Clear Thinking v. Ayn Rand

On the Collapse of Objectivism and the Need to Hold Tension

This is, after all, a philosophy blog.

The first thing that has to be said is: Objectivism is actually stupid. It's a stupid philosophy.

I will not apologize for this judgment. I will not dilute it with qualifiers. I will not pretend, out of some misguided sense of intellectual charity, that there exists a sophisticated interpretation of Rand's work that redeems its fundamental errors. Some ideas deserve to be dismissed, not because they challenge our preconceptions, but because they fail to meet even the most basic standards of philosophical coherence.

Who is Mike Brock? I am the man who refuses to accept that contradictions can exist in reality. I am the man who will not surrender the objectivity of two plus two equals four to those who would collapse it into subjective preference. I am the man who stands against those who would reduce virtue to selfishness and meaning to personal satisfaction.

I have read their bible—Atlas Shrugged—and found it intellectually and morally bankrupt. I have traced their arguments to their foundations and discovered nothing but circular reasoning and category errors. I have examined their claims to philosophical rigor and found only rhetorical sleight-of-hand masquerading as logical proof.

A is A, they proclaim, as if this tautology somehow proves their entire moral framework. Existence exists, they declare, as if this banality justifies their pathological individualism. Contradictions cannot exist in reality, they insist, while their entire philosophy is built on contradictions they refuse to acknowledge.

This is not philosophy. This is not even sophisticated error. This is the intellectual equivalent of a child covering their eyes and declaring themselves invisible.

Reading Rand is an exercise in enduring a peculiar form of torture. Her novels are not merely bad literature—though they certainly are that, with their wooden characters, implausible plots, and interminable monologues. They are bad thinking packaged as profound insight, simplistic moralizing disguised as ethical rigor, adolescent fantasy presented as metaphysical truth.

John Galt speaks for sixty pages, and in those sixty pages, he manages to commit every fundamental philosophical error possible. He derives ought from is with casual disregard for the logical impossibility of such a derivation. He declares selfishness the only rational virtue while depending entirely on a social and technological infrastructure he did not create. He proclaims his independence while using language—that most social of human creations—to do so.

“I swear—by my life and my love of it—that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.”

This oath, this supposed pinnacle of Objectivist ethics, contains within it the very contradiction that undermines the entire philosophy. For in the act of swearing this oath to others—in the act of communicating it, in the expectation that others will understand and respect it—Galt is already living in a social reality that transcends his individual existence. He is already participating in a form of life that depends on mutual recognition and shared meaning.

The Objectivist might object: “But you're attacking a straw man! You haven't engaged with Rand's actual arguments!” This rejoinder itself reveals the intellectual shell game at the heart of Objectivism. There is always some text you haven't read, some nuance you've missed, some context that would supposedly transform Rand's circular definitions into profound insights.

But I have read their texts. I have traced their arguments. And what I have found is a philosophy that fails not because of its conclusions, but because of its premises. It fails not because it values the wrong things, but because it fundamentally misunderstands how values come into being at all.

Consider how Rand attempts to bridge the is-ought gap—that fundamental chasm between facts about the world and normative claims about how we should act. She writes: “Man's life is the standard of morality, but your own life is its purpose.” This is not an argument; it's an assertion. It doesn't bridge the gap; it ignores it. It doesn't explain why life should be the standard; it simply declares it so.

This is the pattern throughout Rand's work: assertion masquerading as argument, definition substituting for derivation, metaphor standing in for proof. She doesn't resolve philosophical problems; she rhetorically sidesteps them.

The irony is that Rand herself would have recognized this kind of intellectual sloppiness in any other context. She would have mercilessly criticized anyone who attempted to derive moral conclusions from factual premises without providing a logical bridge between them. She would have denounced circular reasoning in any philosophy other than her own. She would have rejected appeals to emotion disguised as appeals to reason—unless those emotions were the particular set she approved of.

This is why Objectivism isn't merely wrong; it's stupid. It fails by its own standards. It violates its own principles. It commits the very sins it most loudly condemns.

But the stupidity of Objectivism goes beyond its logical errors. It extends to its profound misunderstanding of human nature and social reality. Rand's “ideal man”—her Howard Roark, her John Galt—is not merely implausible; he's impossible. He's a fantasy of self-sufficiency that bears no relation to the actual conditions of human existence.

No human being is self-made. We are born into languages we did not create, rely on knowledge we did not discover, and operate within social structures we did not establish. Even the most innovative among us stand on the shoulders of countless others who came before. The very concept of individual achievement presupposes a social context that makes such achievement possible and meaningful.

