Lying and Objectivism


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Bugs you, huh? That's nice.

Ok, I respect both of you at a number of levels.

Just cannot get into the pissing contest...

A...

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Bugs you, huh? That's nice.

Ok, I respect both of you at a number of levels.

Just cannot get into the pissing contest...

A...

I don't know anything about Jonathan, except his condescending epithets. I'll take your word for it that he has respectable qualities.

Practical, efficient, affordable contemporary architecture: Houston Medical Center

mda-building.jpgmedstlukes.jpg

ZW2L9700.jpgthibuilding_nite2_1.jpg

Are you pretending to be an expert on architecture now, Pup?

... You're talking out of your ass. As usual, you're posing...

J

This isn't about Wright, or me, or anything else except a flamboyant waste of space [Gehry's crumpled Cleveland Clinic in Las Vegas] that's unfit for any

practical purpose, compared to examples of excellence I showed you in Hong Kong, Singapore and Houston where people work for a living.

You don't know what you're talking about. You're making shit up, or believing nonsense that you read online.

J

Typical exchange. I say what I think and why. Jonathan hurls insults.

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I started reading Wolf's Constitution of G in GG today. Unfortunately it triggered a masturbatory fantasy that was very satisfying orgasmically, but at the age of 70 I can't reload until tomorrow* making going beyond page 7 until then a dubious proposition. The problem is I have to read the damn thing before writing my review. If I have one of these realized fantasies even only every ten pages I'm two weeks away from finishing it. When I was 19 Atlas Shrugged only took a week (sans Galt's Speech) and it didn't do that for me once and it was a lot more explicit.

--Brant

*honestly, I think I'd be up to it again in a few hours, but that would wipe out Friday completely (that's why we need love--to fill in the spaces)

mini pre-review: very irritating the way Wolf keeps refering to The Fountainhead as "Fountainhead"--that's even worse to my mind than calling the Ukraine "Ukraine," for the latter rightfully demands I adjust while the former?: fergetabutit!

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It's happening again on p. 14. I love a nearly naked woman with a gun. I love rear entry. This is not porn folks. Porn doesn't work for me.

--Brant

need some lube, bad

mini pre-review: not for children 12 and under--waste of money, go to McDonald's

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a nearly naked woman with a gun

Hmm. How did that get in there?

The Good Walk Alone, Chapter 6: A Little Night Music

This was intolerable. DiMarco sat slouched in a wicker chair in Archie’s bedroom, the thin tickle of a borrowed, ill-fitting flouncy chemise cutting her neck. The rat said he wouldn’t be out late, just wait for him, darling. That was nine and a half hours ago.

She kicked off a pair of gold slippers, sending one of them flying hard enough to break a window -- which would have been fine, except there weren’t any windows in Archie’s bedroom. It was an open-air terrace that overlooked the Pacific, built on the precipice of a tall, rocky peninsula, a symbol of competence. The slipper sailed into space, tumbling into impenetrable darkness that roared with crashing surf.

The rat said he designed it himself, just for her -- a spacious indoor lounge that opened onto a broad, covered patio and a dimly lit stairway leading upward to a plinth over the Pacific -- where she was expected to recline happily ever after, waiting for Archie to show up when he felt like it. How nice.

DiMarco shot to her feet and began to pace, first in a circle around his bed, then down the path and onto the patio, where deep pile carpet grasped the form of her foot like a glove and its grip gave her something to struggle against. Powerful flanks drove her forward, striding a hundred foot circuit, through a shallow angle at the midpoint and two violent U-turns, one at each end of the patio -- the restless, probing stalk of a caged animal.

Things had gone from bad to worse, as far as Lt. DiMarco was concerned. She had been fired, yanked off a murder case, and ordered to work for City Special -- a nest of rats and liars. ‘Archie’ or ‘Sir Harmon’ (or whatever his name really was) had seduced her, evaded her questions, handed her over to his mother, and promptly vanished “to do a little errand, dear.” Like hell.

