Ayn Rand

He thought suddenly that there was some phrase, a kind of quotation, that expressed what the calendar seemed to suggest.

But he still thought it self-evident that one had to do what was right; he had never learned how people could want to do otherwise; he had learned only that they did. It still seemed simple and incomprehensible to him: simple that things should be right, and incomprehensible that they weren’t. He knew that they weren’t.

She liked his face—its lines were tight and firm, it did not have that look of loose muscles evading the responsibility of a shape, which she had learned to expect in people’s faces.

“I have not said you needed it. But of all those whom you are saving from the storm tonight, I am the only one who will offer it.”

Their work was done. For the moment, there was no future. They had earned the present.

I’m going to have you at the price of more than myself: at the price of my self esteem—and I want you to know it.

You said once that celebrations should be only for those who have something to celebrate.”

The hours ahead, like all her nights with him, would be added, she thought, to that savings account of one’s life where moments of time are stored in the pride of having been lived.

"If you want my advice, Peter," he said at last, "you've made a mistake already. By asking me. By asking anyone. Never ask people. Not about your work. Don't you know what you want? How can you stand it, not to know?"

Men hate passion, any great passion. Henry Cameron made a mistake: he loved his work. That was why he fought. That was why he lost.