Book Review: Ignition!

Subtitled “An Informal History of Liquid Rocket Propellants”, Ignition! is John D. Clark’s personal account of working with rocket fuels from 1949 until his retirement in 1970.

Dr. Clark is introduced to us by Isaac Asimov. Clark was roommates with L. Sprague de Camp during his undergrad years at Caltech, and wrote a pair of science fiction stories before deciding the market wasn’t for him, though he remained active in the community. Dr. Asimov met him during the war, when he came to work with de Camp and Heinlein at the Philadelphia Naval Yard.

John Clark, like Asimov, was a chemist, working on the problem of chemical rockets for the majority of his career. He writes this book, he tells us, both “for the interested layman” and for:

[T]he professional engineer in the rocket business. For I have discovered that he is frequently abysmally ignorant of the history of his own profession, and, unless forcibly restrained, is almost certain to do something which, as we learned fifteen years ago, is not only stupid but is likely to result in catastrophe.

For the layman, he attempts (and, I think, succeeds) at writing in a manner which is nevertheless very accessible. The sections with heavy technical content can be skimmed over without losing too much of the overall picture, though a little background knowledge certainly helps. I’m not sure you could use this book as a reference without a basic understanding of engineering thermodynamics, but if you haven’t studied that what business do you have designing rocket engines?

Unfortunately, Dr. Clark gives relatively little in the way of citations or suggestions for further reading. This is both an artifact of the era—when technical reports and journal articles were essentially inaccessible to the general public if your local library didn’t have a copy—and a consequence of the fact that much of the source material was at the time still officially classified. At several points the discussion is cut short because he’s not at liberty to discuss the matter. He acknowledges these difficulties and makes not pretense of this being an authoritative textbook.

On a related note, the content is heavily focused on the research done in America and the United Kingdom, with a chapter devoted to what information came out of the Soviet Union in later years. Due to the date of publication, this book does not cover modern developments (though the final chapter makes a series of predictions I might come back and grade).

Nor does Clark address solid propellants or hybrid combinations in any significant detail, which is slightly disappointing given my current studies, but would have made for a much longer and more complicated read. Not that I would have particularly minded; Dr. Clark is an engaging storyteller, frequently giving us various background information on the scientists and organizations trying to develop early rockets, first for abstract research, later for the military, and finally for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.

These anecdotes keep the reading fun even through the most tedious of minutiae on monoprops and halogen fuels. Clark frequently (if unpredictably) goes into detail on the chemistry of a particular propellant and how the molecules interact with one another. Such interludes eventually rekindled my interest in chemistry as a subject, which is fortunate since I need another credit hour of it to graduate. Hopefully some of the material I learn this summer will be relevant to aerospace propulsion work.

Overall, I found this to be a good introduction to rocket fuels and the history of that field. While useful for beginners such as myself and as a refresher, it probably shouldn’t be treated as any sort of reference guide or definitive citation.

ignition back cover

An engraving by Dr. Clark’s wife, Inga Pratt, presented to NARTS in 1959.

Hopefully one day Ignition! will be in print again, but for now most of us are stuck reading it from PDFs found online. Hard copies went for hundreds of dollars before the likes of Elon Musk and Scott Manley began publicly praising the book.

Book Review: How to Live on Mars

I first read this book in high school, flushed on newly-found philosophy and bristling with plans for life as a commercial astronaut. SpaceX was just ramping up their ISS resupply program; Bigelow Aerospace was planning to launch another module before 2014. The possibilities seemed limitless.

That’s not the world we ended up living in. Astronauts haven’t launched from the United States in over five years. Virgin Galactic experienced LCOV during a 2014 test flight and put space tourism plans on hold while fixing the spacecraft’s control system. The biggest leaps forward has been landing Falcon 9 first stages, but it’s only in the last week that a used stage flew again. Falcon Heavy  still hasn’t been tested flown.

As such, the overall mood of Zubrin’s book feels….overconfident. Misplaced. Premature.

Our narrator is a congenial Martian colonist, giving us the down-low on what it takes to survive on Mars. It’s quite easy, he informs us, provided your follow his advice.

From choosing the correct transfer method to how to start a family, Zubrin (the Martian, not the 20th century astronautical engineer) walks us through the steps of becoming an economic and social success on the red planet. While many of the specifics are tailored to a fictional future history, the basic science is strictly factual.

