Conversa­tions with Mary Ann

ARI

Mary Ann, you must have had many conversa­tions with Miss Rand.

MARY ANN

Many. Some long, some short, on a wide range of topics—from current events to psycho-epistemology to women’s cloth­ing. These conversa­tions came about in dif­fer­ent ways. Someth­ing I said would lead her to inquire further. Very often, some­thing she had written or lec­tured about prompted ques­tions from me. Over the years, the same subject was discussed in dif­fer­ent con­texts—if she had made a new identifica­tion or defined a new principle, for example. And there were group discussions, too. So, now—years later—it’s not possible for me to separate the content of most individual conversa­tions from her writings and speeches and other discussions—the knowledge is all integrated. But I do remember highlights of conversa­tions that had special, personal mean­ing for me, that were focused on my ques­tions and concerns.

ARI

Let’s talk about those. Did you take notes? Is that one of the reasons you remember them?

MARY ANN

No. The first time we had an appointment to discuss an issue, I came with a notebook, pre­pared to take notes. But she asked me not to.

ARI

What were her reasons?

MARY ANN

That it was not possible for me to follow her train of thought, ask ques­tions, and take notes—at the same time. At first, I was surprised and disappointed, but as the even­ing progressed I could see that she was right. It took all of my mental energy to focus on her explana­tions and follow her reason­ing. Everyth­ing she said was relevant and to the point. Note tak­ing would have been a hindrance to un­der­stand­ing.

ARI

Was that always her policy?

MARY ANN

In my experience, yes. Except if she were giv­ing a course, such as the lec­tures on fic­tion writ­ing. Then note tak­ing was permitted because it was a classroom setup and she was teach­ing. But, in our private conversa­tions, she wanted my full atten­tion. At the end of a discussion, she would always invite further discussion at a later time if, after review­ing the issues, I had more ques­tions. And dur­ing the discussion, she invited ques­tions, too.

In those ear­ly days, as soon as I got home after an even­ing with her, I made notes of everyth­ing I could remember. So that I could think about it, make sure I un­der­stood it, and jot down ques­tions if I didn’t.

Our very first conversa­tion after the oral exam had to do with teach­ing. It was the winter of 1955. At the time, I was giv­ing a medieval art course at NYU, and I personal­ly did not like most of the art—the flatness, the distor­tions in anatomy, the vacant, star­ing faces. I asked if it is proper to express my personal likes or dislikes when teach­ing.

ARI

What did she have to say to that?

MARY ANN

She said she was go­ing to begin by ask­ing me a ques­tion. Then she did some­thing that was characteristic of her in any discussion: she got right to the heart of the issue. This is almost verbatim: “Tell me,” she asked, “What were you hired to teach?” She stressed the word “hired.” And I answered that the course was supposed to cover the his­to­ry and development of subject and style in medieval art. Then she asked me two ques­tions: was there anyth­ing about the subject that required me to express my personal opinions; and did such opinions clarify or add to the un­der­stand­ing of the his­to­ry of medieval art? Well, of course, the answer was “no” to both. And she said, well, if that’s the case, why do you want to include them?

I didn’t know why and couldn’t say. But I could see that she was right. I wondered out loud why I was ever confused about the issue in the first place. Now, I didn’t expect an answer; to me, that was a rhetorical ques­tion. But not to Ayn Rand! She picked up on it immediately, and said that that was a separate ques­tion, an issue we could pur­sue if there was time. But, first, she said, she wanted to state a principle.

ARI

What was that?

MARY ANN

In any endeavor, in order to determine whether an ac­tion is appropriate, you have to define your purpose, you have to know what goal you want to achieve. And she gave a few simple examples to make her point. I remember on­ly one—that if your goal is to lose weight, then you should stay away from fatten­ing foods like cake and ice cream. And then she applied the principle to my case. If my goal was to present the his­to­ry and development of medieval art, my personal reac­tions were not nec­es­sary. But, she said, suppose that part of the teach­ing assignment was to cover chang­ing estimates of medieval art over time; then it would be appropriate to include mine as an illustra­tion of a certain viewpoint.

ARI

But suppose a stu­dent asks for your opinion; can’t you give it?

MARY ANN

She was way ahead of us! She raised and answered that ques­tion, too. If a stu­dent asks for your estimate and response to medieval art, then it is appropriate for you to give it, if you want to. But on­ly if you want to. It is op­tional. Here she made another important point.

ARI

Which was?

MARY ANN

That if I did give my personal views on medieval art, then I should in­di­cate the reasons why I held those views. That way, she said, you are communicat­ing the idea that there are reasons for esthetic responses, that they are not causeless emo­tions. However, she cau­tioned me to keep those comments to a minimum, and to answer those inquiries after the day’s lesson was finished. To keep my personal views out of the course material.

She frowned on professors who mix their personal views with their presenta­tion of the subject, so that the students have a difficult, if not im­pos­si­ble, time separat­ing the two. She said it put an unnec­es­sary mental burden on the students.

ARI

What was her manner throughout all this?

