What.

      Forgive my informal post this week, but I feel it is necessary, for Ayn Rand has caused me to briefly disregard all the thoughts, opinions, and questions accumulated from Parts I and II by completely throwing me off in Part III- on purpose, I presume. To put it poetically, Part II transitions into Part III with Dagny crashing right into the arms of the answer to the great question. Honestly, I find it hard to believe any of us doubted his existence by the 50^th time his name was mentioned. I think by bringing me back to the question “Who is John Galt?” more times than I could stomach was Rand’s method of making me believe he was real before I had written proof; now I know John Gault is tangible, handsome, and flawless, with “a face that bore no mark of pain or fear or guilt”- Dagny’s personal messiah (I am so sick of his name now that, for my own sake,  I will appropriately rename him in my blog posts). So, Mr. Perfect carries Dagny into an absolute utopia where she finds every single character that disappeared without any trace, and they could not be happier to see her. Dagny is confused, everyone finds it adorable, and she accepts all she sees to be true; I am confused, and at this point I’m convinced Dagny is dead, dreaming, or doped up on a medically-unsafe dosage of morphine in a hospital bed. Mr. Perfect then answers every annoying “dead-end” question encountered back in the real world, one by one, with every stop they make in this utopia: those mysterious alien dollar sign cigarettes, Halley’s 5^th concerto, the creator of the impossible engine- answered. To add to my personally amusing theory of this all being in Dagny’s comatose imagination, Mr. Perfect is also in love with her- shocking! I respect Dagny, but with this random switch of romantic feelings,  it has been revealed to me that Rand was not kidding when she described Dagny’s relationship with Rearden as purely animalistic, so I cannot help but feel Dagny is a bit of a strumpet (if she really is comatose, maybe I’ll forgive her). Dagny is now in a perfect world, home to the strikers of the dystopia she once knew, that I suppose I will have to accept as real if I want to make any sense of what is left of the novel.

      So what is the point of my rant? I cannot say I have one. I am merely venting my emotions from this week’s reading, and I have no formal way of writing it down. I am amused and confused, but I like it.