It ranges from the mundane to the transcendental. At the more everyday end of things, we learn how to make plastics and almost every other raw material from the Martian soil and atmosphere. Through this avatar, Dr. Zubrin is making the case that living on Mars is entirely feasible. Steel and cement for construction, oxygen for breathing, nitrates for food—it’s all there. A few things would be a challenge (fictional Zubrin recommends stealing rocket parts as the best way to obtain aluminum), but the low-gravity environment greatly reduces the difficulty imposed by all sorts of engineering projects.

On the other end of the scale, we’re explained the general process of terraforming Mars into a habitable planet (and how to profit off it in the meantime). Now quite a few of these suggestions rely on a fairly specific potential architecture for the project, but the technical information holds.

This future history is amusing, though evokes a more cynical reaction from me after the last few years. I’m less optimistic about the odds of us reaching Mars before 2040, and less skeptical of NASA’s ability to get things done. To me, the issue seems to be less one of organizational competence and more of insufficient dedication at the highest levels (mostly Congress). While I’d like to believe that the private sector can fill that gap, it seems increasingly unlikely that they can achieve those ends at a plausible cost as the march of 21st century politics continues.

One thing he’ll probably have gotten right: the decay of terrestrial society into atomized, post-modern nihilism. I hope he’ll be proven wrong but there’s no strong signals to suggest that that trend is slowing.

On the whole, though, an optimistic book about the capacity for human ingenuity to conquer new frontiers and expand our understanding of the universe. Those interested in the project of space colonization, but unsure where to begin learning about, would be well advised to start with How to Live on Mars.


Book Review: Your Inner Fish

This book is not what I expected, but quite pleasurable to read nonetheless. Your Inner Fish does not detail the ichthyologic nature of the human body. Rather, it explores how fish moved onto land, where many now-ubiquitous adaptations came from, and how scientists figured it out.

Dr. Shubin begins with the story we all came to hear: how his team of paleontologists discovered Tiktaalik Roseae. This ancient, shallow-water fish  Tiktaalik is an important transitional fossil because it was one of the first discovered with rudimentary hands. Biologists comparing the limbs of species noticed pattern in the limbs of land animals as far back as the mid-1800s. This patter held only for land-adapted species—reptiles, amphibians, mammals (including aquatic mammals that returned to the seas).

For a long time, it was believed that fish don’t exhibit this pattern. Then lungfish were discovered: living fossils which exemplify, in some ways, the transition from ocean to land. As their name implies, they possess basic lungs, and, interestingly, the beginnings of limbs.

Tiktaalik was an improvement on the lungfish. It had a flat head, for swimming in shallow water, and fin bones that show the beginning of a wrist. Together, we see why fins evolved into arms: shallow water fish needed to do pushups. In their fish-eat-fish world, the ability to push oneself through extra-shallow patches was likely a critical advantage.

Let me tell you, exercising seems a lot less mundane when you consider that your lungfish ancestors did it to survive. That’s what your arms evolved to do. It’s only more recently we found further applications for them.

Throughout this book, Shubin is trying to explain how scientists managed to figure out our evolutionary history. He has perhaps a unique perspective to explain this process, as a paleontologist turned anatomy professor. Knowing what came before helps explain the ways in which earlier species were contorted to become the ones we see today.

Comparative anatomy and the fossil record tell us a lot about how modern species came to be. But genetics also offers considerable insight. Looking at the differences between genomes can tell us a lot about how recently certain categories of features evolved. In many cases, we can take genes from mice or fish and insert them into the DNA of invertebrates like fruit flies and get the same result. Such experiments are strong evidence that features like body plans and eyes evolved a really long time ago.

To be clear, there’s a lot of uncertainty which can probably never be resolved. We can prod algae in tanks to evolve the beginnings of multicellular bonding, but we have no idea if that particular direction is the one that our forerunners took.

Nevertheless, Your Inner Fish gives a good overview of how bacteria became bugs and fish, and how those bugs and fish became the bugs, fish, and people alive today. I certainly came away with an improved picture of how weird our bodies are and their many imperfections, though far from the whole picture. My curious is fairly sated, however—I’ve no plans to read the kinds of human anatomy texts I would need to really appreciate the magnitude of making men from microbes.

All told, I’d recommend Your Inner Fish as an entertaining and informative read about how human beings came to be. Neil Shubin has packed a lot of interesting scientific research into it, and with the exception of an example about hypothetical clown people in the final chapter, does a pretty good job of explaining it clearly. Definitely worth your time if the history of life on Earth intrigues you.


