The Unbearable Badness of Ayn Rand
October 19, 2012 By Vic Sizemore
My good friend Marcelo has decided to read Ayn Rand’s fiction, to “see what all the hype is about.â€
He has started with Fountainhead, the story of Howard Roark, the architect who heroically refuses to sacrifice his individual principles to the collective, no matter how they treat him. Marcelo is an artist, and he likes Roark’s pluck, his faith in his own artistic vision. Plus, Rand speaks with such conviction, it’s hard to resist.
As many young people do—in my experience, mostly young men—I once went on a Rand bender: Atlas Shrugged, We the Living, The Romantic Manifesto. I devoured the book by her disciple Leonard Peikoff, Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand.
She starts with existence exists, which is her axiomatic principle, the starting point from which she builds her belief system. From there she is quick to deny even the possibility of spiritual reality. Eventually she ends in a place where selfishness is a high virtue, altruism a despicable vice, and capitalism the only sane economic system.
Her philosophy is harshly categorical, and corresponds to the developmental stage of black/white either/or thinking of youth. No wonder the people I run across who take her philosophy seriously are always young, at least in their thinking.
As unsavory as these aspects of her philosophy might be, that isn’t what makes her writing bad. She herself says, “The fact that one agrees or disagrees with an artist’s philosophy is irrelevant to an esthetic appraisal of his work qua art.†With this I agree.
In the intro to Mark Musa’s The Portable Dante we are told that the great poet intended for his writing to work on four levels: the literal, which is the observation of what actually happens; the allegorical, which gets at underlying theological or philosophical meaning (for example Virgil as the embodiment of human reason); the moral or didactic, for teaching the reader; and finally the anagogical, which opens spiritual or mystical truths.
The fact that Dante consciously designed his poetry to work on all these levels is not what brings readers back to him. The literal level is where the thrill of recognition grabs you.
Dante describes souls writhing in the seventh circle of hell, plagued by fire from above and burning sand from beneath: “They were in fact, like a dog in summertime / busy, now with his paw, now with his snout, / tormented by the fleas and flies that bite him.â€
I am transported to my childhood in West Virginia, to the dirt road that ran between the church parsonage where I lived and the garbage truck garage. In the road is a mangy black dog with fur clumped into flat cakes, dropping to scratch, spinning to bite at fleas.
There’s the grotesque description of one who sowed schism in life, ripped bodily in half, “from his chin to where we fart…. Between his legs his guts spilled out, with the heart / and other vital parts, and the dirty sack / that turns to shit whatever the mouth gulps down.â€
I remember a deer hanging from a neighbor’s backyard swing set, split open, its bloody innards spilled onto a blue tarp. Grotesque, even horrifying.
Dante is excellent on multiple levels, yet he begins where all good writing—all good art—must: true to the literal, so carefully observed, that you cannot help but trust it.
Rand’s fiction sucks for the same reason so much Christian fiction sucks. It is endlessly didactic, so busy preaching it forgets to pay close attention to life. Her characters deliver lectures. You don’t have to look closely to see they are puppets with Rand’s own lips moving eerily under the mask, her angry eyes staring out through holes in the rubber face. The bad guys in her books are straw men called collectivism, and altruism and they speak only in bromides and Rand gleefully bats them down.
Is it unfair to hold her to such a high standard as Dante? How about her contemporary Flannery O’Connor, who also saw her own writing as working on all four levels? Again Rand comes up short, and not simply because she’s not as good a writer—which she surely is not—but because her own aesthetic draws up short. She is writing bad fiction by design.
In her Romantic Manifesto Rand says, “The greater the work of art, the more profoundly universal its theme.†So far so good. She writes, “Art is a selective re-creation of reality according to an artist’s metaphysical value-judgments.†What exactly does that mean?
Rand believes the work should set forth the author’s vision of an ideal world, not deal with the world as it is. Art, according to Rand should deal only with what is “important,†which sounds fine, but the problem is that when, as Rand consciously does, the artist lops away parts of human existence she believes to be unimportant, we get substandard art.
The artist knows what she is out to prove and sets out to do it. No discovery for the writer, then none for the reader. Rand never lets the story itself say anything meaningful. You want to tell her to shut up already and tell the story. Or find a form more suited for argumentation, like an essay.
We come to art to find something important, no doubt. But it is in careful attention to the literal, physical details—quotidian, often smelly and unpleasant, even disgusting and scary—that we find the important thing for which the work is aiming. The artist is as surprised as everyone else to find the discovery hidden in the muck of life.
It is also in this close attention to the literal that paradoxically we glimpse the transcendent.
