As I look back on the beginnings, I think of a question I have asked myself many times in the years since. How did Ayn, who had lived in sophisticated cities all her life and mingled with worldly, sophisticated people, not know that the course on which she was embarking could lead only to tragedy? Surely, by the age of fifty, one has seen enough of life and its complexities to have some intimation of what was to follow. Surely, she had lived long enough to know that she was presiding at the death of two marriages and at the corruption of four lives in an ugly tangle of deceit and emotional savaging and pain. But Ayn was a strikingly unsophisticated woman. She had had little personal experience of the world, except as it related to her career; with the exception of Frank, she had had no personal experience in intimate relationships with men. She had fought valiant battles, she had endured revolution and dictatorship and the death of her family and loneliness and joy and defeat and triumph—yet she had lived an oddly sheltered life, locked within the confines of her special view of reality. To Ayn, other people were not fully real; they were moving and breathing abstrac- tions, they were, for good or for ill, the embodiments of moral and psychological principles. They were not formed of flesh and blood and bone and sinew; they were formed of the ideas that moved them. It was how she saw herself; it was how she saw everyone else.
Sayfa 263
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55 görüntüleme
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