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The Objective Standard VOL. 12, NO. 4 • WINTER 2017–2018

New Ayn Rand Letters

(Previously Unpublished)

$14.95 U.S. / $21.95 CAN.

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 Thirteen Previously Unpublished
Letters of Ayn Rand
compiled by Michael Berliner

W hen Letters of Ayn Rand was published by Penguin in 1995, I made it

clear in my preface that these were not the only letters of Ayn Rand,
that there were, in fact, hundreds more in the Ayn Rand Archives
that were omitted for numerous reasons, such as repetition or, as in the case of the
many routine business letters, lack of special interest.
What I didn’t anticipate was that additional interesting letters would come to
light, but such has been the case over the past twenty-two years. The sources of
these “new” letters below are varied: discovered by researchers in the collections of
other institutions, sent to the archives by the recipients, found folded inside other
materials in the Ayn Rand papers, and some, I must admit, simply overlooked
by me.
In his introduction to the Letters book in 1995, Leonard Peikoff wrote that
he now had a follow-up answer when people ask him, “What was [Ayn Rand]
really like?” Previously, he would advise reading her novels, but now he could also
advise: “Read her letters.” I hope that these additions to her published letters will
reveal even more about what Ayn Rand was really like. —Michael Berliner

Michael Berliner is the founding executive director of the Ayn Rand Institute, served as cochairman
of ARI’s board of directors, and is currently senior adviser to the Ayn Rand Archives. He is editor
of Letters of Ayn Rand and Understanding Objectivism and taught philosophy and philosophy of
education for many years at California State University, Northridge.

12 The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 • www.TheObjectiveStandard.com

 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

To Sarah Lipton, one of the Chicago relatives with whom Ayn Rand
lived upon her arrival from Russia in 1926
November 27, 1932
Dear Mrs. Lipton:
I was very, very happy to hear from you. Please forgive me for delaying my answer
for such a long time. I have lots to tell you.
I have written to Mrs. Stone [another Chicago relative] several times, but I
did not get any answer. I do hope the family isn’t angry at me for something. I
hope you don’t think I am terribly ungrateful. I have not forgotten all that the
family has done for me—nor will I ever forget it. I also remember that I owe a big
debt—and I think I’ll soon be able to begin to repay it. I think—and hope—that
I’m going to get on my feet now.
I’ve had a pretty hard time. However, I shouldn’t complain, for I have had a job
all through this depression. That newspaper article you sent me just about covers all
the essential news about me—except that they didn’t get straight the story about
how I met Cecil DeMille. They had that wrong. But I did work in the wardrobe
at RKO—for over three years. It was not a bad job—not sewing (for I still can’t
sew a stitch), but in the wardrobe office. I wasn’t getting very much money—but
enough to carry on. The work was quite hard—nerve wracking—a lot of details,
a lot of rushes, excitement, and—quite frequently—a lot of overtime. Besides, I
had to keep house—try to cook, and wash dishes, and such—at night. But I simply
could not give up writing. I came to America to write—and I had not forgotten
that. That’s something I’ll never give up. But it was pretty much of a problem—I
didn’t have very much time to write and when I did find an hour or two at night,
I was so tired that I could hardly get any ideas, my head felt too heavy—and one
can’t do one’s best work after hours and hours in a studio wardrobe (the messiest
department of a studio). Sometimes, I got up at 5:30 or 6 a.m.—to write a few
hours before going to work. All this time I’ve been working on a novel—a real
big novel I want to write—about Russia. But I found that advancing as slowly as
I did—it would have taken me too long to complete a novel. So—last spring—I
wrote two scenarios. I want to try and sell them—and get enough money to live
without working for a while—and finish the novel.
You know how hard it is to sell an original story—especially for an unknown
writer—and especially since the talkies. I was lucky enough to get a very prominent
firm of agents [Myron Selznick] interested in the stories. They liked them, agreed
to handle them and—sold one of them—“Red Pawn.” It’s a story about Russia—

The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 13

compiled by Michael Berliner

and I always have the advantage of saying that I know the subject. All the studios
here were interested in Russian stories, but have had trouble finding any, so that
helped me.
Universal bought the story for their star Tala Birell, and signed me on a
two-months contract—to write the adaptation or treatment of the story. I did
the treatment and also the continuity, that is, the final, shooting script. And I am
happy to say that they are very pleased. Right now, they are looking for a director
for my story, that is, they have not selected one, yet. As soon as they do, the story
will go into production—and I do hope it won’t be long.
My contract expired, but they liked my work so well, evidently, that they
kept me on and gave me another assignment. I have to do the continuity or screen
play for a story of theirs, called “Black Pearls.” It is a picture of the South Seas.
Several writers have tried to adapt it, but the studio was not satisfied. It’s quite a
difficult story to adapt. Now, I’ve got it. I had quite a few headaches over it, but I
think I’ve solved the difficulty. At least, I outlined my idea to the supervisor and he
liked it very much. So now I’m writing the script and I hope they’ll like it.
I have not signed another contract, yet—am waiting to see what they’ll do
about my “Red Pawn.” If it goes over—I’ll, probably, get a good contract. As a
beginner, I’m not getting very much money at present, but it’s more than in the
wardrobe and it was worth taking to get a start.
Of course, I don’t have to tell you how thrilled and happy I am over it all. I
was beginning to think that all my friends will lose all faith in me. It has taken
me quite a long time. But I hope that the most difficult part of the struggle is over,
now. Such is my “professional” life. As to my home life—I am still as happy as
ever—even happier if such a thing is possible. Frank is simply wonderful. I wish
you could meet him. I do hope I’ll see you before many more years pass. If I ever
get established as a real writer—I’ll take a trip back east. And how about yourself?
Do you ever contemplate another visit to California?
By the way, if you’re curious about Frank, you can see him in a picture called
Three on a Match. He has just the tiniest bit in it—but it’s a good, long closeup
of him. It’s along towards the beginning of the picture, there are a series of news
flashes there and you’ll see the closeup of a man listening in on a radio—with old-
fashioned ear-phones on, or whatever you call them, you know, a radio apparatus
that you put on your ears to listen in. Well, that’s Frank. If you happen to see the
picture, take a look at my husband. . . .
I am waiting for a nice long letter from you with all the news about the family.
How is everybody? How are the children? They must be all grown up now.

14 The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 • www.TheObjectiveStandard.com

 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

I’ll close this long letter, before you get tired of reading my terrible handwriting.
Please give my love to Mr. and Mrs. Stone, Mr. Lipton, Bee and everybody in
the family. And please give me Mrs. Stone’s address, I would like to write to her.
I thank you very, very much for still remembering me—and I hope to hear
from you soon.
Lots of love—

To Sinclair Lewis, American novelist and playwright

This undated letter to Sinclair Lewis exists only in handwritten form. It is not known if Ayn Rand ever sent it to
Lewis, and the relevant Lewis papers were lost in a 1989 fire. She later met Lewis backstage after a performance
of one of his plays and received from him an inscribed (with “Love”) copy of It Can’t Happen Here.

