Dingbat

Isn't this a special case of Heraclitus? There are no entities, only change. You can't step in the same stream twice, etc.
I think Ayn Rand once said of Heraclitus that change without that which changes is a stolen concept but don't quote me on that. That is, you only get the concept of change by observing entities changing in the first place, so you can't very well turn around and use that concept to argue against their existence.

Since a lot of the responses are directed towards me, I will attempt to answer all of them. The contradiction does not bother me because I am new to Objectivism (not really the ideas but new to Rand)and I do like her books. Before reading her books, she was just a face to me that Libertarians liked to use to say they have a female philosopher who "agrees" with them. I have met other self-proclaimed Objectivists through YAL who feel the same way. They found the article on their own, and it doesn't bother them. I also initially stated why in my first post, because I educated myself on her background and I wouldn't blame her. I think people are entitled to their own opinions for grounded reasons, and that it doesn't tarnish the work they have done. She has grounded reasons. Regardless, this does pose a contradiction, and I can see why this would bother Objectivists. But it also would bother Rand if people think that is what she meant and they don't take the time to figure out what really meant and speak for her, regardless of what stance they take. For this, I am grateful for all the explanations because it has made me more grounded in my own understanding.

Rand said that Nations have no rights, she didn't say that the people of such nations have no rights. In fact, her point was that the people are the ones with the rights, not the nation.

A holy war is a war over morals. This is regardless of Religion. To invade a country for no other reason then that you believe you are more right than they are is for moral reasons, and therefore a holy war. If such a nation is threatening the rights of the individual citizens (by declaring war), then that is a different story. Even in that case, representatives of citizens need to vote for such intervention on their behalf. Not only did citizens not vote for Vietnam, but they also did not vote when it came to intervention with Afghanistan. I mean the 1980's intervention, not the 2001 invasion. Our own CIA trained Osama Bin Laden, so Afghanistan could win their freedom war against the Soviet Union. Not even 10 years later, Osama Bin Laden waged a terrorist attack against the United States which killed many innocent civilians. Could he have pulled this off without the 1980's intervention? There are some who believe that 9/11 was an inside job, but I know Osama Bin Laden is a real person who was in charge of the Freedom Fighters who waged a war against the Soviet Union during the 80's and our own CIA trained him. I have seen videos and the movie "Charlie Wilson's War" is based off of this. If we left things alone, there is no way Osama Bin Laden would have had the resources or training to pull of a terrorist attack against the US. That is the thanks we get. They come and try to blow us up.

Who pays for wars and aid to foreign countries? How does the US get this money? The same way they get it to pay out welfare checks and social security. By borrowing from other countries and charging taxes. At least the welfare laws passed a vote through congress, even though it was a bad idea. Representatives of citizens did not vote on these wars. They did not vote for many of the agencies and programs either. Hosni Mubarak of Egypt is the biggest welfare recipient of American money in the world! 70 BILLION DOLLARS! He may not be the leader anymore, but he is a very rich man and your children are going to pay the interest on money given to him by the US government for a long time.

Who helped set Egypt free? Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. American Innovations. Not money stolen from the future children of America. I just saw the Facebook movie too, and I don't know if the real Mark is like that, but fictional Mark is such a great example of an Objectivist that he could have been a character in an Ayn Rand novel. But she did not write that story, that is a true story. The lone guy with an attitude problem with this great idea for a social network and second handers thinking that they deserve something from him. It revolves around a court case, and they used the transcript. He wrote the code, and he kept control of his company. He stood up for himself in court, making comments like, "If you invented Facebook, then you would have invented Facebook." Maybe not as long winded as Roark, but the same idea. He lost, but he still won because kept control of his company. And the Egyptions won too, not because of money stolen from American Citizens, but because of innovations from specific "self-centered" American Citizens like Mark. Facebook was created for entirely selfish reasons, but this is what helped set Egypt free. Our foreign aid is an act of altruism on the belief that Democracy is best and it is our responsibility to free the world.