Book Review: All The Birds In The Sky

[Note: I read this book on the recommendation of my now ex-girlfriend, and I can confidently say that that affected my reaction to the novel. Consider that as you will.]

I have mixed feelings about this one.

On the positive side, the writing is pretty good. I was sufficiently engaged to keep reading, even when I wanted to sit down the characters and lecture them about their life choices. For the most part, the plot was coherent and didn’t tend to lose me.

But those characters. My opinion of them turned negative in the first few chapters and never really recovered. Once the plot got rolling my feelings ended up relatively neutral, which is….less than one would hope for, given such explicit protagonists. The building action felt kind of drawn out, so this non-negative period was somewhat protracted.

One could justify such extended exposition in the service of extensive worldbuilding, but we don’t really get that. I spent a good part of the book wondering about the details of the disasters unfolding out-of-frame and the magical world Patricia disappeared into. We get a pseudo-explanation of the latter in the final chapter, but the resolution felt pretty forced and didn’t clear up very many loose ends. The denouement was about two pages.

Maybe there’s going to be a sequel that explores these things further. The book only came out this year, so who knows.

However, this frustration helped me realize something about myself: the reason I can’t write fiction is that I’m far more interested in building up a world than any story that could be set within it. Maybe I should team up with a plotmeister who wants to break into sci-fi. Contact me if you’re interested.

At this point it should be clear, dear reader, that I’m not exactly qualified to comment on the writing of science fiction novels, but in the spirit of the characters, I’m going to offer some recommendations anyway.

Firstly, if major plot issues could be resolved by better communication between the characters, it’s nice to give readers a reason why the characters aren’t having those much-needed conversations. Yes, it is possible that no one thinks to ask. But our protagonists are a genius and a literal witch (whose main character flaw is caring too much). I have questions if nothing else. Like, maybe I’m unusually inquisitive but Laurence seemed strangely accepting that actual for-real magic has suddenly appeared in his life.

Speaking of magic, there was a weird theme of techies-can’t-into-ethics running through the book which doesn’t really make sense in context (the book, or the real world). At one point, Patricia is chastising Laurence’s worldview for thinking that saving humanity is more important than saving the entire biosphere, a mere stretch goal for the story’s counterfactual SpaceX.

Patricia, you can talk to animals. You can heal HIV with a single touch. You can cut deals with space-time itself. Ordinary humans are playing an entirely different game.

This gets back into the communication thing. Convinced a team of mad scientists prodigious engineers are about to destroy the world? Have you tried talking to them about the risks involved?

Not that tech-types are liable to destroy the world, seeing as they’re some of the only people I’m aware of with any serious interest in solving morality, out of concerns that an artificial intelligence needs a coherent ethical system before we turn it on. Nick Bostrom calls this problem philosophy with a deadline. You can dismiss this claim if you want, I can’t stop you, but when one of the characters is an AI, then it’s, well, weird.

To be fair, it was awakened to consciousness and gets a lot of early training from Patricia, so talking to witches might be a good AI safety strategy. Shame MIRI can’t try that.

What was I talking about? Oh, right, YA near-future apocalyptic meets urban fantasy novel. Does it count as Young Adult when there’s a moderately explicit sex scene? I don’t remember if they covered that at WorldCon.

My final recommendation has to do with character development. Namely, if you go through great lengths to make a villain sympathetic, do give them some sort of redemption arc. We’re given a front-row seat to a cold-blooded assassin developing a conscience in the halls of an unsettlingly exaggerated portrayal of middle-school misery, and then—anti-climax. His scheme is foiled and his later appearances show few signs of further development. He’s still harking on the same MacGuffin, which we haven’t exactly forgotten about. So I’m not really sure what he’s doing here.

And it’s not that Anders is just bad at character re-introduction, because she does a pretty good job with several other reintroductions between sections. So I’m not sure what’s going on with him in particular. Perhaps it’s a touch of genre-bending realism.

So is All the Birds in the Sky worth recommending to the young adult reader in your life? As with so many things in life, that depends. Looking for some light entertainment? Go for it. Want a thought-provoking novel? There are better books out there. Expecting a well-developed science fantasy world? You might be disappointed.


Book Review: Guns, Germs, and Steel

For many years, I did not expect to like this book.

