A Love Letter to My Ana Via Ayn Rand

A love Letter to My Dear Ana, Via Ayn Rand

_{DISCLAIMER
Are you allergic to overt, extremely sentimental gush of romantic emotions? If yes, then sadly, Oh SADLY, I regret to say, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU! Do feel free, however, to come back soon. I promise I'm more than capable of putting up some more cynical stuffs to soothe your darkest fancies! Thank you for your understanding. Cheers! XD.}

_{For Ana <3}

My Lovely Ana,

This must be the weirdest love letter ever written. Please pardon the fact that you have to share this page with another woman. You see, I would not have thought of writing this in the first place had it not been for this one remarkable lady, who happened to go by the name Ayn Rand. You'll see, in the end, that we do in fact owe her a few spaces.

See, I used to hate Ayn Rand. Yes, Hate! I not only despised her philosophy and everything that could come of it, I hated HER! Ayn Rand, the woman so cynical and so eloquent and so charming, so much so that she could come up with a vile philosophy which, according to her, came entirely out of my own mind, with a sole acknowledgement of a debt to Aristotle.

Hers, you see, is a philosophy which went so much against the very core of my being. Against that belief which I so happen to hold most dearly--that of LOVE.

But, my love, you see Ayn Rand is so smart and eloquent, so brilliant and guileful, that she wrapped her vile philosophy in a terrific apparel of such fine eloquence, that I found the core of my being being shattered by her rhetorics. It is a most unappealing feeling, I'll tell you, to have so much hatred towards a thing and be unable to justify that hatred. I, who claim to have so much belief in love. Perhaps that is why I hated her so much, because she had made me hate.

In all fairness, however, I should mention that her philosophy is not that of hate; merely one which totally skews and deprecates and completely turns on its head, the true meaning of love.

So I hated her; hated her with a passion--up until a few days ago. Yes, my love, you read that right. I have stopped hating Ayn Rand! I'm finally free, my love, and it is all because of you! Now, thanks to you, my love, I can finally say that I know what Ayn Rand didnt! That all she ever had was merely a huge amount of genius, intellect and the ability to put words so fine. That the end of her ability is merely petty chicanery--building a highly skewed but brilliant version of reality, which would appeal so much to the intellect, all the while completely neglect anything that isn't, and swaying those who are, or purports to be, intellectuals just as completely.

But who wants all that shit!?

Who wants all that shit when it comes at a price of not having the greatest experience any sentient being can have--that of a true, genuine, selfless love with another sentient being! That amazing feeling of falling utterly and completely in love with such a beautiful sempiternal creature as you, my love--under such unlikely conditions that even Keats and Tennyson would be proud!

So yes, thanks to you I do not hate Ayn Rand anymore. How could I? How could I hate someone whose strongest belief is that man [is] a heroic being with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life and who believes that the sole way to achieve this is by bending nature to his will; that **compassion is merely a tool used by "the weak" as a weapon of manipulation against "the strong".

Yes, yes, I know how preposterous and ridiculous it sounds, my love, trust me I do know. Oh but her eloquence! Her sweet rhetorics; the outstandingly brilliant world she built, where she herself was the judge of all things, and made people move and bend to her will! Those weren't so preposterous to me in the beginning, my love. But all that's changed now, thank God, thanks to you, my heart.

I mean if really man's such a selfish being whose happpiness can be gotten by having ONLY his own self interest at heart and striving for it with all possible means--even love! if it was true, my love, that at best thats the only thing what love is useful for--a means to our own selfish happiness, then why is it that seeing you happy is all I ever want to have in life? Why is it that I do not envision a world where you'll not be happy and I will be.

And I know if you ask her, that lady, if we ask her she might say, with her big brains and brilliant Russian accent, that "of course zat iz what I'm talking about, you only vant her to be happy so YOU could be happy too! Zat is ze rational selfish interest ov which I speak. Zat iz ze sole importance of love!".

But we'll laugh at her, won't we? Cos I know better now, my love. I know that seeing you happy is all I ever want in my life. And I know that it gives me such unspeakable joy and happiness, but I also know, my love, that this comes merely as an after thought. That, for example, I do not even think of this at first, but only that to see every second of your days filled with trite and silly little things that make you giggle and beam and laugh and so profoundly happy, is my concern in life; and that, for example, were I to be in purgatory at this time, watching you enjoy these things, I'd still be happy for that split second, even though at that point my happiness is null and void--cos how much happiness can one possibly get while chilling in a pool of fire.

But see Rand didn't know this, and so she said what she said--so eloquently and so brilliantly--but I forgive her; no, in fact, I pity her. How lucky are we, my Ana, to feel these things! It's such a brilliant feeling, honey, isn't it? To love someone so completely, so remarkably.

I sometimes wonder why one so brilliant as Rand could not recognize this. But of course in matters like these the last thing one needs is intellect. I suppose this is why Huxley recommended that the first thing a poet should lose is her intellect. But still I wonder how she could not get it. I mean, she was married. She had an husband after all. But how could she have that and still believe that the only reason she should support the one she loves is,

_{because I'm in love witz him selfishly. It is to my own interest to help him out if he ever needed it. I wouldt not call that a sacrifice, because I take selfish pleasure in it.}

_{--those remarkably smooth and dangerous words, again, honey.}

Maybe they could never share the same dreams, like we do. But she was so smart! How could she have taught herself to be so engrossed in her own self; how could she have failed to notice that the best dreams are those you share, like that house in the cabin in the woods, and us having sweet maddening sex inside and outside of it. How could she--with all her big brains--have failed to see that love can never be selfish, or selfless, but can only triumph when there's been a merging of selfs to which both can identify.

Maybe her intelligence really was her shortcoming. It's no matter. I don't hate her anymore. I don't even wonder anymore, because all I want to do now is love you as utterly and completely as I can. And then learn to love you even more utterly and more completely!

I know what you're thinking. You're probably thinking, But, R, if Ayn Rand was still alive and reading this there's no way she'd be swayed by this sweet absolutely sentimental burst of tenderness coming from you.

Perhaps not, honey. But who cares!? Who the hell cares what she, or any other person for that matter, thinks. I only care what YOU think, Ana. So what if we're just fools hyonotized by the ether of our sweet tenderness? Who cares! I hope and pray we're still fools at forty! so we could be forever!