Atlas Shrugged

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 The newspapers did not mention the outbreaks of violence that had begun to burst across the
country—but she watched them through the reports of train conductors about bullet-riddled cars,
dismantled tracks, attacked trains, besieged stations, in. Nebraska, in Oregon, in Texas, in
Montana—the futile, doomed outbreaks, prompted by nothing but despair, ending in nothing but
destruction. Some were the explosions of local gangs; some spread wider. There were districts that rose
in blind rebellion, arrested the local officials, expelled the agents of Washington, killed the tax
collectors—then, announcing their secession from the country, went on to the final extreme of the very
evil that had destroyed them, as if fighting murder with suicide: went on to seize all property within their
reach, to declare community bondage of all to all, and to perish within a week, their meager loot
consumed, in the bloody hatred of all for all, in the chaos of no rule save that of the gun, to perish under
the lethargic thrust of a few worn soldiers sent out from Washington to bring order to the ruins.
The newspapers did not mention it. The editorials went on speaking of self-denial as the road to future
progress, of self-sacrifice as the moral imperative, of greed as the enemy, of love as the solution—their
threadbare phrases as sickeningly sweet as the odor of ether in a hospital.
Rumors went spreading through the country in whispers of cynical terror—yet people read the
newspapers and acted as if they believed what they read, each competing with the others on who would
keep most blindly silent, each pretending that he did not know what he knew, each striving to believe that
the unnamed was the unreal. It was as if a volcano were cracking open, yet the people at the foot of the
mountain ignored the sudden fissures, the black fumes, the boiling trickles, and went on believing that
their only danger was to acknowledge the reality of these signs.
"Listen to Mr. Thompson's report on the world crisis, November 22!"
It was the first acknowledgment of the unacknowledged. The announcements began to appear a week in
advance and went ringing across the country. "Mr. Thompson will give the people a report on the world
crisis! Listen to Mr. Thompson on every radio station and television channel at 8 P.M., on November
22!"
First, the front pages of the newspapers and the shouts of the radio voices had explained it: "To
counteract the fears and rumors spread by the enemies of the people, Mr. Thompson will address the
country on November 22 and will give us a full report on the state of the world in this solemn moment of
global crisis. Mr. Thompson will put an end to those sinister forces whose purpose is to keep us in terror
and despair. He will bring light into the darkness of the world and will show us the way out of our tragic
problems—a stern way, as befits the gravity of this hour, but a way of glory, as granted by the rebirth of
light.
Mr. Thompson's address will be carried by every radio station in this country and in all countries
throughout the world, wherever radio waves may still be heard."
Then the chorus broke loose and went growing day by day. "Listen to Mr. Thompson on November
22!" said daily headlines. "Don't forget Mr. Thompson on November 22!" cried radio stations at the end
of every program. "Mr. Thompson will tell you the truth!" said placards in subways and buses—then
posters on the walls of buildings —then billboards on deserted highways.
"Don't despair! Listen to Mr. Thompson!" said pennants on government cars, "Don't give up! Listen to
Mr. Thompson!" said banners in offices and shops. "Have faith! Listen to Mr. Thompson!" said voices in
churches. "Mr. Thompson will give you the answer!" wrote army airplanes across the sky, the letters
dissolving in space, and only the last two words remaining by the time the sentence was completed.