Rand's heroes use roads they did not build, communicate through language they did not invent, and benefit from scientific discoveries they did not make. Yet somehow, in Rand's mythology, they owe nothing to the collective enterprises that made their individual achievements possible.

This blindness to social reality isn't incidental to Objectivism; it's foundational. Rand must deny the fundamentally social nature of human existence because acknowledging it would undermine her entire moral framework. If we are inherently social creatures, if our achievements are always built on collective foundations, then the sharp distinction between selfishness and altruism—the cornerstone of Rand's ethics—collapses.

The tragedy is that Rand almost stumbles upon a genuine insight: that there need not be an opposition between self-interest and social good, that flourishing individuals can create flourishing communities. But instead of exploring this productive tension, she collapses it. She reduces all value to individual survival, all virtue to selfishness, all morality to a crude calculus of personal benefit.

In doing so, she misses the most profound truth about human existence: that meaning emerges precisely from the tensions she tries to eliminate. It emerges from the interplay between individual and community, between reason and emotion, between facts and values. It emerges not from collapsing these distinctions but from holding them in creative relationship.

Our soul is meaning. Constructed, such as it is. But Rand fundamentally misunderstood this construction. She imagined meaning as something a heroic individual could forge alone, through sheer will and “rational” thought. But meaning exists in the space between us—in the territory we negotiate together, in the landscape of consciousness shaped by our collective engagement with reality.

This is why Objectivism fails not just as philosophy but as a guide to living. It offers a vision of human flourishing that, if actually practiced, would undermine the very conditions that make flourishing possible. It celebrates individual achievement while advocating for a worldview that would destroy the social foundations upon which such achievement depends.

The most damning evidence against Objectivism is that even Rand herself couldn't live by it consistently. Despite her rhetorical rejection of government assistance, she accepted Social Security and Medicare benefits in her later years. Despite her celebration of ruthless independence, she fostered a cult-like following that brooked no disagreement. Despite her claim that emotions should be subordinated to reason, she demanded emotional loyalty from her acolytes and engaged in famous affairs that devastated her circle.

These contradictions aren't incidental to Rand's philosophy—they reveal its fundamental incoherence. A philosophy that cannot be lived consistently by its own creator is not a philosophy at all; it's a pose, a performance, a way of justifying one's desires while pretending they emerge from principle.

But perhaps the most revealing aspect of Rand's philosophy is not its content but its form. Her novels aren't just stories that happen to contain philosophical ideas; they're mythological structures designed to bypass critical thinking and appeal directly to emotion. They don't convince through argument; they convert through narrative. They don't persuade; they indoctrinate.

Consider the structure of Atlas Shrugged. It presents a world where everything is black and white, where characters are either noble producers or parasitic looters, where complex social problems have simple solutions. It's not a realistic depiction of society; it's a morality play, a secular religious text complete with its own creation myth, its own fall from grace, its own chosen people, and its own promised land.

This mythological structure isn't accidental. Rand understood, perhaps intuitively, that her philosophy couldn't succeed on the basis of its arguments alone. It needed to create emotional identification, to bypass the critical faculties and speak directly to the reader's desire for clarity in a complex world, for certainty in the face of doubt, for a narrative that places them on the side of the righteous.

And here lies the deepest irony of Objectivism: a philosophy that claims to champion reason above all else succeeds primarily through non-rational means. It convinces not through the logical force of its arguments but through the emotional power of its narratives. It wins converts not by overcoming their rational objections but by making those objections seem like manifestations of moral weakness or intellectual confusion.

This is why Objectivism functions more like a religion than a philosophy. It offers not just ideas to be evaluated but an identity to be embraced. It provides not just arguments but a comprehensive worldview that explains everything from metaphysics to manners. It demands not just intellectual agreement but moral allegiance.

And like many religions, Objectivism thrives on the promise of salvation through correct belief. Accept its premises, and you too can be like John Galt—rational, independent, morally superior to the masses. Reject its premises, and you reveal yourself as one of the looters, the parasites, the second-handers who lack the courage to face reality.

This religious structure explains why criticism of Rand so often provokes not counterarguments but outrage. To the true believer, critiquing Objectivism isn't just disagreeing with a philosophical position; it's attacking their identity, their sense of moral worth, their place in the narrative of the righteous few against the irrational many.

But this quasi-religious character doesn't make Objectivism profound; it makes it dangerous. It allows Rand's followers to dismiss criticism without engaging with it. It enables them to treat philosophical errors as moral virtues. It permits them to ignore the real-world consequences of their beliefs while maintaining a sense of ethical superiority.

Those consequences are not theoretical. When Rand's ideas influence policy, they justify cutting social safety nets that keep people from destitution. They provide intellectual cover for eliminating regulations that protect public health and safety. They transform callousness toward suffering into a principle rather than a failing.