Dear Mr. Lewis,

Being a writer—and the greatest one living—you may understand me when I
say that the most important things, the most real ones, and particularly, the most
sacred are the hardest ones to express. After so many years of so much that I would
like to say to you I find that I can say nothing. I would like to say that you are
the last hope in a revolting, pointless mess called literature, the only living mind
I’ve heard, the best god of the very religious atheist that I am, the best hero of an
embittered and incurable hero worshipper who believes in nothing on earth expect
heroes. But all this sounds like pretty loud flattery—and there is no other way of
saying it. I cannot give my words the strength they need—the certainty that I
mean every one of them. I can say it. I can’t prove it. I can only hope that perhaps
you will believe it.
I know also that the mere fact of my trying to say it to you is presumptuous,
since you have heard all this before, and more of it, and you must be very tired
of hearing it. That I have wanted so much to say it, for such a long time, and it
means so much to me, that I am saying (1) even taking the chance that you will
not understand it as I mean it or (2) understanding it, will not care. I cannot expect
you to care. But I do know that if, at the height of my own career, I could find
one person to whom my work meant as much as yours does to me, I would like to
know it.
I cannot tell you here all that I think of It Can’t Happen Here. If there is an author
I like, besides yourself, it’s Berzelius Windrip and his “Zero Hour.” I have never
read anything that approaches for sheer genius those little quotations at the head of
your chapters, that gives one, quicker and clearer than any political dissertations,

The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 15

compiled by Michael Berliner

the very essence of modern mob spirit. As one of the millions who owe you a
profound gratitude for this book, I would like to thank you for writing it.
Please forgive me if this letter seems a little melodramatic to you. But I
cannot help feeling that everything deeply felt has to be a little melodramatic,
simply because it isn’t being done as a rule. And I must thank you—as deeply and
melodramatically as I can—for the book you gave me—and for your inscription.
I shall try to live up to it someday.
Gratefully,
P.S. I do not lose my heroworship very easily—if at all.

To Melville Cane, Ayn Rand’s attorney and an award-winning poet

February 15, 1936
Dear Mr. Cane:
My deepest gratitude for your book and still more for the rare pleasure your poems
have given me. I do not know whether you will understand me when I say that
I love poetry so much that I never read it. I think that poetry is the highest and
most exacting of arts, therefore it should be perfect—or nothing. And it is perfect
so seldom. But your work is perfect and I appreciate profoundly the privilege you
have given me of reading it.
There is one verse in particular which I would like, presumptuously perhaps, to
see used as my epitaph some day. No, I won’t tell you which one.1 Presumptuously
again, I hope that you may try to guess it. You will probably see through it, so I
may as well confess that it is a feminine legal trick to leave myself an opening for
an opportunity to see you and tell you in person how much I admire your work.
Since the book was sent to me from my lawyer when he isn’t a lawyer, I will not
attempt here to thank you for your help in matters that were anything but poetic.
But I do thank you for your work in the realm that is so far above courtrooms and
arbitrations.2
Sincerely,

16 The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 • www.TheObjectiveStandard.com

 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

To James Cleary, the court-appointed arbiter in the case Rand

brought against A. W. Woods, producer of Night of January 16th
on Broadway
April 8, 1936
Dear Mr. Cleary,
This is only a very inadequate way of expressing my profound gratitude to you
for your help, understanding and sense of justice. I must admit that I was quite
frightened when I faced the arbitration, not only because of what was involved,
but because it was my first encounter with law and I felt that, should I lose, I would
also lose all faith in justice and carry a sense of bitterness throughout the rest of
my life. You have spared me this, and nothing I can say will ever express all my
gratitude to you.
Since my novel We the Living is the thing most precious to me and the only
achievement of which I can feel proud, I am taking the liberty of sending it to you
as a token of my deepest appreciation. Perhaps it will help you to forget that I ever
wrote Night of January 16, which, in its present form, I can hardly consider a credit
to any reputation I may have as a writer. And I would like you to remember me as
something more than the author of what had once been a good play.
Thanking you again for your kindness, firmness, and patience, I am
Gratefully yours,

To Abe and Sarah Satrin (formerly Sarah Lipton)

June 4, 1936
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Satrin:
I hope you’ll excuse me for my long silence again, but Mr. Satrin knows how
busy I am here and I feel you’ll forgive me. What Mr. Satrin has seen here is
nothing compared to how busy I’ve been lately, since he left. It’s been nothing but
appointments, interviews, public-speech-making and so on. I enjoy it all a lot, but
it does take all my time.
First of all, I want to thank Mrs. Satrin for liking my book.3 I was very happy
to hear all the nice things you said about it in your last letter. And I am glad to
think that you believe the book justifies all the trouble you’ve had in bringing me
to this country and in keeping me here. I often think of this, but the book is only
my beginning. From now on, I think it will be easier and you won’t have to wait
ten years to hear of my success.

The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 17

compiled by Michael Berliner

I was shocked and terribly sorry to hear of Mr. Satrin’s troubles on the way to
Chicago and then of the accident in Chicago on top of it all. The only thing I can
say is that I’m glad you were not hurt, it could have been much worse. I hope that
this will be the end of such bad luck for you and that things will turn for the better
from now on.
Frank and I miss Mr. Satrin very much. I still hope that perhaps we will all
meet again in California this winter.

Two letters to Marcella Rabwin, a neighbor of Ayn Rand’s at an

apartment building across the street from RKO, where they both
worked in 1929–1932
Rabwin (then Bannett) was instrumental in two of Rand’s works: the story “Red Pawn,” which, Rabwin
relates elsewhere, she persuaded an agent friend of hers to sell, enabling Rand to quit her wardrobe job at RKO
and write full-time; and The Fountainhead, whose theme and the character of second-hander Peter Keating
were inspired by a comment Rabwin made about wanting a car only if others didn’t have one.

February 12, 1937

Dear Marcella,
I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your “review” of my book. I appreciate
deeply not only your kind opinion of it, but also the fact that you let me know
about it. I am very, very happy to know that you liked it so much, and your letter
gives me a great encouragement for the future.
I must only reprimand you for saying that your opinion at this late stage can’t
have any “importance for me.” You know that I have valued your opinion very
highly always. Besides, I have not forgotten that you have, in a way, “discovered”
me, in helping me to sell my first story “Red Pawn.” I will always be grateful to
you for that, and if you like my work, it makes me very happy to think that I have
justified your interest in me at the very beginning of my “career” when I had never
sold a single story.
If you like the background of We the Living, you must realize why I hate Soviet
Russia and why I have always been rather violent on that subject. You can see what
I have lived through. Of course, the story and plot of the book are purely fictional.
(It is not my autobiography, as some reviewers thought.) But the background and
living conditions are all true, as I have seen them. In fact, when people ask me
whether things in Russia are really as bad as I described them, I always say, no, they
are not as bad, they’re much worse. I did have to tone down on the background—
to make the book readable at all.