Jared Diamond has something of a reputation for primitivism—arguing that hunter-gatherer societies are actually better off than our own. I found this position abhorrent as an Objectivist and wanted to hear nothing of it.

Then, around a year ago, educational YouTuber C.G.P. Grey made a pair of videos* summarizing certain aspects of Diamond’s book. The theory, as presented there, made a lot of sense and piqued my interest. A few months later I purchased a copy of Guns, Germs, and Steel from my local Half Price Books and eventually got around to reading it.

It turned out to be really good.

First of all, Diamond’s position on agricultural civilization is much more considered than many give him credit for. In the course of his anthropological research he’s spent many months living with modern hunter-gatherer societies, experiencing that sort of existence first-hand. Diamond says that his “own impression, from having divided my life between United States cities and New Guinea villages, is that the so-called blessing of civilization are mixed.” He goes on to discuss the various benefits that extremely low-tech societies realize: better family ties, richer social life, and considerably more free time.

His argument, then, is less that industrial civilization is necessarily bad, so much as that it comes with trade-offs. These trade-offs were far more salient for pre-Renaissance agricultural societies, for whom producing enough food to survive took nearly all available resources, and which were subsequently ravaged by war, disease, and famine on a level which pre-agricultural peoples almost never experienced.

But if the hunter-gatherer lifestyle is so great, why didn’t it stick around? The answer is simple enough: agricultural societies out-competed them. Farming allows a much larger population to subsist on the same land, and additionally allows for the development of professions—specialists not directly involved with food production. With a few exceptions, agricultural societies assimilated, displaced, outbred, or simply exterminated their less advanced neighbors.

So why did certain agricultural societies get an upper hand on the others? This is the real question of Diamond’s book.

His answer comes down to one word: geography. The orientation of the continents, the climate at various locations, and similar factors dictated what early humans had available to work with. The Americas and Africa, on their North-South axes, were at a significant disadvantage compared to Eurasia’s East-West axis. Plants and animals spread over a much wider area, increasing the odds that a human population would have the opportunity to domesticate them.

Thus the Americas and Africa ended up with a much slower diffusion of agriculture. (Australia had it even worse.) While industrial civilization might have developed there, it would have been much later. Eurasian colonization cut such trajectories short.

Diamond rejects the notion that certain peoples’ inherent superiority was the fundamental driver of historical progress. Over the course of millennia, cultural and genetic mutation would have been sufficient to make such factors irrelevant. Societies which disregard the advantages of any particular technology don’t tend to stick around very long. Thus human cultures tend to be near the full potential set by their geographic conditions.

We can observe this through natural experiments, the colonization of Polynesia in the last 2,000 years being a prime example. Austronesians, expanding out of Formosa, landed on nearly every Pacific island, and settled pretty much any scrap of land that can support human populations. These ranged from proto-empires in Hawaii and Fiji, to hunter-gatherers on the cold southern Chathams, which were conquered by New Zealand Maoris wielding European firearms in 1835. It also includes tiny Anuta, which despite a population of less than 200 realized an extremely high population density through advanced agriculture.

In a similar manner, Diamond explores the development of African, American Australian, Chinese, and European cultures in the context of geographic determinism. Of particular note is the impact of states on technology. China, a single political unit, abandoned oceanic exploration due to internal factionalism, and never expended the capital costs necessary to resume. Europe, alternatively, was never truly unified, and so never stopped exploration altogether.

Several chapters are devoted specifically to literacy, technology, and political theory. I think a few of my libertarian friends would find them quite interesting, particularly those concerned with what a stateless society might look like. Also noteworthy are the discussions of cultures which had and lost technology—writing being one example, Roman concrete being another. This obviously does not read as a conservative book, but the more intellectual breed of rightists will find something worth considering in Part Three.

Altogether, I found Diamond’s theory intelligent and well-argued. He does not pretend that it’s perfect. His epilogue is an exhortation for more serious study—history as a science, as he call it. Nearly thirty pages are devoted to suggested further readings. Find a coy, apply a light dose of skepticism, and enjoy.


*The first of these is Americapox: The Missing Plague, which discusses why European diseases were so devastating to Native Americans, but not vice versa. The second is Zebras vs Horses: Animal Domestication, which digs deeper into the causes at play. Disease is only one of the proximate factors Diamond discusses, and I’ve mostly chosen to omit it from my review because Grey explains far better than I could.