The brotherhood may not be the best leaders, but they only supported the revolution. They did not start it. The kids started it. The whole situation is against anything Rand might have stood for anyway, even when only taking the article in consideration, because our money and intervention did not establish a free nation for them. She said in her article that was the only way such intervention could be justified. Innovations by so called "selfish" Americans is what helped set them free, not interventions. It is happening. I have never seen people so happy. Thousands of people on the streets lighting off fireworks. A young man said, "Our revolution, our Facebook." Freedom earned is freedom wanted.


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Does anyone else find that "If you double cross me, I will destroy you." line more fit for an Oliver Stone villain than an AR hero?

My response on why liberating a country isn't altruism was pretty short. Why not read it instead of going on repeating the same meme over and over again.

Just because "healthiness" is a common value, at least in the mainstream, does not mean everyone shares it.

I mean in the long-long-run. Trade between nations recognizing individual rights is more profitable then trade with tyrannical countries. Thus, the best long-term solution is to impose universal individual liberties.

I mean in the long-long-run. Trade between nations recognizing individual rights is more profitable then trade with tyrannical countries. Thus, the best long-term solution is to impose universal individual liberties.

Conflict-
The curtain of maroon velvet rose in response to the deafening applause which followed the combative overture. With a soft click, light quickly spread across a minute circle at center stage, eager to illuminate its sole resident. Within the walls of a pillar composed of citrine brightness stood a woman, facing opposite the crowd. She swiftly turned to her left and, with weightless grace, began to advance towards the edge of the stage when the calm voice of a man called out, “Wait.” He spoke, not a plea to be considered, but a command to be obeyed. The woman halted, but kept her back to him. He slowly proceeded from the shadowed stage and was lit. A tall, gaunt figure emerged from the tenebrious shroud, opposite the woman. He continued his approach,moving with the single-minded resolution of a man crazed with tenacity. Nearing the woman, he reached as if to turn her around. Before his outstretched hands could grasp her shoulders, she pivoted abruptly and stared at the man indifferently with cold, golden eyes.

“Why?” She questioned him without genuine inquisition; no answer was needed.

“You and I both know the answer to that.” His answer subjugated her interrogation, and the two were silent for a few long moments. She then rotated, looking out over the audience. An onyx dress encircled her thin body, flowing smoothly from slight straps clinging to her pale, slender shoulders down to her stiletto-clad feet. Her short blond hair sat just above the nape of her neck, shining beneath the rays of muted spotlight. It circled her face, and her thin, lightly curved bangs came to rest at the level of her sharply angled eyebrows. Her lips bore no emotion, save a strong, still impasse. Head held proudly aloft, her sharp eyes looked off into the distance in pensive thought.

“The things you want,” she paused, turning back towards the man, “you know that you cannot have both. There is no compromise here. There is no middle ground.”

“Do you honestly think that anything you can say can stop me? You are surely not the first to claim that what I seek is impossible, and I swear to you, you will not be the first to be correct. Do you know what I am? I am the unstoppable force incarnate. I will not allow anything to stand before me. I do not yield; flee or be razed.”

“What happens when the unstoppable force meets an immovable object?” she rebutted softly.

He responded to her taunt with a devilish grin of pure audacity.

“If you won't be displaced, I'll cut straight through you.” He hesitated momentarily, then continued. “You think very highly of yourself. It would be a shame to fall from the grace of your lofty ideals and end up trampled underfoot like the rest of these sinners.”

“A tower of corpses is not the only way to elevate yourself.”

“Who said anything about elevation? I'll pull the sky down beneath me and watch it bow. They'll worship at a temple of my own design and sell their precious souls to do it.”

“Do you realize that you've been on your knees the entire time?”

“I worship no one.”

“You've destroyed any possibility for reverence. Nothing matters to you because you've lost sight of meaning.”

“My purpose is my own. My meaning is what I make of it. I will do for the sake of doing. I will not stop for the sake of movement. Nothing in this city can hold me back. You see these skyscrapers?” Slowly, the murky stage became aglow with the pinpoints of light in the backdrop. A distant cityscape took form from the obsidian shadows towards the rear of the set.

“These will be mine.”

She diverted her gaze from the man and swiftly walked away. The now-solitary figure continued to contemplate the buildings before him.