DiMarco had been sidelined, imprisoned in the fucking Fortress, shown the Great Life, and was no doubt supposed to roll over with her paws folded. If he calls me honey one more time, I’m going to deck him, DiMarco fumed.

She began to pace more slowly and thoughtfully, feeling each step instead of racing to nowhere. There was a lot to digest. Her awkwardness at lunch escalated into a major embarrassment. It was politely suggested that ladies don’t normally curse like truck drivers.

DiMarco halted angrily. A powerful temptation had to be fought down by will power. It required all of her policy judgment and self-control to resist the impulse to scream a litany of obscene epithets at the top her lungs, as an expression of raw defiance. It would undoubtedly summon guards. There were a dozen or more on duty in the labyrinth of the Fortress, a huge complex buried under Archie’s bedroom -- the nerve center of a global empire. Lady Barbara had escorted her through a maze of tunnels, a journey that burned most of the afternoon. Maybe for good reason. DiMarco was welcomed; included in a private cabal at the real seat of power. Lady Barbara confirmed it -- and she didn’t mince her words. The Fortress ran the City, not the other way around. “We pay your salary,” Lady Barbara smiled gently.

But her underground communications lab left a scar that hurt, when DiMarco grasped its function. They had real-time surveillance of several hundred people, including Janet DiMarco. A microscopic camera was plucked from the strap of her purse by a nervous, twenty-something technician, who joked that it required five decoys and a dozen attempts to put it there. When? -- some time ago, the boy blushed uncomfortably.

Worse: she liked it here. Every moment of the day had been etched into her heart and mind, calling DiMarco to the enjoyment of private life. It was like falling in love twice. Archie was bad enough -- now she was in love with his mother, too. Lady Barbara was a study in perfection. Perfectly serene, perfectly wise. Another puzzle piece clicked into place. Everywhere they walked in the Fortress, technicians and guards bowed to Lady Barbara and addressed her as “ma’am.” Archie’s father had been allegedly killed in Panama, many years ago, but his name was never spoken, and every reference to his memory evoked a cloak of silent, almost reverent grief.

Two and two made four. The clues all pointed in one direction. Georgette Smith, the Libertarian prime minister who closed the Canadian border in ‘15 and triggered the crash, was here. Sira Barclay, who ran the Vancouver Exchange and refused to trade in U.S. dollars, was here. Every one of the women who gathered to honor DiMarco at lunch was some kind of tycoon, or leader, or scientist -- except Gretchen, who starred in a bunch of Canadian movies that DiMarco had never seen. Polite conversation with Gretchen was an endurance test, not to haul off and belt her in the nose for cooing incessantly about ‘Sir Harmon The Wonderful’.

The whole thing was revolting, if she took it at face value: Lady This and Sir That -- like a high school production of Camelot, some silly, happy go lucky pastiche of mannered society -- except that the loving care was authentic, shared among genuine heroines who deserved to live quietly, cloistered from the noise and gruff nuttiness of Nosara. It was difficult to criticize their retirement from public duty. They were older, less able to --

DiMarco halted. At age 38, she too felt less able. Twelve years of police work had robbed her happiness, given her nothing except tedium and trouble. She never wanted it. She wanted to be a criminal defense attorney -- and she opened a small private practice, two rooms on B Street, after clerking two years for her mother. The memory buckled Janet at the knee, and she leaned heavily on a stone balustrade to steady herself, suddenly unable to breathe very well.

It choked and hammered and hounded, too horrible to carry as conscious knowledge, that her mother was assassinated in open court. There were not tears enough, nor rage enough to salve this wrong. For the millionth time, Janet DiMarco pulled herself up straight and tall, filled her lungs with fresh night air, cleansed by the wide Pacific, to be held in brief dedication and released without fear or pain or guilt. Just do your duty. Protect and serve. Don’t let it happen again.