18 The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 • www.TheObjectiveStandard.com

 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

No, you didn’t “injure my first born” when you compared the book to January
16th. I know there can be no comparison between them. Personally, I think
January 16th is a piece of trash, particularly after Al Woods got through with it.
I never thought much of the play when compared to the book. I really did work
on the book, to the best of my ability. The play—I wrote in two months. It made
money—that’s all I can say for it. And I hope it will be forgotten. It’s not the kind
of writing I want to be known by.
As to your questions: do I ever think of you? Of course, I do. I heard from
Mrs. Eppes [Rabwin’s mother] a few weeks ago and I wrote to her shortly before I
received your letter. I miss you a great deal and I am getting to be very homesick
for Hollywood. But as to when I’ll be able to come back—I don’t know at all. There
is too much business holding me here. I have recently finished the dramatization
of We the Living for a producer who read the book and wants to do it on the stage.
It will be done on Broadway early in the fall, so I have to stay here until then.
Also, I’ve gone slightly crazy and entered the producing field myself. I’ve taken an
option on a play [“Comes the Revolution”] by an unknown young author [Walter
Abbott], and I’m going to produce it, if I can get the proper backing. I have never
had any desire to be a producer, but this play is a work of genius and I think I’ve
discovered a great writer. I’d like to help him, and if all goes well, I’ll have his play
on Broadway by September.
There are many other things that have held me tied to New York. We the
Living just came out in England, got very good reviews. I wanted to go there for
its appearance, but all the theatrical business is here. Between times, I’m working
slowly on a new novel. No, not about Russia. There will be no single Russian or
Communist in it. Strictly about America and New York. I feel very enthusiastic
about this new undertaking, but it will be a long and difficult one. Next fall, I do
hope to be able to come back and get a Hollywood job. I love New York, but it’s
nerve-wrecking [sic].
Frank has been working in summer theaters here. Incidentally, he played
“Guts” Regan in January 16th in summer stock, did it very well. I’m keeping him
for a part in my new play on Broadway. We thought we could make it this season,
but it is too late now.
As to my family, I am trying to arrange for them to come here, but it is a
long, difficult process, there are many formalities to go through in order to get a
passport. Now it is my turn to ask questions. Do you plan to go away permanently
to South America? You mention it in passing in your letter. And have you given
up the studios for good? If you have, I think the studios lost a grand executive, but

The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 19

compiled by Michael Berliner

I am happy for you if you can get a rest, which you always needed, and I’m glad
to know that you’re happy in your marriage. If you come to New York in June,
I certainly hope that you’ll have time to call on me. I would like so much to see
you again.
Frank joins me in our best wishes to you and your husband.
Once more, many, many thanks to you—
Affectionately,

October 14, 1937

•
Dear Marcella:
I was delighted to hear from you and to know that you haven’t forgotten me. You
say that you have been in the midst of furnishing a house, and I am precisely in
the same position right now. I have spent the summer in Connecticut and have just
moved back to New York. We have taken an unfurnished apartment and are now
driven mad with problems of furniture, of which we have two beds and a table at
the present moment. But the rest is coming, and, so far, we are very pleased with
our new place. It seems much nicer than the furnished apartments one can get in
New York.
It looks as if we’ll stay here for some time to come. There are no immediate
prospects for our return to Hollywood, and I have two plays on my hands, which,
if all goes well, may be produced this season. One is a new play [“Ideal”] I finished
this summer. The other—my adaptation of We the Living. You ask me about its
production. Well, Jerome Mayer, who had it, has dropped his option on it recently,
and for a very sad reason: he is afraid of producing an anti-Soviet play. When
taking the option, he had assured me that he was not afraid of it, but he has a great
many Red friends and they got the best of him. I am somewhat indignant about it,
because it appears as if the Reds have established a nice little unofficial censorship
of their own, and it is very hard to get ahead with anything anti-Communistic.
But we shall see what we shall see. Right now, I have a very big producer interested
in the play and expect to hear from him definitely within the week. If the politics
do not stop him, he would be much better for the play than Jerome Mayer could
have been.
This, then, is an account of my activities. But how about you? You mention in
your letter that you are working in the daytime, but you do not say where and how
etc. I notice by the letter head that you must be back with Selznick International.

20 The Objective Standard • Winter 2017–2018 • www.TheObjectiveStandard.com

 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

What are you doing now? How do you like it? I would like to know, for I am
rather glad to hear that you are back at work. I have always felt that you were too
good an executive to retire from the picture business.
Frank joins me in sending our best regards to your husband and to Mrs. Eppes.
Our love to you always.

To Walter Abbott, a playwright and young friend of Rand’s

Dear Mr. Abbott,
Thank you for the clipping about Night of Jan. 16th. I was very glad to receive
it from you, because it shows that you know I haven’t forgotten you, in spite of
my long silence. At least, I hope you do. Ever since your last letter, way back this
summer, I have been trying to do something about getting some pull to get for
you one of those scholarships you mentioned, or some form of scholarship, but I
haven’t had any luck. I’m afraid my pulls are not so good, and I’m not so good at
getting any.
I have been hoping to hear that someone has had the good sense to produce
“A Better Day,” but I am really beginning to think that people either have good
taste or money. They don’t come with both any more, in this damned century. I
also had another hope, but nothing has come of it: I thought that if We the Living
were produced, I would have enough money of my own, to do your play, if it were
still available. You see, I am both optimistic and conceited. And I still think that
“A Better Day” is the best play I have ever read in English, my own and everybody
else’s dramas included. But I’m still sitting and waiting—for a better day, literally
and figuratively. We the Living has not been done yet (troubles both casting and
political). There is a good chance of its going on next season. But you can see for
yourself how uncertain everything is on Broadway. So I can do nothing but wait
and hope.
And I HOPE that you have NOT seen Night of Jan. 16th in Cleveland. I
think I’ve told you how ashamed I am of the damn thing. In the first place, it was
mutilated by Woods here, so that the New York production script was bad enough.
But what is worse, I understand that in Cleveland they used not the Broadway but
the amateur version of the play. And that is something to blush about and to crawl
under the waste basket. It was “edited” by the publishers, Longmans Green, to suit
the demands of the church and school acting groups. It was censored and “cleaned
up” and castrated. If, God forbid, you saw it, you can’t even know what’s mine in it
and what is everybody else’s. And collective creation never creates anything except