“And, in time,” he quietly spoke to himself, “so will you.”

A solitary note rose above the dim depths of the orchestra pit; the signal of a forward scout for his nearing army. Out of the darkness, the resonant echoes of an ethereal march began their approach as a call to defiant purpose ruptured the veil of tranquility strewn across the anxious theater. The battle began in earnest when the initial volleys of noise faded beneath opposing walls of unstoppable sound. Triumphant shots of brass rang out in fierce retaliation to the screams of the assaulting, undulant strings, giving audible life to nameless conflict. The dissonant harmonies clashed in a violent dance of annihilative ultimatum; each force a statement of uninhibited drive. A constant, sonorous pulse of drums throbbed as the plangent heart of struggle, circulating the sheer will of the antagonism present in the vibrating air. The beat unrelentingly escalated in a final, consuming drive for victory mirrored in the symphonic rivals, until all were disarmed with a sudden silence.

I really should be sleeping...

Skyline
By: Summer Hamori
Note: I am not posting this for tips on my writing style. Thank you.

Drink in the poison of sanguine absolution, with silent protests and trembling fingers. Her limbs are holding her down like the hands of a stranger, but her mind is more awake than ever before.
The sun has been locked away in the vast expanse of dawn. It is too early to announce the morning; the only illumination present reflects off of the great pool shimmering aloft. The moon swims before her as she wipes diamonds from her eyes, and the light is painful in payment for her struggle against sleep deprivation.
Every muscle in her thin body throbs and aches, so that she has become aware of her existence as divided into planes, according to the separate, individual pains. It is a sensual kind of torture, because she knows that it could end with the sanction of her personal surrender. If she crept back under the covers, her collective entity of burning nerves would sigh mercifully in rapture. Instead, she forces herself to stare out the open window and to feel the bittersweet agony of sheer exhaustion.
The icy wind holds a breath of energy. Its movements are rich and full of life as they elevate her tenderness to an entirely new level, propelling the gray shutters about in hostility. Under the moonlight, the structures appear ancient and wise with their large arms outstretched, billboards and streetlamps, searching for something to give this moment significance. She could not imagine a time in which the city did not stand here, magnificent and perfectly erect. The heavens are heavy upon her apartment balcony, and the air is crisp. The night could swallow them all if it so desired.
The weather has turned cold, but a remnant of light emerges to violate the ice – to caress, delicately, and leave trails of warmth in contrast to the strangulating winter. Because of the freezing temperature, she is overly aware of each spot where the sun illuminates, where it touches – as one would be aware of fingertips, tracing the skin. Complete serenity. It strokes the skyline like lavender lace and floods her room, rippling to the surface of the earth in culmination. The closing curtain of an extravagant performance.
Long vertical lines slice through the air. Towering powerfully without fear or objection, they devour any suggestion of existence beyond their reach. These buildings are men, standing tall as particular units. Each lone figure – with his head thrown back to feel the heat on his face, his muscles flexed – lives in joy. They climb beyond the clouds, beyond the limitations of brotherhood; gobbling up space and the unknown with a single demand: to grab the very sun and wrench it from the sky.
There are others – more skyscrapers bursting from the earth; erupting as warriors, climbing higher, higher with a battle cry – a song of victory. Consuming the land with a sense of belonging, and a right to rise there, isolated in time; as rigid as the stone which was ripped from the earth, drilled by the hands of workers with sweat on their brows, fingers trembling around the vibrations of their equipment – and massive machines, churning the foundation; an extension of those human arms, emphasizing the glory of the architects who composed this sweet melody - solid to the conviction of a single principle.
Nourished and reassured, she loses consciousness.

To give one's all, to have tried and failed
is a nobler fate than is received
by those, who through sheer luck prevailed
and in themselves, deceived
to feel, to no avail,
that hollow victories achieve
a sense of honor not made stale
from the rightful victor they bereave

For true success is never found in gold and trophies frail
nor in the hearts content to cleave
from the earned, the ascendant hail;
that greatest moment of reprieve
The only prize worth winning is the final breath exhaled,
after blood and sweat spent to conceive
a triumph, fought with tooth and nail
to in one's self, at last, believe.