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Archie laughed from the foyer -- followed by the click of a door, the flop of papers on a desk, and a series of big, soft footfalls. “Sorry I’m late.”

She turned to face him. The boyish gaiety died when Archie glimpsed her expression -- or, rather, her lack of expression. Like a stone lion, impervious to feeling, DiMarco gave him nothing. “I know who your father was,” she warned in the tone of an accusation.

Archie reacted hotly. “Who told you?” he demanded.

She turned away, left him standing in the middle of the patio, and silently went to her handbag on the bar, unsnapping the clasp and digging out a pack of Camels. Her solid silver cigarette lighter clicked twice. The white butane jet did its work, and she exhaled a dense gray cloud of smoke. “Nobody told me anything. I’m a detective. I figured it out,” she finally replied. “It’s standard procedure: to follow the money. Whatever name you decide to use when we get married, you’ll still be the Sovereign -- unless there’s an older brother involved.”

Archie sat down, dumbfounded. “What did you say?” he asked heavily.

“That you’re the Chief Executive of -- “

“No, no -- not that -- I mean about you and I being --”

“Married? Yes, Archie, I’ll marry you. If you want, we’ll have children,” she answered, without emotion or concern, like a loyal officer. “I understand why you chose me. I don’t like the fact that you’ve been snooping on me and monitoring what I do -- for God knows how long -- but I understand why you did it. I also think it’s possible that you love me, as much as any man can love a woman, and that you’ll make a good husband and father -- although I had zero intention, until recently, of ever having another ‘husband’. It’s actually a repellent idea. However, I accept that it’s politically important.”

Archie nodded gravely. He gestured at the bar. “Give me a cigarette.”

She offered him the one she was smoking. He held it like a flamethrower, tried to take a puff and coughed violently, shaking hot ashes on the carpet. She calmly crushed them out, barefoot, while Archie continued to cough and then dashed for a drink of water at the bar.

“Let me guess,” she muttered. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

Recovered enough to indicate, Archie shook his head ‘no’.

“I see,” she concluded from the sofa, shifting her long legs to display them horizontally across three supple kid leather cushions. “You’re not taking this very well, Archie,” she observed. “There are worse things than being married. Besides which, it was your idea -- not mine. Decisions have consequences.”

Archie nervously poured a large glass of whiskey and tried to drink it down, almost holding his nose. The first swallow was enough to make his eyes water and the second got sprayed over the bar in another bout of coughing. She got up to help him.

“If you don’t drink, Archie, there’s no point in trying to learn now,” she explained with a gentle pat on his back that became a loving embrace. “It’s not so bad. You’ll get used to it eventually. You’re just having a panic attack. Come sit with me on the couch. Sit a little farther -- that’s good. Take your shoes off, Archie. Now lay down, with your head in my lap. That’s right.”

“I’ve got your partner downstairs,” he tried to object.

“That’s nice,” she smiled. “I’m sure Cubby can take care of herself for a while. Just rest.” Her long fingers gently and expertly lifted his dark brown hair, stroking the side of his head like a cat, tenderly embracing a brain that was yearning for solace. “We can do this any time you want,” she purred softly in his ear, and quietly opened his shirt buttons, slipping her strong right hand under the fabric to caress his chest. She bent to kiss his forehead, then his torso -- her hard, ample breasts crossing his shoulder and cheek.

She withdrew and used her hands to open her chemise, spilling comfort onto his lips and into his mouth. When he tugged, she did not flinch. When he rose to undress, she stood with one knee on the arm of the couch, and her thin nightshirt slipped to the floor like a quiet sigh of sensuous pleasure.

There are a thousand ways to make love, no two alike, no moment the same between two vital people who choose the Unknown in every unfolding instant of life. Until now, Archie had been the active one, the confident and successful one. He stood erect and approached her.

She turned and waited, her feet standing comfortably apart on soft gray wool. He was only two inches taller, she noted. Probably the same weight class. Archie was slender -- not an ounce of fat on his ribs. On the other hand, he had plenty of muscle and solid thighs. Probably worked out in a gym every day. Oh well, what the hell --

“En garde,” she bowed.