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a shameful mess. The jury gag and a vague outline of the plot in general is about
all that is left in the amateur version from what the play really was. So, if you saw
it, don’t hold it against me. Forgive and forget.
What are you doing now? What has happened to the play on married life that
you mentioned writing this summer? I am sorry to hear that you are trying to go
commercial, you who have so much real talent, but I can’t take it upon myself to
blame you, in view of the reception you got on your magnificent work and in view
of the trash that is being produced every day here. They flop, they close one after
the other, but there is always more coming. The public doesn’t want it, but it seems
that that’s what the producers want. I’ll have to lose thousands out of my own
pocket before I will be convinced that there is no audience for a play like yours.
And even then I won’t be convinced. Oh, to hell with them all! Our day will come
yet. Then we’ll have the pleasure of telling all the B. . . s “we told you so.”
But don’t go commercial more than once, if you have to. Have you done any
real work? Have you any prospects of coming to New York? Or is it still a question
of a job?
I do want to hear from you. Don’t hold my long silences against me. I’m one
of those writers that have a horror of writing letters. When I’m working I just can’t
coordinate my ideas on anything else, such as writing a coherent letter. Not that I
don’t want to, I try, but I give up. Then I take time off from work and concentrate
on letters. I’m a one track mind. Then all my friends hear from me at once. If you
can understand and tolerate such a system, let me hear from you, when you can. I
won’t always be such an unreliable correspondent about answering.
I have been very busy this summer and ever since. Finished a new play—no
news on that so far. Finished a novelette—a short novel—and sold it already in
England. It will come out there this spring. Now I’m working on a new novel, a
tremendous one, about 400,000 words long and taking in a span of fifteen years,
I judge. It’s about American architects. I spent over two months this winter,
working as a typist in an architect’s office, without salary, for the experience. Got
great material, too.
Frank asks me specially to say hello to you for him and to send you his best
regards. My ex-partner Albert [Mannheimer] is in Hollywood, got himself signed
on a long term writing contract.
With all my best wishes,
Sincerely

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 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

To Ann Watkins, Ayn Rand’s agent

May 17, 1941
Dear Ann:
This is in answer to your letter of May 13th. I am afraid that our present situation
is the kind of thing that happens when one allows others to step into a deal of
which they are not an essential part. I find it simply impossible to deal with Miss
Sorsby—and so we must clarify our position personally between you and me.
First, let me re-state in writing our conversation and agreement made verbally
on April 21st. You remember that I asked you then for a written confirmation and
you assured me that it was not necessary between us, since both of us would live up
to our word. I still believe this of both of us. So I record our conversation to keep
our agreement completely clear.
It was not, as you state in your letter, my request that you discontinue to
represent me in the placing of my play. I intended to do that, of course, but when I
came into your office—it was you who started the conversation by saying that you
thought it would be best if I handled the play myself. So, it would be fairer to say
that we terminated our deal by mutual agreement—and not by a one-sided desire
on your part or mine, with the first suggestion coming from you. Then you said
that you wished nothing but to help me sell this play and that anything I did to sell
it would be most welcome to you; that you had no desire to make any difficulties
or claims; in short, that you were turning the play over to me completely. Then, it
was I who mentioned the Paramount deal and said that should my new agent find
a producer who wished to use Paramount backing and should Paramount give him
the partial backing you said they had promised—my new agent would give you 2½
per cent of the agency commission. I made this offer myself, voluntarily, without
your request and not by way of bargaining. I felt that if the Paramount deal was
a concrete, definite deal negotiated by you and if it helped the sale of the play to a
producer—the new agent should give you a share, although, of course, you know
that an author pays a commission only on the sale of a play to a producer, not on
the finding of a backer; an author has nothing to do with the financial backing of a
play and no commission for financing is ever paid to an author. You did not ask me
for this offer—I made it myself. And you accepted. You said that you had always
found me fair and honest in financial matters—and such was our agreement on
the play.
Now, as to my novel [The Fountainhead], I had no desire or intention to take
that away from you. I wanted to have you continue as my agent on the novel,

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because it was being handled personally by you and Margot [Johnson]—and I had
confidence in both of you. I did not hold against you in any way the fact that the
novel had not yet been sold—because I knew you had both done your best and I
realize the difficulties connected with that novel perhaps even better than you do.
But when I asked you whether you wished to continue with the novel, you told me
you did not. You said that you did not want to handle the novel further because I
made it impossible for you to sell it. When I asked “Why?” you answered—here
are your exact words, Ann, I remember them because they made a deep impression
on me and I’ll remember them all my life—“Why? Why? You always ask me why.
I can’t answer you. I don’t go by reasons, I act upon instinct.” That, Ann, was
the epitaph on our relations. There was nothing I could say after that. Words are
an instrument of reason, and instincts are unanswerable. So our interview ended
right there, and this was our understanding on the novel. You added only that you
wished to continue to represent Night of January 16th and such rights in my other
things as you had sold.
This, then, is a complete account of our conversation and agreement. You will
not find one statement in it which is incorrect in any way, if you carefully recall
the conversation yourself.
Since then I sent you a formal letter stating the terms of our agreement. I
believe you resented the fact that I did not mention the 2½ per cent in [the] case of
the Paramount deal. I did not mention it, because that was not a condition of our
agreement. The agreement was that the play returns to me completely. The 2½ per
cent was my own offer—subject to the new agent finding a producer who wished
to use the Paramount deal. Since then, I have found that there is no Paramount
deal; that is, when the new agent found a producer who was interested and who
approached Paramount—the studio said that they had not committed themselves
at all, that they would only send a script of the play to the West Coast and that
they would probably agree to furnish half the backing. So none of us knows at
present how this will come out and whether there even will be any Paramount
deal to discuss. It is possible that we are disagreeing over nothing. My point at
present is only that legally you have returned my play to me without any further
claims upon it by you. I made no agreement with my new agent until after I had
spoken to you on April 21st. Then I made the agreement with her on the basis of
my agreement with you. And that is the agreement by which we all must abide
now in all fairness.
I do not doubt your honesty in this matter. But what I do resent is that
Miss Sorsby then tried to step in by telephoning me several times and by taking