The lotus flower floats on the surface of the water, blooms in the glorious sunlight and air; but its roots are down deep underwater, in the slime of rotting leaves. It cannot be otherwise
Good eye.
http://michaeldavidrawlings1.blogspot.com/2013/01/objectivist-cult-member-says.htmlObjectivist Cult Member Says Composition Not Relevant to Science
Source: Associated Press
by Michael David Rawlings
01/15/2013
You-Just-Can’t-Make-This-Stuff-Up World Journal  
In response to a learned missive regarding the technical application of the philosophical terms for measurement and composition to mathematics and modern science, Objectivist cult member Robert "Pseudo-Science" Bumbalough yesterday averred that the composition of empirical phenomena was not relevant to the scientific concerns of identity. “It just doesn’t matter,†he said with a slur and the look of a crazed animal in his eyes. “Chemistry? Pfft. Who needs it?â€
Bumbalough is a follower of the self-styled philosophy of reason known as Objectivism, so-named by its originator Ayn Rand, the controversial novelist and Russian émigré of the Twentieth Century who died of heart failure in 1982.
Rand is most notable for her rather boorishly didactic novels Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, and for her unapologetic defense of ethical egoism and laissez-faire capitalism.
Reports have it that Rand developed her sophomoric theory of concepts, the centerpiece of Objectivism’s mysticism, while all hopped up on amphetamines and the charm of an endless chain of nicotine delivery devices.
“After the sixth day she was downing handfuls of Dexedrine at a time every two hours with shots of Vodka like they were Gummy Bears,†an anonymous insider revealed.
“We had to board up all the windows on account of the fact that we almost lost her when she smashed through one. I just managed to snatch her by her ankles on her way out. We’re talkin’ forty stories. On top of that, by the eleventh day she dispensed with the Pall Malls altogether. When we weren’t repairing the holes in the walls of her apartment from all the bouncing around, we were lining up eight balls of pure N.â€
Another source who was present at the time told this report, “The needles kept breaking off in her arms due to the eradicate and uncontrollable spasms that racked her entire body from all the juice. So enraged was she with our incompetence that she literally busted the pulsing vein in the middle of her forehead that had grown to the size of a small lemon. Blood and spittle sprayed everywhere as she screamed at the top of her lungs, ‘Look here, you worthless toads, existence exists! Now go nick a roll of duct tape from the corner market and just lash me down to the chair!’.â€
Bumbalough just recently came to the public’s attention for the first time. Readers might recall the infamous Heisenberg Incident in which he created a short-lived sensation in the science community when he claimed that the paradoxical position-momentum dichotomy voided the seemingly inescapable principle of causality.
“There’s no friggin’ cause!†Bumbalough said in a press release. “It just happens, and I can prove it.†While the science community eagerly awaited Bumbalough’s paper it was leaked by a member of his entourage that he had been under the influence of LSD for months on end. Subsequent probes revealed that Bumbalough wasn’t even a scientist, but a fanatical follower of Ayn Rand with a history of mental illness.
“Naturally, we were all very excited by the reports of a major breakthrough, only to learn shortly thereafter that Bumbalough was just another Objectivist loon,†lamented Dr. Stenson of the Landau Institute for Theoretical Physics. “Our heartfelt condolences go out to his family.â€
This reporter has learned that Bumbalough has an extensive history of making outlandish scientific claims, including the claim that science not only tells us all we need to know about empirical phenomena, but about the absolute extent of existence itself. “God doesn’t exist,†Bumbalough is fond of saying, “and science proves it.â€
“You need to understand what’s going on here,†explains Professor Blouer, head of the Department of Philosophy and Comparative Sociological Studies at Berkeley. “Objectivists don’t think like normal human beings. They regurgitate formulaic phrases from Rand’s works and from those of Objectivism’s leading apologists by rote. It [Objectivism] is not a rational system of thought in the tradition of the self-evident, classic laws of logic and the operational aspects of identity’s comprehensive expression. It’s just an incoherent amalgamation of meaningless blather cobbled together around a few of the more obvious insights about existence . . . so nothing else really follows.â€
Lawrence Nielson of Cult Watch is more blunt: “They’re slogan spouters. Take for instance Peikoff’s asseveration that a creator would need a creator and that identity is the finite thing identified or some such rubbish. For normal people these statements are on the very face of them nonsensical, but not for the Objectivist true believer.†Peikoff is Ayn Rand’s formal “intellectual†heir. Neilson continues, “Any attempt to point out the problems . . . [of their reasoning] to them is likely to be meant with more slogans, the most common of these being, ‘You’re denying the axiom of existence!’ or ‘Theory of concepts!’. It would be tragic if it weren’t so hilarious.â€
Former cult member Kevin Saunders, deprogrammed by Cult Watch, explains:
You’re programmed to believe that certain ideas about realty, which are obvious to anyone with an IQ above that of a small rash, are profound and unique to Objectivism. That’s the hook. After that, you’re encouraged to repeat the rest of Objectivism’s tripe over and over again until it all melds together into one, big, fat, sugar-coated cookie in your brain, so much so that the thoroughly brainwashed acolyte believes that the actual universals themselves are being denied by Objectivism’s detractors.
“It’s what we call a self-defense mechanism downed without the milk,†Nielson interjects.
