The League of Extraordinary Mediocrities
Considering the number of times I have seen the movie version of The Fountainhead, it's odd how few of Ayn Rand's books I have read -- Anthem is the only one, really. So I find myself at this late date plowing into Atlas Shrugged.
Rand picks the act of literally getting trains to run on time as the symbol for the pursuit of excellence. Her heroes and heroines are smart perfectionists who work like dogs to get the job done. Those who fail, do so because of cowardice and laziness. They prefer to hide their failure through consensus decision-making. There really is a fraternity of incompetence, a League of Extraordinary Mediocrities; failure loves company. Rand hates that attitude and exaggerates it so we cannot fail to get the point. Note how the loser is completely comfortable with impotence and decline; the one disaster that must be avoided is taking blame:
"The Rio Norte Line is a pile of junk from one end to the other," she said. "It's much worse than I thought. But we're going to save it."It's refreshing to see those mealy-mouthed shirkers held up to scorn. It's also uncomfortable because there have been times when we have met the mealy-mouthed shirker, and he is ... us. How about you? Is your record unblemished? Be honest.
"Of course," said James Taggart.
"Some of the rail can be salvaged. Not much and not for long. We'll start laying new rail in the mountain sections, Colorado first. We'll get the new rail in two months."
"Oh, did Orren Boyle say he'll--"
"I've ordered the rail from Readen Steel."
[...]"But the Board hasn't authorized it. I haven't authorized it. You haven't consulted me."
She reached over, picked up the receiver of a telephone on his desk and handed it to him.
"Call Rearden and cancel it," she said.
James Taggart moved back in his chair. "I haven't said that," he answered angrily. "I haven't said that at all."
"Then it stands?"
"I haven't said that, either."
She turned. "Eddie, have them draw up the contract with Rearden Steel. Jim will sign it." She took a crumpled piece of notepaper from her pocket and tossed it to Eddie. "There's the figures and terms."
Taggart said, "But the Board hasn't--"
"The Board hasn't anything to do with it. They authorized you to buy the rail thirteen months ago. Where you buy it is up to you."
"I don't think it's proper to make such a decision without giving the Board a chance to express an opinion. And I don't see why I should be made to take the responsibility."
"I am taking it."
The arrogance that everyone notices in Rand's writing is present here, of course; indeed, it shouts from every paragraph. What do we think of a person who devotes so much time to despising weaklings? And why does she never confront the unpleasant truth that some people fail simply because they, through no fault of their own, were born stupid? Or how about the even more unpleasant truth that even very smart people are dumb at certain times or in certain areas of life? Or that not all weakness is weakness of character?
Suppose you are the newly-appointed manager of a factory that makes widget extension handles. You are shocked to discover that the failure rate for these handles is 25 per million. Because of your brilliance and hard work -- in short, your awesome competence -- you beat that failure rate down to 1 per million. Quite an accomplishment! And yet, there's still that fly in the ointment, that one per million that fails. What should we think about a failure rate of 1 per million? What if a failure rate of 0 per million is not humanly possible? Will that satisfy the customer who gets stuck with the widget extension handle that breaks off in his hand when he grabs it in an urgent situation? Or will he have the right to rage at the "incompetence" of the factory manager ultimately responsible?
I would like to know if Rand ever addresses that question. The typical scenario in a Rand novel is to contrast the weaklings and cowards who hate and fear excellence with those super-human geniuses who bravely take responsibility, aspire to greatness, and never, ever screw up. In the real world, one of the jobs responsible people assume is that of fixing (as best they can) the screw-ups they cause in spite of their best efforts to avoid them. You never, ever see a Rand hero in that position. (Do you? Somebody tell me if I'm wrong.) It is that unreality that, more than anything else, bugs me about Rand's fiction.
Rand's lack of proportion is astounding. She looked to one group -- the visionaries, the inspired inventors, the captains of industry, the superlative artists, those who are geniuses and know it -- and her message to them is: You are too humble. You need to assert yourselves more. Riiiiiiight.
