“It's not a question of who will allow me to do it, it's a question of who will stop me.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you're thinking seriously of building that way, when and if you are an architect?”“Yes.”“My dear fellow, who will let you?”“That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?”

“My dear fellow, who will let you?""That's not the point. The point is, who will stop me?”

“[Dean] “My dear fellow, who will let you?”[Roark] “That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?”

“I'd like to think that I am wrong, that those words mean nothing, that there's no conscious intention and no avenger behind the ending of the human race. But when I hear them repeating that question, I feel afraid. I think of the man who said that he would stop the motor of the world. You see, his name was John Galt.”

“It meant nothing to him any longer, only a faint tinge of sadness--and somewhere within him, a drop of pain moving briefly and vanishing, like a raindrop on the glass of a window, its course in the shape of a question mark.”

“He needed the people and the clamour around him. There was no questions and no doubts when he stood on a platform over a sea of faces; the air was heavy, compact, saturated with a single solvent-admiration; there was no room for anything else. He was great; great as the number of people who told him so. He was right; right as the number of people who believed it. He looked at the faces, at the eyes, he saw himself born in them, he saw himself granted the gift of life. That was Peter Keating, that, the reflection in those staring pupils, and his body was only it's reflection.”