I can barely credit that they have made a movie from that turgid nonsense by Ayn Rand.
I have about eighteen copies of “Atlas Shrugged” – all signed in that self-consciously spiky handwriting of hers.
Every Christmas from 1957 onwards, a present would arrive from Ayn by ordinary post. It would be wrapped in festive newspaper, usually with a gift-tag recycled from last year, and every fucking time it would be a fucking copy of fucking Atlas fucking Shrugged.
They’re good for weighting down decoupage projects, although when it comes to slugging a nurse over the head when I want to sneak out to buy booze, nothing beats my signed first edition of “The Fountainhead”. Mind you, it might be easier just to read it to them. Whoo, what a stinker it is. Temazepam in libric form.
(More clever stuff here.)
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