Umie the Umlaut says, "ask your doctor about the Fredösphere!"
3 Comments:
You might check out, if you dare, the blog, Atlas Shrugs, written by the ususally annoying Ayn Rand acolyte, Pamela Oshry. Her interview with John Bolton yesterday is a masterpiece of suck-up "journalism."
Having read Pamela's blog off and on since it came online, I think it's pretty safe to say that she's a Rand fan but hardly representative of Rand's philosophy.
I prefer Heinlein's rugged individualists to Rand's for the reason that they are heroes despite their flaws, rather than some super-idealized god-men that we are supposed to accept as heroes.
Sure, the heroes screw up. For example, look at what Hank Rearden did with Francisco...
= = = =
Rearden saw the look of an emotion which he could not define, yet felt certain to be pain; he saw Francisco's first moment of hesitation.
"Mr. Rearden, do you own any d'Anconia Copper stock?"
Rearden looked at him, bewildered. "No."
"Some day, you'll know what treason I'm committing right now, but . . . Don't ever buy any d'Anconia Copper stock. Don't ever deal with d'Anconia Copper in any way."
= = = =
But later on, Hank needs copper and guess who he goes to??
= = = =
Rearden smiled. "Not this time. This time, I'm dealing with a man I can trust."
"Really? Who is it?"
"You."
Francisco sat up straight. "What?" he asked, his voice so low that he almost succeeded in hiding the sound of a gasp.
Rearden was smiling. "You didn't know that I'm one of your customers now? It was done through a couple of stooges and under a phony name-but I'll need your help to prevent anyone on your staff from becoming inquisitive about it. I need that copper, I need it on time-and I don't care if they arrest me later, so long as I get this through. I know that you've lost all concern for your company, your wealth, your work, because you don't care to deal with looters like Taggart and Boyle. But if you meant all the things you taught me, if I am the last man left whom you respect, you'll help me to survive and to beat them. I've never asked for anyone's help. I'm asking for yours. I need you. I trust you. You've always professed your admiration for me. Well, there's my life in your hands-if you want it. An order of d'Anconia copper is being shipped to me right now. It left San Juan on December fifth."
"What?!" It was a scream of plain shock. Francisco had shot to his feet, past any attempt to hide anything. "On December fifth?"
"Yes," said Rearden, stupefied.
Francisco leaped to the telephone. "I told you not to deal with d'Anconia Copper!" It was the half-moaning, half-furious cry of despair. His hand was reaching for the telephone, but jerked back. He grasped the edge of the table, as if to stop himself from lifting the receiver, and he stood, head down, for how long a time neither he nor Rearden could tell. Rearden was held numb by the fact of watching an agonized struggle with the motionless figure of a man as its only evidence. He could not guess the nature of the struggle, he knew only that there was something which Francisco had the power to prevent in that moment and that it was a power which he would not use.
When Francisco raised his head, Rearden saw a face drawn by so great a suffering that its lines were almost an audible cry of pain, the more terrible because the face had a look of firmness, as if the decision had been made and this was the price of it.
"Francisco . . . what's the matter?"
"Hank, I . . . " He shook his head, stopped, then stood up straight. "Mr. Rearden," he said, in a voice that had the strength, the despair and the peculiar dignity of a plea he knew to be hopeless, "for the time when you're going to damn me, when you're going to doubt every word I said . . . I swear to you-by the woman I love-that I am your friend."
The memory of Francisco's face as it looked in that moment, came back to Rearden three days later, through a blinding shock of loss and hatred-it came back, even though, standing by the radio in his office, he thought that he must now keep away from the Wayne-Falkland or he would kill Francisco d'Anconia on sight-it kept coming back to him, through the words he was hearing-he was hearing that three ships of d'Anconia copper, bound from San Juan to New York, had been attacked by Ragnar Danneskjold and sent to the bottom of the ocean-it kept coming back, even though he knew that much more than the copper had gone down for him with those ships.
[...]
It was the first failure in the history of Rearden Steel. For the first time, an order was not delivered as promised.
= = = =
Oops.
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