Book Review: House of Leaves

House of Leaves is a book for readers who enjoy frame stories. By my count, there’s approximately seven layers of framing to the actual plot. Each layer carries its own story, whether implicit or explicit.

The physical book in our hands is presented as a compiled text, given to the some sort of publisher by general riffraff Johnny Truant, who obtained it from a blind man named Zampanò after the latter’s death. Zampanò’s manuscript is presented as an academic paper reviewing the literature surrounds a documentary recorded by Pulitzer-winning photographer David Navidson. The Navidson Record, as the tape is called, details the story of when Navidson and his family moved into a Virginia house that’s bigger on the inside.

That doesn’t sound so bad, you say. So why did I call it cosmic horror in my Atlas Shrugged review? Let’s get into that.

Our first indication comes from Johnny Truant’s introduction, which essentially functions as a x-page infohazard warning. Johnny believes this book destroyed his life, and seeing his story unfold across dozens of multi-page footnotes, he’s not entirely wrong. Johnny is really too intelligent for his lifestyle of alcohol, drugs, and casual sex in late-90s Los Angeles. He works in a tattoo parlor, despite having no tattoos himself. It would be easy to write him off as another nobody, but his vocabulary and insight betray this as the product of an extremely troubled upbringing.

Johnny’s mother was institutionalized when Johnny was very young, after trying to murder her only son. His father died and the next several years were spent in foster homes, often with abusive foster-parents. He ran away during his teenage years, wondered around Europe writing poetry for awhile, and somehow ended up in LA.

During late-night excapades with a genuine underachiever, Lude, led to finding Zampanò’s manuscript after the old man passed away. A collection of papers and notes, the book is hardly publishable. Intrigued, Johnny takes the pile back to his apartment and begin reading.

Slowly, he comes unhinged.

The house does not show its true self at first. It begin by creating a closet between bedrooms that were previously unconnected, piquing Navidson’s curiosity. Despite measuring again and again, it would seem that the house is ¼ inch longer on the inside than out. The mystery spirals, as more and more precise instruments wielded by professionals confirm the discrepancy.

Then a hallway appears leading off the living room, which never existed there before. At first it leads to a cold, dark, dead-end, but as time goes on, new rooms appear and change. Several professional outdoorsmen are brought to the house on Ash Tree Lane to explore this curiosity.

We learn from his footnotes that this story of unstable space is driving Johnny Truant mad. His ability to function slowly implods around him. He starts to think some sort of beast or minotaur is after him.

The exploration of Navidson’s house tears his family apart and reveals a mystery that only grows deeper—quite literally. As Zampano gives us his pseudo-academic analysis of the documentary’s contents, we learn that the house is damaging to the psyche of most occupants throughout the property’s troubled history. Navidson is special, we learn, in that he has the artistic fortitude to force himself into understanding it. He and his partner Karen are perhaps the only people to confront the house head-on. But I shouldn’t spoil everything.

As I said, this is a book about layers. The veracity of a statement, at each level, is to be questioned. Particularly those related to Johnny Truant. It’s no mistake that an extended appendix is dedicated to him. (Do read all the appendices—there’s a lot of good information in them). The Navidson Record is part of why this book fascinated me, but Johnny Truant is another part. His story is just as important—don’t overlook him. His narration is unreliable but valuable.

Plenty of others have said this, but for House of Leaves, it really pays to buy a physical copy. Contextual storytelling plays a major role in getting the plot’s emotionalism across. This includes many places where the text skips back and forth between pages or runs at unconventional angles. Sometimes it does both at once. These are artefacts of both Zampanò’s incomplete manuscript, and Danielewski’s illustration.

I’m honestly just impressed that one person was able to construct such a complicated story, coherently, and without losing the reader. I would recommend it to anyone who enjoys science fictional, cosmic horror, mystery puzzle novels. Or something like that. Categorizing House of Leaves into a single genre would be a difficult task. Thankfully, we don’t have to. Just like the house, the real world is nebulous and infirm.


Book Review: Atlas Shrugged

“Achieving life is not the equivalent of avoiding death.”
—Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

I first picked up Atlas Shrugged in 2009, and despite re-reading it obsessively for several months afterwards, never gave it a full cover-to-cover treatment in the seven years since then. This summer, as I worked my way through House of Leaves, I decide that Rand’s testament to human rationality was the appropriate counterpoint to cosmic horror, and decided it was finally time.