The real damage of Objectivism isn't philosophical but practical. It's in the politicians who invoke Rand while voting to eliminate healthcare for the vulnerable. It's in the executives who cite her as they fight against environmental regulations. It's in the young minds who absorb her crude social Darwinism and conclude that the suffering of others is not their concern.

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And Objectivism is a stupid philosophy that collapses the very tensions that generate meaningful thought.

The Grand Praxis I've advocated stands in direct opposition to Rand's collapse of necessary tensions. Where Rand declares selfishness a virtue, the Grand Praxis recognizes that human flourishing emerges from the dynamic balance between self-regard and concern for others. Where Rand sees social bonds as chains, the Grand Praxis understands them as the context within which meaningful freedom becomes possible. Where Rand attempts to derive ought from is, the Grand Praxis acknowledges this gap while still insisting that meaning can be made.

If we were to imagine an alternative to John Galt's final speech—one that maintained the productive tensions Rand collapses—it might sound something like this:

For years, you have been asking: Who is John Galt? I am the man who has realized that my certainty is itself a construction. I am the man who has discovered that my individualism depends entirely on social infrastructure that preceded me. I am the man who recognized that my rationality emerged not from isolated thought but from language—that inherently social construction.

I stand before you not to proclaim my independence but to acknowledge my interdependence. Not to reject society but to transform it. Not to collapse the tensions between individual and community, reason and emotion, fact and value—but to hold these tensions creatively, to find in their productive interplay the source of genuine meaning.

I withdraw my sanction not from a world that fails to recognize my genius, but from a philosophy that denies the social foundations of individual achievement. I reject not cooperation but coercion, not community but conformity, not obligation but exploitation.

The motor of the world doesn't stop when the 'men of mind' withdraw. It simply continues without their contributions, because no individual is as essential as I once proclaimed. The strike I led wasn't a triumph of reason but a tantrum of privilege—the actions of those who confused their relative advantage for absolute independence.

I swear—by my life and my love of it—that I will not pretend to be self-made when I stand on the shoulders of generations. I will not call selfishness a virtue when my very existence depends on the cooperation of countless others. I will not collapse the tension between individual and community into a simplistic worship of the former at the expense of the latter.

A is A. Existence exists. And the genuine objectivity that Rand claimed but failed to achieve requires acknowledging the full complexity of human existence—not reducing it to a cartoon of heroic individuals against parasitic masses.

The highest value is not selfishness or altruism, but the creative tension between them—the recognition that individual flourishing and collective well-being are not opponents but partners in the dance of creating meaning in a universe that does not provide it ready-made.

This alternative vision doesn't reject Rand's concern for individual dignity or her celebration of human achievement. It incorporates these values into a more coherent framework that acknowledges the social foundations these values depend upon. It doesn't collapse tensions; it holds them. It doesn't simplify complexity; it embraces it.

The mistake isn't valuing individual achievement or creative genius. The mistake is believing these exist in opposition to social bonds rather than in relationship with them. The mistake isn't celebrating reason but pretending reason emerges fully formed from individual minds rather than from collective processes of inquiry, criticism, and refinement.

In the end, Rand's philosophy fails not because it values the wrong things, but because it fundamentally misunderstands how those values come into being. It fails because it collapses tensions that must be maintained. It fails because it is, at its core, stupid.

But stupidity paired with conviction is a dangerous combination. It's not enough to dismiss Rand; we must understand why her ideas continue to exert influence despite their incoherence. We must recognize that Objectivism appeals to something in the human spirit—the desire for clarity, for certainty, for a world where complex moral questions have simple answers.

The antidote to Rand isn't the opposite extreme—a collectivism that erases individual difference or a relativism that abandons the search for truth. The antidote is a philosophy that holds the tensions, that recognizes both individual and collective dimensions of human existence, that acknowledges the gap between is and ought while still insisting that meaning can be made.

Our soul is meaning. Constructed, such as it is. And Rand's greatest failure was her inability to understand this construction—to see that meaning emerges not from individual proclamation but from the intersubjective space where minds engage with each other and with reality.

The circus continues. The flood rises. And Rand's philosophy offers neither the balance of the acrobat nor the structure that holds back the waters. It offers only the illusion of solid ground—a stage set that collapses under the weight of lived experience.

Clear thinking demands that we recognize this. Not out of partisan bias, not out of emotional reaction, but out of commitment to philosophical coherence. Objectivism isn't just wrong; it's stupid. And saying so isn't incivility—it's clarity.

“Man is by nature a social animal.” — Aristotle