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date: 2025-01-18
categories:
- philosophy
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# The Exploiters and The Exploited
## Atlas Shrugged - Chapter VII (excerpt)
A wedge of light fell across her face. He saw the firm, sensual mouth in sharp outline. Then she leaned
back a little, and he saw only a suggestion of its shape and the dark lines of her lowered lashes.
*Haven't I?*—he thought. *Haven't I thought of it since the first time I saw you? Haven't I thought of
nothing else for two years?* . . . He sat motionless, looking at her. He heard the words he had never
allowed himself to form, the words he had felt, known, yet had not faced, had hoped to destroy by never
letting them be said within his own mind. Now it was as sudden and shocking as if he were saying it to
her. . . . *Since the first time I saw you . . . Nothing but your body, that mouth of yours, and the way your
eyes would look at me, if . . . Through every sentence I ever said to you, through every conference you
thought so safe, through the importance of all the issues we discussed . . . You trusted me, didn't you? To
recognize your greatness? To think of you as you deserved—as if you were a man?*
*. . . Don't you suppose I know how much I've betrayed? The only bright encounter of my life—the only
person I respected—the best businessman I know—my ally—my partner in a desperate battle . . .*
*The lowest of all desires—as my answer to the highest I've met . . .*
*Do you know what I am? I thought of it, because it should have been unthinkable. For that degrading
need, which should never touch you, I have never wanted anyone but you . . . I hadn't known what it was
like, to want it, until I saw you for the first time. I had thought: Not I, I couldn't be broken by it . . . Since
then . . . for two years . . . with not a moment's respite . . . Do you know what it's like, to want it? Would
you wish to hear what I thought when I looked at you . . . when I lay awake at night . . . when I heard
your voice over a telephone wire . . . when I worked, but could not drive it away?*
*. . . To bring you down to things you can't conceive—and to know that it's I who have done it. To
reduce you to a body, to teach you an animal's pleasure, to see you need it, to see you asking me for it,
to see your wonderful spirit dependent upon the obscenity of your need. To watch you as you are, as
you face the world with your clean, proud strength—then to see you, in my bed, submitting to any
infamous whim I may devise, to any act which I'll perform for the sole purpose of watching your dishonor
and to which you'll submit for the sake of an unspeakable sensation . . . I want you—and may I be
damned for it! . . .*
She was reading the papers, leaning back in the darkness—he saw the reflection of the fire touching her
hair, moving to her shoulder, down her arm, to the naked skin of her wrist.
*. . . Do you know what I'm thinking now, in this moment? . . .*
*Your gray suit and your open collar . . . you look so young, so austere, so sure of yourself . . . What
would you be like if I knocked your head back, if I threw you down in that formal suit of yours, if I raised
your skirt—*
She glanced up at him. He looked down at the papers on his desk.
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