Especially the thing about the pleasures of watching the muscles at work - I feel it sometimes, particularly when reading women authors struggling with love-narratives, as an almost impossibly powerful sort of affection, all shot through with comradely resignation. There's no sensation quite like it. It is my favorite of all things. Watching the creature strain toward expression.
(I wonder if Brecht's muscular theatre might not be an equally good citation here as the Rand; the drama is in the play of definition, the constantly re-staged moment of choosing or disavowing affinity/desire)
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Especially the thing about the pleasures of watching the muscles at work - I feel it sometimes, particularly when reading women authors struggling with love-narratives, as an almost impossibly powerful sort of affection, all shot through with comradely resignation. There's no sensation quite like it. It is my favorite of all things. Watching the creature strain toward expression.
(I wonder if Brecht's muscular theatre might not be an equally good citation here as the Rand; the drama is in the play of definition, the constantly re-staged moment of choosing or disavowing affinity/desire)