (or fifth, what can I say, its been a long life) trip through Ayn Rand's very opinionated mind. One thing you can say about dear old Ayn; she knew who she was and what she was about. I am still exploring those things myself. I heard someone say on TV the other morning "who do you think you are?". Gee, that's a good question. Meditating on that even as we speak.