What if someone set you up on a date with Anais Nin, but they made a mistake, and they had actually arranged that liaison with Ayn Rand instead?

That would be awful (and only slightly in a religious sense)… You came to the Grand Guignol in your best tattered linen suit, looking for a bottle of Anjou and to be dazzled and obsessed and entranced with the teeming shifting universe of feeling that can exist between the love, longing and licentious loins of mysterious raging souls and instead what do you get? A five hour lecture on how literally no one else matters, but with meteor strikes and strikes against the mediocre and all assorted horny sturm and dammerung…

Don’t get me wrong, Ms Rand would be fascinating company for the evening, especially if you were a particularly self-confident seventeen year-old, but you’d come out with the sense of having missed out, wouldn’t you?

Both incredibly talented, intelligent writers born in the early nineteen-hundreds (my autocorrect tried to make me write that as nineteen undress) – world travellers with a taste for the States and an eye on immortality, in blissful orbit around their own slightly blazing gaudy misleading self-awareness…  They both come across as amazing, terrifying and unique (one maybe slightly more terrifying than the other) – on opposite ends of the emotional and empathic spectra… One obsessed with the fountainhead, the other with the maidenhead.

I’d like to think that I’d have a blazing row with Ms Rand and storm off having dropped the truth bomb that both second drafts and other people do exist, and I suspect that Ms Nin would get bored of me before the end of the first bottle of red, but seriously, in 1937, staying in the same Cuban hotel as both of them for a fortnight… Your blog would be worth reading then, wouldn’t it?