MARY ANN

Just like she was dur­ing the oral exam. Complete­ly focused on the issue and on my un­der­stand­ing of it—stopp­ing to make sure I un­der­stood a point before go­ing on to the next one. And some­thing else, too. She was aware not on­ly of what I was think­ing, but of what I was feel­ing. She commented on the change she noticed in my facial expression and posture as the even­ing progressed. I was tense when we began; I looked troubled; I was sitt­ing up straight. But, as I began to un­der­stand the issue, the worried look left my face, and I sat back in a much more relaxed manner. She was aware of all this. Whenever I was with her, I always knew I was be­ing seen and heard.

In fact, some years later, one of our conversa­tions resulted from her notic­ing my emo­tional state one even­ing.

ARI

Talk about that.

MARY ANN

She observed that I looked troubled, and asked me what was wrong. At the time, I was unhappy about a career problem, and I told her what it was. And I added that I was down on myself for feel­ing as I did. That last comment was what generated the discussion. But first we discussed the career problem, what caused it, and the possible solu­tions. We concluded that I didn’t have any choice in the matter. She pointed out that I was about to lose a value, and that that was reason enough to be unhappy. So, she asked, why do you hold that against yourself, why are you critical of yourself for feel­ing as you do? That was what had to be identified. And here she made an eye-open­ing point.

ARI

Which was?

MARY ANN

She said that the fact that happiness is the moral purpose of your life doesn’t mean that you must never be unhappy. Or, put another way, unhappiness isn’t necessari­ly caused by immorality, and one shouldn’t equate the two. Then she elaborated.

ARI

What points did she make?

MARY ANN

Well, first she reviewed the rela­tionship between happiness and values—that the former results from the achievement of the latter. Then she said it was important to realize and accept that we cannot always control the events and circumstances that affect our values. As an example, she gave what she considered the worst possible case—the death of a spouse. Another example she gave was los­ing a job because of a recession in the economy. Or hav­ing a friend go back on his word. We can’t prevent these things, she said, yet they affect us. She gave herself as an example—when The Foun­tain­head was be­ing rejected by publishers, she was not happy.

She went on. If a person is chronical­ly unhappy and depressed, regardless of the circumstances in his life, then there is some­thing wrong psychologically, and the person should seek professional help. But if the unhappiness results from the loss of a value and the person is not responsible, then there should be no self-recrimina­tion. Here she made another distinc­tion.

ARI

What was that?

MARY ANN

When things go wrong in your life, you will be unhappy. But the important ques­tion at those times is: are you at peace with yourself? That, she said, is some­thing that is within your control. And when peo­ple don’t make this distinc­tion, they suffer unnecessarily.

ARI

Can you elaborate? What does be­ing at peace with yourself come from?

MARY ANN

From the knowledge that you did not betray your values, that you lived up to your standards to the best of your ability. From know­ing that whatever mistakes you might have made, they were honest mistakes, they did not come from the refusal to think. That you are free from the nagg­ing thought: if on­ly I had done thus and so, things might be dif­fer­ent. That you know you did not let yourself down, that your self-esteem is intact. That you lived up to the best within you. Then you are at peace with yourself.

ARI

How did this conversa­tion affect you?

MARY ANN

It made all the difference in the world to me. I still had the career problem, but I could localize it, confine it, see it in perspective. I went there feel­ing burdened by some kind of great weight. At the end of the even­ing, I felt free of the unnamed burden. She had named it.

ARI

Was there a time when Miss Rand didn’t welcome ques­tions?

MARY ANN

No, never. If she couldn’t discuss some­thing because of her work and deadlines, she would ask you to be sure and raise the subject again, or call and make an appointment. Whenever I did call and say I had a ques­tion or an issue to discuss, she would always ask me to in­di­cate the issue. Then we would make an appointment. Then she would always say, “Take it as far as you can by yourself, before we get to­geth­er.” She wanted it to be a joint effort.

When we did get to­geth­er, the sessions could last for hours. If we began at 8:00 p.m., I might not leave until 2:00 in the morn­ing, or even later. And sometimes the discussion would be continued the next day by phone, if she had the time. What I just related were highlights of discussions. In answer­ing any ques­tion, she pur­sued every aspect—every implica­tion, every relevant connec­tion to related issues, every nec­es­sary qualifica­tion. She ques­tioned you, she gave examples; she posed clarify­ing alternatives. It was an exhaustive treatment of the issue. But it was not exhaust­ing! Just the opposite. It was invigorat­ing.

ARI

Would you clarify that last statement?

MARY ANN

In order to follow her progression of thought, you had to stay in full focus all the time. She didn’t wander mentally, so you didn’t either. She was like a ray of light mov­ing ahead at a steady pace, and you tried to keep up with that light and see everyth­ing it illuminated. You stretched your brain. You tried to rise to her level of mental func­tion­ing. As a result, you were a better person for hav­ing been with her, for hav­ing made that effort.

I lived a few blocks away, but if I were leav­ing after midnight she always cau­tioned me not to walk home, but to have the doorman get me a cab. I did, but I real­ly didn’t want to. I loved the times when it was ear­ly enough to walk home. I left her feel­ing exhilarated. It was like be­ing on a mental high. And I didn’t want to come down. My mind had been in mo­tion and I didn’t want to stop the movement. Explor­ing an issue with Ayn Rand was like climb­ing a mov­ing escalator, two steps at a time. You reached your goal faster. I wanted to prolong that sensa­tion of mov­ing forward and up—to sw­ing my arms, take longer steps and deeper breaths. That’s what she made possible.

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