When the
other day I read about the Obama administration’s plan to inflate another real
estate bubble by reinstituting the same policies that led to the
mortgage/banking disaster of several years ago—no down payment, no proof of
income, no statement of assets and liabilities—I was reminded of an essay I
wrote on this blog on December 15, 2008.
* * *
Ayn Rand began
writing her magnum opus, the novel Atlas Shrugged, in 1943, [seventy]
years ago. It was published in 1957, a half-century ago.
Atlas
Shrugged
was prescient in its description of an America gone to ruin because of rampant
altruism, collectivism and statism, and apart from its many other virtues
Rand’s novel reads as though it was written today.
Part of the story involves a factory, Twentieth Century Motor Company, which in its heyday produced quality motors. The founder died. His Marxist children took over, implementing as the organizing principle of their operation the credo “from each according to his ability, to each according to his need”—and went bankrupt. Others took over the factory with a loan from Community National Bank, headed by one Eugene Lawson, a “banker with a heart,” who explained why he made the loan:
Part of the story involves a factory, Twentieth Century Motor Company, which in its heyday produced quality motors. The founder died. His Marxist children took over, implementing as the organizing principle of their operation the credo “from each according to his ability, to each according to his need”—and went bankrupt. Others took over the factory with a loan from Community National Bank, headed by one Eugene Lawson, a “banker with a heart,” who explained why he made the loan:
They [the borrowers]
were perfectly good men. They were a perfectly sound risk— though, of course, I am speaking in human
terms, not in the terms of cold cash, which you are accustomed to expect from
bankers. I granted them the loan for the purchase of that factory, because they
needed the money. If people needed money, that was enough for me. Need was my
standard, Miss Taggart. Need, not greed. My father and grandfather built up the
Community National Bank just to amass a fortune for themselves. I placed their
fortune in the service of a higher ideal. I did not sit on piles of money and
demand collateral from poor people who needed loans. The heart was my
collateral. Of course, I do not expect anyone in this materialistic country to
understand me. The rewards I got were not of a kind that people of your class,
Miss Taggart, would appreciate. The people who used to sit in front of my desk
at the bank, did not sit as you do, Miss Taggart. They were humble, uncertain,
worn with care, afraid to speak. My rewards were the tears of gratitude in
their eyes, the trembling voices, the blessings, the woman who kissed my hand
when I granted her a loan she had begged for in vain everywhere else.
The bank crashed.
Sound familiar?
Sound familiar?