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 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

the attitude that she had to bargain with me over terms, particularly over the
Paramount deal. I had never dealt before with Miss Sorsby personally and I had
never even considered her as my agent on the play. YOU were my agent, and any
connection she had with the play was only as your representative or assistant, not
mine. I resented—violently and emphatically—her attempt to bargain with me
the last time she telephoned me. When I stated to her that you and I had already
reached a definite agreement, she took the position which amounted to calling me
a liar, an attitude of “well, it’s your word against mine.” Do you see what happens
when a third party steps in? I don’t know what she thought or why, but I think it
was simply a matter of the kind of mess that happens when conversations have to
be held in a three-cornered way. That is why I insist that Miss Sorsby be kept out
of it—since she was not in it from the beginning—and if you wish to discuss this
further, it must be done personally between you and me.
This, then, is the business side of the matter. Now I’d like to take a little time
on the personal side of it—because I think I can make it clearer to you in a letter
than in conversation. You will have time to consider it without hurry and form
your own opinion.
I want to repeat here once more that any criticism I might make of anyone
in your office does not constitute a criticism of you personally. I think that your
attitude on this point lies at the root of all our troubles. You have never done this
before—and for many years our relations have been more than merely those of
author-and-agent; we have been very good friends and we have had no trouble of
any kind. But now you seem to have taken the position that’s best described by the
old saying of “love me—love my dog.” I don’t mean this in any insulting manner,
but I think you understand what this saying implies. You seem to have taken it as a
personal insult to you or as lack of confidence in you if I criticized anyone in your
office. And yet you know that no executive, however able, can always be right
in the selection of his associates. The best and wisest make mistakes some times
and to admit it is no detriment to you in any manner. But whenever I mentioned
specific things which Miss Sorsby had done and of which I didn’t approve, you did
not even do me the justice and courtesy of investigating the case on its merits and
accepting my views or pointing out to me my error. Instead, you simply showed
such bitter resentment, almost hatred, that I had no choice left but to leave you.
This was one of the main reasons. Do you wish an example? I asked you whose
idea it was to send the script of my play to Lionel Stander. You said it was your
own—and you were very angry at me for asking. When, over the telephone, I
asked the same question of Miss Sorsby, she said it had been her idea—as, of course,

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I had known all along. I have too much respect for your literary judgment to
have believed that you would have done such a stupid thing. I have mentioned
this submission to several experienced theatrical people. They laughed in my face.
Now wouldn’t it have been fairer for you to investigate, ask other people in the
theater and form your own opinion on whether such a submission had been wise or
dignified? But you did not do this. You preferred to take my doubt of Miss Sorsby
as an insult to you. That, of course, is your privilege. If you enjoy the thought that
I have no confidence in you and have insulted you—you are free to think it. But if
such a thought is not pleasant to you—and after the kind of relationship we have
had for years, I don’t think that you can find it pleasant—then I want to say here
that it is not so. I never doubted you personally or your intentions toward me. I
do doubt Miss Sorsby’s efficiency. If you wish to make it one—well, I can’t help it.
But I don’t accept it in this way.
To finish with the subject of Miss Sorsby, I want to say also that I have nothing
against her as a person—since I do not know anything about her. I am willing to
believe that she is honestly doing the best she can. But I do know that she is totally
inexperienced as a literary agent. I suspect that she has never sold a single play.
This does not mean that she may not become an excellent agent eventually. But
it does mean that she needs practice and experience—like a beginner in any line,
no matter what latent ability she might possess. And I am not in a position to be
the guinea-pig in the case. Particularly since Miss Sorsby has shown no desire to
understand my view-point or even to inquire about it during the time that the play
was in your office. Granting that she has to learn the business—how will she ever
learn it if your clients are not allowed to point out her mistakes? If you do not wish
to see mistakes corrected and only resent the client for complaining? Do you see
how unfair this is—both to the client and to Miss Sorsby herself?
I don’t know whether this has become your attitude towards all your clients or
only towards me. I simply don’t know what to think of your attitude toward me
for the last year. The change in you began since the failure of The Unconquered. I
don’t think that that was the reason. But I think it started something in your mind
against me—doubt, weariness, or what—I don’t know. It became worse when I
worked in the Willkie Campaign. I tried to take the American attitude that each
man is entitled to his own opinions, and that our political differences have nothing
to do with our relations. You know that politics are an important issue to me, but
I never felt any resentment against your political viewpoint and, in all honesty,
I know that I never gave you cause to believe I felt such resentment. But I felt
resentment in your attitude toward me, a bitter, quiet sort of resentment. Whether

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 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

it was because I supported Willkie or whether there were other reasons—I don’t
know. I noticed only that the question of Willkie was always brought up by you
and always bitterly or sarcastically. I didn’t know what to think. I spent a year
making my own apologies for some of the things you said to me. I kept saying
to myself that you didn’t mean it the way it sounded—and what did it have to do
with our relations and with business? And then the time came when I couldn’t do
it any longer—and so I had to leave. I still don’t understand what exactly happened
between us.
But I think that something has happened in your own life, something that
has made you very unhappy—and it has changed your whole attitude toward
things and people. I don’t know what it is. I know only that if it were I who had
disappointed you in some manner—you would have told me so frankly. You
would have had facts and reasons and stated them to me and given me a chance to
explain and listened to my explanations. But you never did. In fact, the thing that
was hardest for me was that I noticed your desire to avoid any serious conversation
with me. Instead, you really tried to go on and do your best for me—with the
most frightening sort of resentment growing in you against me. I believe in all
sincerity that you honestly tried. I even think that you didn’t want to show the
resentment and tried to hide it. But I felt it. More and more every time I saw you.
That’s what made it so baffling for me. I still ask: Why? An instinct? What instinct,
Ann? Even instincts have reasons behind them.
You know, Ann, business is business, but aren’t there other things besides that
are important in life also? You have many clients who bring you more money than
I did, but you’ve never had one who was as devoted to you, who had the complete,
enthusiastic, personal faith in you that I had. You know the kind of earnest person
I am. And you were something serious to me, serious and important besides any
questions of business. One doesn’t find that sort of feeling often in life—nor a
person for whom one can feel it. I know you wouldn’t want to destroy that—just
like that, without any reason. There must be a reason. What was it? To me—this
is a funeral. The funeral of a person who meant a great deal to me. I am really
writing this to the Ann Watkins I met five years ago. I think she would have
wanted to understand. And, perhaps, you still care to understand. I even admit the
possibility that you might feel exactly the same way about me—that it was I who
let you down. But if so—why don’t you say it? Why don’t you explain it—for your
own sake, if not for mine? Do you really think that one should end a relationship
such as ours with a reference to an “instinct”—and nothing else?

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Now, to come back to your letter, your saying that I “regard this office in the
light of dirty kikes or reds” is just another little example of the whole situation.
Wouldn’t it have been fairer to ask me about my side of the conversation with Miss
Sorsby before you made conclusions and quotations? I did not refer to your office as
“kikes” or “reds.” I merely told Miss Sorsby the story of our old friend Satenstein
and told her what I thought of agents who tried to get unearned commissions.
Which is what she was trying to do—on the old Satenstein technique of “your
word against mine.” If she represents the attitude of your office—then you make
the definition, not I. but I still don’t think that she does. It was not your attitude
when I saw you last. That is why I don’t even consider your last letter as coming
from you. I think you let her talk you into it—without taking the time to think it
out. You state that you wrote me another letter, but changed your mind after you
spoke to her. That, Ann, is the whole story. You have never acted like a Satenstein
type of agent before. Why do you want to let someone else try to do it in your
name? If you are not clear on the situation, why not investigate—yourself and
in person?
You close your letter by saying that you regret there should be in the end
repeated misunderstandings between us. That is exactly my own feeling. If you
really mean it, if you do regret misunderstandings—please let us clear them
up. I am more than willing. But any problem can be cleared up only in person,
directly and on the basis of facts. If you wish to tell me your reasons for your
changed attitude toward me—I’ll be more than willing to listen. But it must be a
sincere conversation, Ann. Without resentment, without generalities and without
“instincts.” What do any of us know about instincts? What do they mean? What
do they prove? Only language can be a means of communication between people
and a means of understanding. Words, thoughts, reasons. If we drop them—we
will have nothing but misunderstandings left. If we want to face things honestly
and reasonably, we can still end up as friends, and I think we both deserve that
much—after the years we have behind us.
Sincerely,
P.S. I am sending a copy of this letter to Margot—because she has been extremely
nice to me and I want her to know the reasons for my leaving.