I finished Atlas Shrugged first. Oops.

My initial impression, during those early chapters, was that the book’s spirit still endured. Despite all my jading and cynicism these last few years, I found the story still inspired optimism, ambition, and confidence in rational thought. That sentiment is ultimately why Atlas Shrugged is worth reading. The explicit message is important, but the attitude it expresses, moreso. Or to put it in Rand’s terminology, the sense of life versus the philosophical system.

But about the explicit message–that’s why I reread the book. When you’re skimming through it for fun, it’s easy to overlook important passages that deal with some of the serious philosophical issues. Rand was meticulous in crafting an expression of her philosophy, countering all sorts of criticisms before they could be made. I’ve heard many arguments against Objectivism which John Galt or Francisco d’Anconia already tackled in 1957. For this reason, utilitarians and true altruists should still read Atlas Shrugged to know thy enemy.

That’s not to say that Rand’s reasoning is entirely airtight. I had my doubts in 2009, and I still have doubts now. This shouldn’t really be all that surprising–after finishing Atlas Shrugged, she turned to writing non-fiction explanations of various specific issues, particularly relating to metaphysics and human nature. The book covers a lot, but not everything. Discussions of Objectivism have a lot of room yet for progress.

What I love about this book are the tiny details. One-off characters, like Mr. Ward, referenced in passing hundreds of pages later, reveal so much about the story’s world as a whole. Almost every sentence is crafted to precisely communicate the relevant aspect of the theme, each word to describe a specific image or idea. These aren’t apparent on first reading, or even the second in certain cases.

Nevertheless I second-guess many of Rand’s choices. The way Cherryl’s story arc ends, for instance. Or Eddie Willers’. The sheer number of Dagny Taggart’s suitors seems like overkill. At several points, issues with the pacing that overshadow important thematic elements (especially regarding Rearden’s development).

Much of this comes down to the fact that this story is, ultimately, about Dagny’s journey. Do not be confused by the shifting third-person view: this book is about her. It’s not possible to pack every idea into her life, necessitating the support cast. I think this emphasis on her makes it hard to see the ways other individuals are responding to an irrational existence. Maybe that’s not the point of an egoist-individualist story, but communicative efficiency is valuable when crafting a propaganda document.

And to be clear, Atlas Shrugged is capitalist propaganda. I rather suspect that a population adhering to Rand’s philosophy would operate much less smoothly than Galt’s Gulch. On the whole, my suspicion is that it would be superior to our own, but not perfect. Most men wouldn’t react so calmly as Hank and Francisco if their true love chose someone else. Of course, the rational(ist) thing would be going poly, but Rand doesn’t apparently consider this an acceptable solution. This probably has to do with the Objectivist conception of love, but that’s another essay.

But this is a problem you can handle, given a small enough group and good enough people. The meta-problem is that the Objectivist society modeled for us employs a conflict-resolution system that doesn’t scale well.

Going to a neutral arbiter which you’ve agreed upon beforehand is, like, the ideal justice system. Unfortunately, at least one of those components is missing in the general case, usually both. The residents of Galt’s Gulch agree that Judge Narragansett will mediate their disputes. Ostensibly he’s a neutral party. In practice this may not be the case–he may be an interested party, or biased towards one of the contestants, and therefore nonobjective in his rulings. We don’t know, because we’re told that his faculty has never been called upon. This itself seems unlikely, but suppose it’s true. How big could the Gulch get before conflicts do arise? The current population is highly rational, highly intelligent, self-driven, and not in direct competition with each other. Sure, a new striker will arrive and put an old-timer out of business, but the Gulch has a huge labor shortage and there’s plenty of things to be done instead. What happens when competition for resources, or customers, or territory arises? How about interpersonal conflicts?

I suspect Rand would have a fancy answer for this, but in the latter case I don’t think there’s a neat philosophical resolution. Personality is only partially malleable, especially in adults. Not everyone gets along perfectly.

But perhaps that’s why Ayn Rand needed to write this book. We can be better. Human beings do not meet their potential as rational, productive, self-satisfying agents, not even slightly. This is what Atlas Shrugged is trying to convey: the possibility of a world made happier, not through wishful thinking, but through intelligence and conscious decision-making.

And that’s the message I think readers should take away. The world makes sense. Our problems are tractable. A joyous existence is possible.

Atlas Shrugged is not a perfect outline for utopia, but it’s a huge step in the right direction.