Archie frowned -- and got a nice, clean, straight kick in the chest, just hard enough to make him stagger backward. “If you don’t fight back, dear, you’re gonna get your royal butt kicked,” DiMarco explained.

“What on earth for?” Archie yelped in protest.

“For a number of things, honey -- like keeping me waiting all night.” Bap! -- she landed a jab on his upper arm, hard enough to sting. “And for being a sexist patriarch.” Bap! -- another punch caught his other arm, this time while he backed away, refusing to fight.

“Janet! -- stop it! -- are you out of your mind?” he complained.

She grinned at him and dropped to a low crouch, ready to leap. “Oh! -- so it’s ‘Janet’ all of a sudden! Not dearest darling PUMPKIN any more?” She sprang, ran, and twirled him in a low tackle from behind, felling him with a hefty thump that shook the rafters. He couldn’t squirm away fast enough. She got an arm behind his back, then a knee on his butt, and finally she stood on his neck, his right arm pulled up high in a potentially painful wristlock. Archie had no choice but to submit.

To his credit, there was a minimum of screaming -- just a low, stifled male shriek on occasion when she became emphatic. “There will henceforth be no dears, darlings, fruits, vegetables, or bakery products used instead of my name,” she ordered. “I like my name. I am also a senior command officer, and I worked very hard to obtain that rank. I suggest you stop treating me like an airhead, and start treating me like a law enforcement professional, Your Majesty. Got it?”

Archie tried to nod. “I promise,” he affirmed politely.

“Official deal between us?” she doubted.

“Official deal,” he echoed. “I won’t call you pet names. I’m very sorry, Janet. It was insensitive and disrespectful. I did it deliberately to -- well, you know -- to get your attention -- and then, afterwards, it was just a joke. I promise, on my honor as a freeman, never to tease you ever again about our -- uh -- intimate relationship. Okay?”

She took her foot off his neck. “Okay. Did I hurt you?”

“Repeatedly,” he grumbled from the carpet, slowing turning onto his back, wiggling his arm to wake it up and make it function again. “Jesus Christ, Janet, you’re dangerous.”

She sat at his side, legs folded Indian style. “Is that a surprise?” she laughed.

Archie shook his head. She could see a question forming on his brow. “Is there any pet name I can use for you?” he queried. “I love you. I’d like to say that somehow, without having to say it -- that --”

DiMarco shook her head gravely. “Don’t say it, Archie. Just think it. Remember when we drove up here, and I said ‘I love you’? -- you almost missed a turn in the road and told me: ‘Don’t say that too often -- I’m not made of stone’ -- remember? Well, I ain’t made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Two darlings and a half dozen dears are enough to make me want to vomit, and I’d vastly prefer to remain in love with you, instead of hating every minute, if you see what I mean. Which reminds me: what took so long tonight? It’s after two.”

Archie rolled on the floor, relaxing into a graceful stretch of tight, lithe strength. “I had to wait to spring Cubby and then convince her to get in my car. Barrel of fun.”

She cuddled at his side. “Did I really hurt you?” she worried.

“No,” he smiled, gathering her into his arms with a slow, natural fall that took them as one into a passionate clutch, DiMarco’s weight and heat resting on his. Her legs opened to seek him, and Archie held her tightly as they joined.

It was never easy, never simple to lay this woman -- to hold her down, to help her surrender and yield. He had to be quick, but steady. It had to be a surprise, yet perfectly natural, no surprise at all. They rolled in unison, and her black mane finally spilled across the blanket of Archie’s living room carpet. His room. His castle. His land. His life.

-- and his collapse, spent.

She held him and protected him, clawing gently at his hair and neck, his shoulders and back muscles, inhaling the scent of her man, two-thirds drunk with love and honor, a woman’s final choice, never to be withdrawn, no matter what. Do you know, Archie? -- that I’ll never leave you? That I’ve taken you within, and I can’t let you out?