Editorial Postscript: The Ayn Rand Archives contains no written response from Ann Watkins. However, her
agency continued to handle Night of January 16th and the foreign rights to The Fountainhead, though
Rand’s particular agents were people other than Watkins. Rand’s daily calendars contain several entries for
phone calls or meetings with Ann Watkins from 1943 to 1948.

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 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

To Dr. Vera Guzarchik Glarner, Ayn Rand’s first cousin, who left
Russia before the war and was living in Switzerland
The letter below is a translation of a draft handwritten by Ayn Rand in Russian and was translated by Dina
Schein Federman. Mrs. Glarner answered Rand’s final version on December 21, 1945.

December 2, 1945
Dear Vera:
I am writing to find out where you are and how you are. I hope very much that
you have survived the war without too much awful suffering and that this letter
will reach you.
Do you need help? Money or medicines or food? My acquaintances here send
packages with food to their friends in Europe. I know that the situation over there
is terrible. Write me whether I could help you. I would be very happy to help in
any way I can—and this will not be difficult for me to do now.
I will not write details about myself, for I do not know whether you will
receive this letter. I will say only that I am doing very well. I am now a famous
writer here and, after many years, I have achieved everything that I wished
to achieve.
I haven’t had a word from our family in Russia since 1938. If you know
something about them, do not write me about it now. I am afraid to know and do
not wish to ask questions. I am waiting for the day when it would be possible to
learn something from Russia with certainty—and to send them aid. I am afraid
to hear something that would be impossible to ascertain and about which I would
not be able to do anything.
Please write me about yourself and tell me whether I could help you.
Kisses.

To Senator Joseph McCarthy, the controversial senator who headed

investigations into Communist influence in America
This letter was written eight days after Ayn Rand penned (but possibly did not send) the following note to Sen.
McCarthy: “Congratulations on your support of Dr. J. B. Matthews. Please do not permit an expert enemy
of Communism to be penalized for fighting Communism.” There is no evidence of any letter from McCarthy
to Miss Rand.

July 12, 1953

Dear Senator McCarthy:

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compiled by Michael Berliner

I have been an admirer and supporter of your fight against Communism for many
years. I have argued in your defense every time I heard anyone attack you in my
presence, and, in spite of the tremendous smear campaign against you, I have
always won every argument, because truth, fact and logic were on your side. Now,
regretfully, I will not be able to consider myself your supporter nor to defend
you any longer. I think that you might want to know my reasons, so I will state
them here, because I believe that this, in essence, will be the attitude of all of your
sincere followers, though they may not be able to give a coherent expression to
their feelings.
I am shocked and stunned by your betrayal of J. B. Matthews. By dismissing
him from his post, you have accomplished what the Daily Worker and all the pinks
or semi-pinks have not been able to accomplish, namely: you have publicly branded
Dr. Matthews as an irresponsible demagogue whose investigations of Communism
are not to be trusted.
Yet you know, and we all know, by this public record, that Dr. Matthews is
the most thorough, reliable and conscientious investigator of Communism known
to the public in this country. By your action you have disarmed and discredited
him, and you have invalidated all of his past or future activities. From now on,
if Dr. Matthews attempts, as a private citizen, to fight against Communism, the
whole force of the Leftists will be unleashed against him in a single smear-phrase:
“He’s the man whom even Senator McCarthy had to fire as unreliable!”
A few months from now, the details of the issue will be forgotten, Dr. Matthews’
article will be forgotten, the average man will have no way to check on the truth
or falsity of the charge—but the above smear will remain and stick, because it is
fact. You did dismiss Dr. Matthews for his attack against Communism. This is the
kind of burden you have placed upon one of your best supporters and fighters.
The liberals have been accusing you of “character assassination” and smear
tactics. These charges have not damaged you in the eyes of the voters, because
these charges were not true. Ironically enough, the Matthews case is the first time
that you have committed an act of “character assassination” in the exact sense
of the liberals’ charges: you have destroyed a man’s reputation, without inquiry,
hearing or regard for the truth or falsity of the attack against him—and you
have perpetrated this injustice, not against a Leftist, but against one of your best
conservatives, not for the crime of supporting the Communists, but for the crime
of attacking them.
You have set a precedent which makes any exposé of Communism, by private
writers or by your own Committee, impossible in the future. You have accepted

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 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

the principle that an attack upon individual members of a profession is an attack

upon the profession as a whole. On this basis, any pro-Communist whom anyone
exposes in the future will be justified in rallying to his support the whole profession
to which he belongs. If he is a writer or a plumber, he will be able to convince the
public that an attack on him is an attack upon all writers or plumbers. He will
lean on the authority, not of Earl Browder or Alger Hiss, but on the authority of
Senator Joseph R. McCarthy. How, then, do you expect any anti-Communist to
be able to continue the fight?
The only question in this whole issue is: Was Dr. Matthews’ article true or
false? You have given him no hearing. You have not proved that his article was
false or unwarranted. Therefore, the only conclusion one can draw from your
action is this: you have dismissed a fighter against Communism because he has
attacked persons too powerful to challenge.
What value, meaning, sense or dignity is there left in your fight after this?
What honest investigator would care to work for you—once it is made clear that
he may investigate only those whom it is safe to expose, but will be broken and
betrayed the moment he exposes something truly damaging to the Communists?
What confidence can we, the voters, have in any future exposé undertaken by
your Committee—when it looks as if you are apparently free to fight only by the
consent and permission of the very enemy whom you are fighting—when it looks
as if you will be permitted to play at small skirmishes, but will be stopped the
moment you attack any truly vulnerable spot? If this is your position, then your
fight will not merely be ineffectual, but will actively help the enemy. Your fight
will become a screen for the enemy. It will give the country the impression that
Communists are being watched and exposed, while, in fact, a few office boys will
be exposed, but the tops will be left safely free to function. If this is your position,
then your fight will encourage the appeasers, compromisers and “middle-of-the-
roaders,” but will destroy any anti-Communist when and if he becomes effective
enough to be dangerous to Communism. If this is your position, then your fight
will penalize your own soldiers for being too good. What sort of army do you
expect to have under these conditions?
Most regretfully, perhaps more sadly than at any other disappointment I have
ever suffered in a public figure, I must say that from now on I will not be able to
trust any action undertaken by your Committee. No matter whom or what you
expose, I will have no way of knowing whether you have really exposed the tops
or merely made a deal with the enemy to expose a few inconsequential underlings.

