I've always seen myself as more of an Eddie Willers than a John Galt.
No, scratch that. I'm not the type who could invent a new kind of motor, or pull Tesla-like power out of the air, but I'd like to think I could accomplish something a bit more useful with a stranded diesel locomotive than sitting in front of it crying.
Maybe I'm more of a Mike Donnigan.
I personally liked the characters in "The Fountainhead" more than those in "Atlas Shrugged." John Galt was tossed from Rand's head like Athena, with full understanding of his philosophy.
It was easier to identify with Howard Roark, who, like many of us, spent most of his story struggling with identifying the principles behind the way he lived his life. He lived heroically, but didn't really know why until the end of the book.
They did not speak about their work. Mallory told outrageous stories and Dominique laughed like a child. They talked about nothing in particular, sentences that had meaning only in the sound of the voices, in the warm gaiety, in the ease of complete relaxation. They were simply four people who liked being there together. The walls rising in the darkness beyond the open door gave sanction to their rest, gave them the right to lightness, the building on which they had all worked together, the building that was like a low, audible harmony to the sound of their voices. Roark laughed as Dominique had never seen him laugh anywhere else, his mouth loose and young.
They stayed there late into the night. Mallory poured coffee into a mongrel assortment of cracked cups. The odor of coffee met the odor of the new leaves outside.
I just can't see Galt in a scene like that.