Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 86

“I . . .I don’t know,” said Mr. Farrow. “I’d never thought of it before. It just struck me suddenly that she hasn’t really got a single friend in the world. Unless it’s Mick Watts, who nobody could call a friend to anybody. Oh well,” he added, shrugging, “perhaps it’s only natural. How can you think of a friendship with a woman like that? She looks at you, but doesn’t really see you at all. She see’s something else. No one can guess what. She speaks to you—when she speaks, which isn’t often—and you don’t really know what she’s thinking. Sometimes I’m sure that she doesn’t think what we think at all, you and I. Things don’t mean the same to her as to the rest of us. But what they mean and what she means—who can tell? And, actually, who cares?”

“About seventy million people or so, judging by your box office reports.”

“Ah, yes. Which, perhaps, is all that matters. They worship her, millions of them. It’s not admiration. It’s not just fan enthusiasm. It’s much more than that. It’s worship. I don’t know what she does to them all—but she does something.”


Ayn Rand          Written 1934, Published 2015

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