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I will have no way to defend your actions against those who will doubt or smear
you. There is no way to defend a crusader who is a compromiser.
The only solution that I can see for your present position would be for you
to reinstate Dr. Matthews in his post, now that you have the power to hire whom
you please, and to air the whole issue of his article in full detail, at a public hearing
before your own Committee or in any other manner you may find proper. But
in a manner which would give it publicity equal to the publicity given to Dr.
Matthews’ undeserved disgrace. The only way to serve justice is by facts—by
proving publicly that Dr. Matthews’ article was not a smear attack upon anyone.
And, above all, you must prove that an anti-Communist will be given at least half
the consideration, caution, courtesy and chance to clear his name that is being
given to every lousy pro-Communist. This is the least you can do now to redeem
the prestige of your own name, your Committee and your cause. Any other course
will merely be your political suicide.
I am enclosing a cartoon from today’s New York Times to prove my contention.
This is what you have done to one of your most honorable supporters. If this is
allowed to stand, you cannot expect to have any supporters any longer.

To Justice Emery
Ayn Rand’s letter below was in response to a December 10, 1963, handwritten letter from a “Justice Emery.”
In that letter, Emery requested “an authentic autographed picture of you” for his grandson, thus fulfilling his
grandson’s “dying wish.”

December 28, 1963

Dear Justice Emery:
Thank you for your letter and your Christmas greeting. Please accept my deepest
sympathy for your tragic situation.
I don’t know your grandson, but since he likes my work, I feel a bond between
us, and I must tell you frankly that what I feel is heartbreaking. This makes me able
to understand and share your feeling, at least to some small extent
I am enclosing the photograph for your grandson. The quotation on it is from
Atlas Shrugged.
Does your grandson know the truth about his condition? If he does, please tell
him that I would like to help him bear it and to give him encouragement, in any
way I can. In any case, give him my warmest personal wishes.
And, if I may ask you to, please let me know that happens.
With profound sympathy,

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 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

Editorial Postscript: Research on the Web indicates that “Justice Emery” was a pseudonym for Marshall Emery
Bean, an autograph dealer who sent similar requests to many famous authors in order to obtain autographed
books to sell. Miss Rand was far from the only victim of this scam who honored Emery’s request; “gifts” to
Bean from other victims can often be purchased from autograph and used-book dealers. There is no evidence that
“Justice Emery” responded to Rand’s letter.

Letters to the clergy

The following two letters to clergymen are printed consecutively in order to show Ayn Rand’s changed attitude
toward religion. The first is to a reverend, whose letter to Rand is not in the Ayn Rand Archives (nor is any
response or book review). The second, which was previously published in Letters of Ayn Rand, is to a Swiss
Catholic clergyman who asked that he remain anonymous.

October 23, 1943

Dear Reverend Dudley,
Thank you for your very interesting letter. Unfortunately, you mailed it to the
printers, not the publishers, of my book, so I did not receive it until today. I hope
this will reach you in time for your lecture.
You asked for information on my background. I am a Russian woman by
birth, but an American citizen now. I came to this country in 1926. My first novel
was We the Living, published by Macmillan in 1936. I worked on The Fountainhead
for seven years. I wrote it as my tribute to America and to the American spirit.
Now as to your most interesting philosophical questions. You wonder “what
are we going to do with the two billion people that populate the earth in the light
of my thesis.” The only thing to do with them is to do nothing. The only thing good
we can do to mankind is to leave it alone, which means to leave it free. Men do have
the capacity to work out their own destiny, and nobody else can work it out for
them, and the only obstacle that stops them and destroys them is the interference
of other men. All tyrannies have originated, not for an evil, but for an altruistic
purpose—the desire “to do something” with mankind. When men recognize that
doing things for and with others is improper and immoral and can lead only to the
most vicious consequences—most of mankind’s problem will be solved.
America, as it used to be, in the form and principles established by her
Constitution, has shown the proper manner of living for all mankind. Individual
freedom and unalienable individual rights, independence of individual action and
choice, no “planning” or “directives” of any “social aims” whatever—that is the
whole formula for human decency and happiness. American has shown that it
worked and how magnificently it worked. The rest of the world has America’s

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example. They can follow it, if they wish. If they do not wish, there’s nothing we
can do for them. One cannot force men—or nations—to live as human beings if
they prefer to be swine in a collectivist pig pen.
I do not believe that science and machines are producing what you so aptly
call “mass-mindedness,” which then influences politics, economics and social
relationships. That would be a materialistic, Marxist explanation. It is men’s
thinking that determines the course of events—and our thinking has been growing
progressively collectivist for over a century. The revolting intellectual mess in
which the world finds itself now is the ultimate result, the end of the blind alley
of philosophical collectivism. Parasites have always existed, but they were of no
danger to mankind until the better men, the thinkers and producers, began to
preach the doctrine of the parasite—collectivism and altruism. What we need now
to save the world is a rebirth of the principles of individualism.
I was very much interested in your question on the relation of the ego to
the “supreme ego.” I believe that my statement of man’s proper morality does
not contradict any religious belief, if that belief includes faith in man’s free will.
My morality is based on man’s nature, on the fundamental attribute of his nature
which distinguishes him from the animals—his rational faculty. Since man is a
rational being, his morality must be individualistic, for the mind is an attribute
of the individual and there is no collective brain. If it is said that man is created
by God, endowed with an immortal soul, and with reason as an attribute of his
soul, it still holds true that he must act in accordance with his nature, the nature
God gave him, and that in doing so he will be doing God’s will. But this implies
that God endowed man with free will and the capacity of choice. It will not hold
with a belief in a God as a deterministic ruler. But such a belief makes all morality
impossible. Morality and determinism are mutually exclusive by definition. If
there is a cosmic destiny, its meaning is man’s freedom. If, however, we assume a
cosmic destiny working out some purpose of its own which man cannot change
or influence—then man is not free; then he can only act as prescribed and, if so,
cannot be held responsible for his actions, nor considered either moral or immoral.
But this is a belief which no truly religious person would accept. A benevolent God
would not create a universe of slaves.
Christianity was the first school of thought that proclaimed the supreme
sacredness of the individual. The first duty of a Christian is the salvation of his
own soul. This duty comes above any he may owe to his brothers. This is the
basic statement of true individualism. The salvation of one’s own soul means the
preservation of the integrity of one’s ego. The soul is the ego. Thus Christianity