-Victory

A million stones against his skin. A million times he chose to win. The battles, hardships self-imposed. Reactions to his moral code.

Drowning in a sea of gray, convictions broken – romance fades. Pragmacy and practical, replace the ideological.

What’s easy now is not what’s right. If it’s good, it’s worth a fight. The struggle as you risk it all. Solid as the others fall.

Pleading, screaming – “just accept”. Apathy helps them forget. But not the one who walks a path. He chose it then, will make it last.

Uncompromised, aware, alive. He asks no pardon in their eyes.

Note: I am not posting this for tips in terms of my writing style.
Thank you.

The Artist

By Summer Hamori

His jaw line was sharp and hardened with maturity over the years of his intellectual growth. It was miraculous to witness the visible evolution in aesthetics subsequent to a change in philosophy. His corrected posture, posed and confident, made an infinite difference.

His eyes, a blend of hazel that looked green from a distance, were saturated with sentiment. And yet, if she were to say this aloud, it could not be understood. Laughter would ensue – “what’s the punch-line?” because his face knew no sadness. No drama and no depression. The guilt-inducing emotions were non-existent. However, he could be moved by aggression and passion. He could be brought to his knees by his temple of reverence, of awe, of ownership – of the deserved and won.

His hair was like fire: thick and violently red. Of all his features, he loved his hands the most. Today, those hands had been put to work – shaping and breaking the clay against his palms. He concentrated on the feel upon creased skin to distract himself from the moments ahead. His angular shoulders shifted with precision and expertise, and the vision was more glorious than any angelic depiction.

The woman would never bow her head in church, would never kneel before an altar, but with him, she felt a profound sense of religious adulation – of salvation, almost. He was no angel – darkened by the earth’s sun and strengthened through tribulations; here was a creature who was not reluctant to be, as was his birth, man.

At any given instance, something had to rupture, but she enabled the impulse to escalate in confinement. Her expression was a lake with the immobility of glass, an unbroken surface – the deathly hush before some overwhelming storm, prepared to burst into explosion. Her equanimity remained unchallenged. Although the sharp silence screamed of profanity, he operated with cutting composure in utmost silence.

She wore his gift upon a slender wrist – a watch of chains, binding time and pushing forth the waiting game. A naked collarbone was exposed beneath the thin, orange sheet, which she excused under the pretenses of a robe. The royal colors were endless, not dissimilar to her legs as they stretched over the bed. The sheet was thin and barely acceptable. It lay against her skin like another man, flowing over and cascading against the covers.

Her hard eyes were shut; her lips, partially opened; her face – closed. Concealed by the hair that enveloped her merciless features and swallowed them alive. Bound by the ticking of his clock as he sculpted the clay, apathetic to her genuine skin but feet away.

Taking Iraq would be a good base of operations for other middle eastern targets. Plus, we get the oil.

Taking Iraq would be a good base of operations for other middle eastern targets. Plus, we get the oil.

Taking Iraq would be a good base of operations for other middle eastern targets. Plus, we get the oil.

Taking Iraq would be a good base of operations for other middle eastern targets. Plus, we get the oil.

A politician that does not respect individual rights is not a politician, but a mobster. Kill 'em all.

A politician that does not respect individual rights is not a politician, but a mobster. Kill 'em all.

Just because "healthiness" is a common value, at least in the mainstream, does not mean everyone shares it.

A politician that does not respect individual rights is not a politician, but a mobster. Kill 'em all.

A politician that does not respect individual rights is not a politician, but a mobster. Kill 'em all.

No, I'm the "police man", the defender of man's rights, a Ragner.

A politician that does not respect individual rights is not a politician, but a mobster. Kill 'em all.

Whether or not somebody likes cold sores will be determined by their own sum of focused experiences, whatever they may be. People's preferences will be determined by their own individual values which come anywhere from the whole gauntlet of human experiences in reality expressed as an emotional sum: the sense of life.

Rand doesn't like cold sores in portraits because it is inconsistent with her personal aesthetic preference: Romanticism. But, that's just the result of her unique sense of life.