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- Айн Рэнд
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- Атлант расправил плечи
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- Стр. 99/1581
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It
was
late
when
she
left
her
office
.
Outside
,
on
the
sidewalk
at
the
door
of
the
building
,
she
paused
,
looking
at
the
streets
.
She
felt
suddenly
empty
of
energy
,
of
purpose
,
of
desire
,
as
if
a
motor
had
crackled
and
stopped
.
A
faint
glow
streamed
from
behind
the
buildings
into
the
sky
,
the
reflection
of
thousands
of
unknown
lights
,
the
electric
breath
of
the
city
.
She
wanted
to
rest
.
To
rest
,
she
thought
,
and
to
find
enjoyment
somewhere
.
Her
work
was
all
she
had
or
wanted
.
But
there
were
times
,
like
tonight
,
when
she
felt
that
sudden
,
peculiar
emptiness
,
which
was
not
emptiness
,
but
silence
,
not
despair
,
but
immobility
,
as
if
nothing
within
her
were
destroyed
,
but
everything
stood
still
.
Then
she
felt
the
wish
to
find
a
moment
’
s
joy
outside
,
the
wish
to
be
held
as
a
passive
spectator
by
some
work
or
sight
of
greatness
.
Not
to
make
it
,
she
thought
,
but
to
accept
;
not
to
begin
,
but
to
respond
;
not
to
create
,
but
to
admire
.
I
need
it
to
let
me
go
on
,
she
thought
,
because
joy
is
one
’
s
fuel
.
She
had
always
been
—
she
closed
her
eyes
with
a
faint
smile
of
amusement
and
pain
—
the
motive
power
of
her
own
happiness
.
For
once
,
she
wanted
to
feel
herself
carried
by
the
power
of
someone
else
’
s
achievement
.
As
men
on
a
dark
prairie
liked
to
see
the
lighted
windows
of
a
train
going
past
,
her
achievement
,
the
sight
of
power
and
purpose
that
gave
them
reassurance
in
the
midst
of
empty
miles
and
night
-
so
she
wanted
to
feel
it
for
a
moment
,
a
brief
greeting
,
a
single
glimpse
,
just
to
wave
her
arm
and
say
:
Someone
is
going
somewhere
.
.
.
.
She
started
walking
slowly
,
her
hands
in
the
pockets
of
her
coat
,
the
shadow
of
her
slanting
hat
brim
across
her
face
.
The
buildings
around
her
rose
to
such
heights
that
her
glance
could
not
find
the
sky
.
She
thought
:
It
has
taken
so
much
to
build
this
city
,
it
should
have
so
much
to
offer
.
Above
the
door
of
a
shop
,
the
black
hole
of
a
radio
loudspeaker
was
hurling
sounds
at
the
streets
.
They
were
the
sounds
of
a
symphony
concert
being
given
somewhere
in
the
city
.
They
were
a
long
screech
without
shape
,
as
of
cloth
and
flesh
being
torn
at
random
.
They
scattered
with
no
melody
,
no
harmony
,
no
rhythm
to
hold
them
.
If
music
was
emotion
and
emotion
came
from
thought
,
then
this
was
the
scream
of
chaos
,
of
the
irrational
,
of
the
helpless
,
of
man
’
s
self
-
abdication
.
She
walked
on
.
She
stopped
at
the
window
of
a
bookstore
.
The
window
displayed
a
pyramid
of
slabs
in
brownish
-
purple
jackets
,
inscribed
:
The
Vulture
Is
Molting
.
"
The
novel
of
our
century
,
"
said
a
placard
.
"
The
penetrating
study
of
a
businessman
’
s
greed
.
A
fearless
revelation
of
man
’
s
depravity
.
"
She
walked
past
a
movie
theater
.
Its
lights
wiped
out
half
a
block
,
leaving
only
a
huge
photograph
and
some
letters
suspended
in
blazing
mid
-
air
.
The
photograph
was
of
a
smiling
young
woman
;
looking
at
her
face
,
one
felt
the
weariness
of
having
seen
it
for
years
,
even
while
seeing
it
for
the
first
time
.
The
letters
said
:
"
.
.
.
in
a
momentous
drama
giving
the
answer
to
the
great
problem
:
Should
a
woman
tell
?
"