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did preach egoism in my sense of the word, in a high, noble and spiritual sense.
Christ did say that you must love your neighbor as yourself, but He never said
that you must love your neighbor better than yourself—which is the monstrous
doctrine of altruism and collectivism. Altruism—the demand of self-immolation
for others—contradicts the basic premise of Christianity, the sacredness of one’s
own soul. Altruism introduced a basic contradiction into Christian philosophy,
which has never been resolved. The entire history of Christianity in Europe has
been a continuous civil war, not merely in fact, but also in spirit. I believe that
Christianity will not regain its power as a vital spiritual force until it has resolved
this contradiction. And since it cannot reject the conception of the paramount
sacredness of the individual soul—this conception holds the root, the meaning and
the greatness of Christianity—it must reject the morality of altruism. It must teach
man neither to serve others nor to rule others, but to live together as independent
equals, which is the only possible state of true brotherhood. Brothers are not mutual
servants nor mutual dependents. Only slaves are. Dependence breeds hatred. Only
free men can afford to be benevolent. Only free men can love and respect one
another. But a free man is an independent man. And an independent man is one
who lives primarily for himself.
I had better stop now, for I could discuss this subject forever, and I am glad of
my first opportunity to discuss it with a minister. Of course, I did not intend all
this for use in your review of my book—but you may use any part of it that suits
your purpose.
I am very grateful for your interest in The Fountainhead, and I appreciate
profoundly the desire you expressed to give it a larger audience.
Sincerely,

March 20, 1965

•
Dear Father :
Thank you for your letter. No, I have no desire to “tear it up in disgust” nor to
“have a good laugh at an enemy.” I found it profoundly interesting and I sincerely
appreciate it.
Yes, I was “startled at a clergyman talking like that,” but I cannot say that I
would have considered it impossible. I have often thought that since religion is
the only field seriously concerned with morality, a religious philosopher should or
could be interested in the philosophy of Atlas Shrugged. Rather than regard you as

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an “enemy,” I would like to think of you as an honorable adversary. After many

disappointments in this regard, I am not certain that such an adversary can exist,
but I will assume it as a hypothesis and will answer you on that assumption.
I see that some aspect of my writing appeals to you, but you have not indicated
specifically what it is that you do agree with. You indicate that you disagree on
the issue of atheism. I do not understand your position on this subject. You write
that, according to your concept, God is “the Depth, the Source, the Force, the
Love of life.” These are metaphorical expressions; I do not know what they mean
in this context. You say: “It simply is so, because Life is not a blind force and no
contradictions.” This is an arbitrary assertion on your part. Life is neither a “blind
force” nor a supernatural one; it is a natural fact, which exists and requires no
supernatural explanation.
You write: “Am I going to prove my point? Can you prove that contradictions
do not exist?” I will refer you to Aristotle’s definition of an axiom and to Galt’s
statement in Atlas Shrugged in reference to axioms: “An axiom is a proposition
that defeats its opponents by the fact that they have to accept it and use it in the
process of any attempt to deny it.” The Law of Identity is an axiom; so is the Law
of Contradiction. The concept of proof presupposes the existence of axioms by
which one proves the truth of one’s statements; the demand that one “prove” the
laws of logic is a contradiction in terms. But the concept of God is not an axiom.
Your interpretation of the concept of God as “powerless on earth” is highly
original, but it is a personal interpretation, which does not validate the concept in
question and cannot be taken as a fact of reality.
In regard to the meaning of the crucifixion, you must certainly know that your
interpretation is not the generally accepted one. There are many interpretations of
that meaning, but the prevalent one is that Christ died on the cross as a sacrifice
to redeem man from Original Sin. That is the idea I was answering in the
Playboy interview.
I was astonished by your statement that my answer to Playboy was not
straightforward, with the implication that I softened the issue in order not to shock
the public. Such an implication is unworthy of you. You refer to my courage and
seem to understand that courage was required to formulate my philosophy and to
publish what I have published. If so, then isn’t it somewhat preposterous to suspect
me of being afraid to speak openly in, of all things, a popular magazine?
I was not “taken aback” by the question about the sign of the cross. It is a
question I have discussed many times. What I did object to was the interviewer’s
way of presenting the issue in such superficial terms. I considered it offensive on
the ground of respect both for my philosophy and for religion. The issue is too
serious to hide behind symbolism. A discussion in terms of mere symbols can lead

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 Thirteen Previously Unpublished Letters of Ayn Rand

to nothing but misinterpretation and confusion. Since both the sign of the dollar
and the sign of the cross are symbols, it is the ideas they symbolize that had to be
discussed openly and explicitly. It is the notion of sacrificing the best to the worst,
of the ideal to the non-ideal, that was essential in this context, and that I discussed.
I call your attention to my concluding answer on this issue: “If I had to choose
between faith and reason, I wouldn’t consider the choice even conceivable. As a
human being, one chooses reason.” Do you regard this as a “softening” touch?
No, I have no desire to “replace the sign of the cross with the sign of the
dollar.” The sign of the dollar is a symbol introduced by me in fiction to symbolize
the cause of the particular group of men in my story. It would be improper to
introduce a symbol for philosophy in real life, though it is quite appropriate in
fiction. Philosophy does not deal in symbols and does not require them.
Perhaps I should add that I am an intransigent atheist, but not a militant one.
This means that I am an uncompromising advocate of reason and that I am fighting
for reason, not against religion. I must also mention that I do respect religion in its
philosophical aspects, in the sense that it represents an early form of philosophy.
I have the impression that you are a follower of Thomas Aquinas, whose
position, in essence, is that since reason is a gift of God, man must use it. I regard
this as the best of all the attempts to reconcile reason and religion—but it is only an
attempt, which cannot succeed. It may work in a limited way in a given individual’s
life, but it cannot be validated philosophically. However, I regard Aquinas as the
greatest philosopher next to Aristotle, in the purely philosophical, not theological,
aspects of his work. If you are a Thomist, we may have a great deal in common,
but we would still have an irreconcilable basic conflict which is, primarily, an
epistemological conflict.
No, I will not publish your letter, and if I show it to anyone, I will be very
careful to omit your name. I sympathize fully with your desire not “to be hurt by
fools more than necessary.”
With my sincere appreciation.

Endnotes
1. Reliable speculation is that Ayn Rand is referring to the first four lines in Cane’s poem
“Alone, Immune,” published in his collection Behind Dark Spaces (Harcourt Brace, 1930).
“She was not bound by mortal sight, The stars were hers, at noon. Against the malady of
night She stood, alone, immune.”
2. Ayn Rand’s allusion is to the arbitration case Cane’s law firm won for her against A. H.
Woods, producer of Night of January 16th on Broadway.
3. Ayn Rand had sent Mrs. Satrin a copy of We the Living, inscribed “with profound gratitude
for saving me from the kind of hell described in this book.”

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