Apparently not. He was snoring, oblivious to her psychic confession. That was okay. Love should be on a need-to-know basis. The last thing Archie needed was another babe who loved him and turned to jelly when he smiled. His mother was right. DiMarco needed to sit on him, once in a while -- instead of being crushed and constricted while he snored in her left ear. “Archie!” got no response.

She wiggled a leg free and carefully rolled him off, laying his head on the carpet beside her. It was an elaborate procedure, attempting to avoid the inevitable pull on the chafed skin of her breasts, which were stuck by moisture to Archie’s rib cage. He also weighed a ton. In an enlightened society, men would be half the size of women, she reasoned.

DiMarco rose and strolled up the winding staircase, gazing at the night sky -- a great black dome of brilliant stars and gleaming galaxies. Its awe made no sense whatsoever. The universe was too beautiful to grasp, and Janet DiMarco felt inadequate to speak or think of its meaning. Like her romance with Archie, it simply was. She fetched the lightweight bed cover and folded it twice, returning to the living room to cover them both.

“Lights off,” she called -- and their room joined the night, black and still, except for an irregular and maddening snore emanating from the Chief Executive. For about an hour, DiMarco poked him and pondered the wisdom of sleeping with him. It would be a lot better to have separate bedrooms, rather than poke Archie twenty times a night. And a strong poke only stopped him for a few minutes -- as soon as she drifted off to sleep, the rat started snoring again, waking her again.

Their second night together, she began to understand why women sometimes kill their husbands for no particular reason.

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The ability to deceive also seems to be part of our evolutionary heritage.

Seems more like devolutionary to me. :laugh:

A while ago, I watched a documentary where some clever monkey in the jungle uttered a loud 'warning cry' which made the others of the group flee because this type of cry signaled 'imminent danger' to them

The smart monkey, now alone, then feasted on the coconuts the group had left behind. For it was those coconuts he had coveted. :smile:

...and there are people who actually model their behavior after monkeys. Believing the lie that deceit is a virtue, they have deceived themselves.

Greg

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The ability to deceive also seems to be part of our evolutionary heritage.

Seems more like devolutionary to me. :laugh:

A while ago, I watched a documentary where some clever monkey in the jungle uttered a loud 'warning cry' which made the others of the group flee because this type of cry signaled 'imminent danger' to them

The smart monkey, now alone, then feasted on the coconuts the group had left behind. For it was those coconuts he had coveted. :smile:

...and there are people who actually model their behavior after monkeys. Believing the lie that deceit is a virtue, they have deceived themselves.

Gregor

Deception and lying is the same sort of survival tactic as is camouflage. It is a way of keeping a predator or adversary from harming one.

Ba'al Chatzaf

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Deception and lying is the same sort of survival tactic as is camouflage. It is a way of keeping a predator or adversary from harming one.

Ba'al Chatzaf

Correct Bob. In context, from Sun sen to Islam, there is no directive to be stupid, suicidal and socialist.

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The ability to deceive also seems to be part of our evolutionary heritage.

Seems more like devolutionary to me. :laugh:

A while ago, I watched a documentary where some clever monkey in the jungle uttered a loud 'warning cry' which made the others of the group flee because this type of cry signaled 'imminent danger' to them

The smart monkey, now alone, then feasted on the coconuts the group had left behind. For it was those coconuts he had coveted. :smile:

...and there are people who actually model their behavior after monkeys. Believing the lie that deceit is a virtue, they have deceived themselves.

Gregor

Deception and lying is the same sort of survival tactic as is camouflage. It is a way of keeping a predator or adversary from harming one.

Ba'al Chatzaf

I think we're each taking different tacks.

I already know all about the war stuff. :wink:

I was referring to normal everyday behavior and not to battlefield combat situations. Deceit poisons relationships with good people and drives them away from us... while attracting other deceivers to us.

Greg

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