Kevin takes a deep breath. A shimmer of tears threatens to spill over. “I can’t believe I fell for it,†he sniffs. “I mean . . . I’m not a stupid man.†I wave off the camera. “I was in a bad place, ya know? My wife had left me, and the kids hated me, especially the eldest. Even my dog turned on me. There was so much stress in my life . . . and Objectivism promised a way out. Next thing I know, I’m smoking’ five packs of coffin nails a day and my shelves are lined with hundreds of dollars of books and pamphlets filled with rank stupidity.â€
"Our motto around here is Don’t read Objectivism; read real philosophy,†Nielson concludes.
After leaving several messages on Bumbalough’s voice mail for his side of things over this latest meltdown, I learned that he had been admitted to Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital of New York for treatment. “Mr. Bumbalough is being treated for substance abuse and significant emotional problems,†a hospital spokesman informed me. However, he was able to speak with me briefly from his room over the phone before he had to be straight-jacketed and dragged off for several hours of shock therapy.
Rawlings: “It’s my understanding that you hold to the position that the chemical composition of things is not relevant to identity in science.â€
Bumbalough: “That’s right.â€
Rawlings: “Could you explain that for us?â€
Bumbalough: “It’s self-evident.â€
Rawlings: “How’s that?â€
Bumbalough: “That’s right.â€
Rawlings: “What’s right?â€
Bumbalough: “That’s right.â€
Rawlings: “Uh . . . okay. Aren’t extension and composition intertwined?â€
Bumbalough: “That’s right.â€
Rawlings: “But, Bumbalough, seriously. . . . Uh . . .what?â€
Bumbalough: “Look, buddy, I got spiders crawlin’ up my legs here, and you’re askin’ me about composition?â€
Rawlings: “Well . . .â€
Bumbalough: “Look. It’s real simple. Ya got an orange. See? Ya got an apple. See? They’re both spherical in shape. See? That’s their extension, buddy. You can measure that. See? You can put a friggin’ number on that.â€
Rawlings: “Okay.â€
Bumbalough: “Okay. So one’s orange, and the other’s red . . . or maybe the other’s green. Ya like green apples? It that it? Fine. The other’s green. Ya happy now? Look here, ya Jew Bastard, I don’t like green apples. See? If ya want green apples, buy ’em yourself. I don’t want no friggin’ green apples! Got that?â€
Rawlings: “That’s fine.â€
Bumbalough: “You’re damn right that’s fine! No green apples. The friggin’ apple is red. Ya got that? Red!â€
Rawlings: “Okay. It’s red.â€
Bumbalough: “You’re damn right it’s red!â€
Rawlings: “Okay. So we’ve got an orange and a red apple?â€
Bumbalough: “That’s right.â€
Rawlings: “And they’re both spherical in shape?â€
Bumbalough: “Did I stutter? . . . Grusunkahlahdoodoo!â€
Rawlings: “Uh . . . grusunkahlahdoodoo?â€
Bumbalough: “Damn skippy! That’s you’re friggin’ identity right there! Orange. Red. Spherical. Identity! . . . Duhsmorkinjoo!â€
Rawlings: “And the chemical composition?â€
Bumbalough: “Spiders!â€
Rawlings: “Focus, Bumbalough.â€
Bumbalough: “Okay. Ya want quality? Huh? Is that what ya want, ya analytic-synthetic dichotomy, Jew bastard? I’ll give ya some quality. Orange. Red. That’s you’re friggin’ quality right there!â€
Rawlings: “No. Bumbalough. I’m asking about their inherent chemical properties . . .â€
Bumbalough: “What friggin’ difference does it make? Orange. Red. Color. That’s you’re friggin’ quality right there! Spherical. That’s you’re friggin’ quantity right there! Put a number on it!â€
Rawlings: “But why orange or red or spherical?â€
Bumbalough: “Are ya friggin’ deaf? Who cares? Do ya eat the why? Huh? Tell me that. Do ya eat the friggin’ why?â€
Rawlings: “Well, actually, yes . . .â€
Bumbalough: “Identity!â€
Rawlings: “. . . I do.â€
Bumbalough: “Finite!â€
Rawlings: “So the chemical properties don’t matter at . . .â€
Bumbalough: “It is written by the hand of the goddess!â€
Rawlings: “Uh . . . What?â€
Bumbalough: “Funklestink!â€
Rawlings: “Bumba . . .â€
Bumbalough: “Slinkalooloo! Hahnoonahyuhkahlala!â€
Rawlings: “Bumba . . .â€
Bumabalough: “Existence exists! Grusunkahlahdoodoo! You’re denying the axioms! A plague on you and all of your house! It is written! Page 82! The goddess speaks!â€
Rawlings: “Steve, call the hospital on the other line.â€
Bumbalough: “Friggin’ scientists think they know everything! Identity! Quantity I tell you! It is written! The goddess be praised! Finite! I got blisters on my fingers! Goo goo g'joob! Theory of concepts! Spiders! Big honkin’ spiders! Those friggin’ analytic-synthetic dichotomy, Jew bastards! . . .â€