Outfits I Have Coveted In Atlas Shrugged -The Toast

Say what you will about Ayn Rand, but that monster could describe a dress.

“She lay in bed, propped up on pillows of pale green linen. Her bed jacket was pale green satin, worn with the untouched perfection of a window model; its lustrous folds looked as if the crinkle of tissue paper still lingered among them. The light, shaded to a tone of apple blossoms, fell on a table that held a book, a glass of fruit juice, and toilet accessories of silver glittering like instruments in a surgeon’s case. Her arms had a tinge of porcelain. There was a touch of pale pink lipstick on her mouth.”

NOBODY LOOKS GOOD WEARING PALE GREEN, IT IS A RECIPE FOR LOOKING SALLOW AND CONSUMPTIVE, BUT DAMN IF I DON’T WANT TO SIT IN THAT ROOM BREATHING SOME APPLE-SCENTED AIR IN A SICKLY GODDAMN BED JACKET

“The dress she wore was a slender tunic of dusty blue that gave her a look of unprotected simplicity, the look of a statue in the blue shadows of a garden under the summer sun. What he brought and put over her shoulders was a cape of blue fox that swallowed her from the curve of her chin to the tips of her sandals.”

SWALLOWED BY FURS: THE SECRET DREAM OF EVERY WOMAN, EVEN IF SHE IS AGAINST FUR IN THEORY

“She wore a black dress that looked as if it were no more than a piece of cloth crossed over her breasts and falling to her feet in the soft folds of a Grecian tunic; it was made of satin, a satin so light and thin that it could have served as the stuff of a nightgown. The luster of the cloth, streaming and shifting with her movements, made it look as if the light of the room she entered were her personal property, sensitively obedient to-the motions of her body, wrapping her in a sheet of radiance more luxurious than the texture of brocade, underscoring the pliant fragility of her figure, giving her an air of so natural an elegance that it could afford to be scornfully casual. She wore a single piece of jewelry, a diamond clip at the edge of the black neckline, that kept flashing with the imperceptible motion of her breath, like a transformer converting a flicker into fire, making one conscious, not of the gems, but of the living beat behind them; it flashed like a military decoration, like wealth worn as a badge of honor. She wore no other ornament, only the sweep of a black velvet cape, more arrogantly, ostentatiously patrician than any spread of sables.”

FIND ME A DRESS THAT FEELS LIKE A NIGHTGOWN AND LOOKS “SCORNFULLY CASUAL” AND I WILL WEAR IT WHILE SLOWLY WALKING INTO THE SUN

“She moved at random, enjoying the sense of being seen, her eggshell satin gown shimmering like heavy cream with the motion of her tall figure.”

I WANT A DRESS THAT LOOKS LIKE I’M BATHING IN FULL-FAT DAIRY

“She wore a wine-colored dinner gown, an imitation of an Empire traveling suit, with a miniature double-breasted jacket gripping her high waistline over the long sweep of the skirt, and a small hat clinging to one ear, with a feather sweeping down to curl under her chin. She entered with a brusque, unrhythmical motion, the train of her dress and the feather of her hat swirling, then flapping against her legs and throat, like pennants signaling nervousness.”

WINE

PENNANTS

A CLINGING HAT

A BABY JACKET BUTTRESSING THE RIBS

THIS ISN’T A DRESS IT’S A WEARABLE CASTLE

“She stood leaning back, as if the air were a support solid enough for her thin, naked shoulder blades. Her evening gown was the color of glass.”

WAIT WHAT COLOR IS THAT

“The huge blanket of fur made her look like a child bundled for a snowstorm; the luxurious texture transformed the innocence of the awkward bundle into the elegance of a perversely intentional contrast: into a look of stressed sensuality. The fur was a soft brown, dimmed by an aura of blue that could not be seen, only felt like an enveloping mist, like a suggestion of color grasped not by one’s eyes but by one’s hands, as if one felt, without contact, the sensation of sinking one’s palms into the fur’s softness. The cape left nothing to be seen of her, except the brown of her hair, the blue-gray of her eyes, the shape of her mouth.”

INVISIBLE BLUE THAT CAN ONLY BE FELT LIKE A MIST AND NOT SEEN IS MY FAVORITE COLOR

“She wore an Empire garment of pale chartreuse, its pleated skirt streaming gracefully from its high waistline; one could not tell at first glance whether it was an evening gown or a negligee; it was a negligee.”

MY HEART WEARS A NEGLIGEE

“The huge hoop skirt of the wedding gown brushed against the walls when she moved, her slender figure swaying above the skirt in the dramatic contrast of a tight, severe, long-sleeved bodice; the gown had been made by the best designer in the city.”

FREEDOM ON THE BOTTOM, PRISON ON THE TOP; THIS DRESS IS THE OPPOSITE OF CAPITALISM AND THEREFORE OFFERS A WORTHY CRITIQUE OF RAND’S OWN POLITICS

“The pictures of Dagny Taggart in the newspapers had shown a figure dressed in slacks, or a face with a slanting hat brim and a raised coat collar. Now she wore a gray evening gown that seemed indecent, because it looked austerely modest, so modest that it vanished from one’s awareness and left one too aware of the slender body it pretended to cover. There was a tone of blue in the gray cloth that went with the gun-metal gray of her eyes. She wore no jewelry, only a bracelet on her wrist, a chain of heavy metal links with a green blue cast.”

I DON’T KNOW WHAT “SO MODEST IT VANISHED FROM AWARENESS” MEANS BUT THIS DRESS SOUNDS LIKE WEARING A GUN

“She wore a dark blue suit with a white blouse, beautifully tailored, suggesting an air of formal, almost military elegance. She sat straight, and her manner was severely dignified, just a shade too dignified.”

THE CLOTHES IN THESE BOOKS ARE BITCH CLOTHES AND THAT’S WHY I LOVE EM

“She stood leaning against a column, a cocktail glass in her hand. She wore a suit of black velvet; the heavy cloth, which transmitted no light rays, held her anchored to reality by stopping the light that flowed too freely through the flesh of her hands, her neck, her face. A white spark of fire flashed like a cold metallic cross in the glass she held, as if it were a lens gathering the diffused radiance of her skin.”

THIS LADY IS DRESSED LIKE LANCELOT CARRYING THE HOLY GRAIL

Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.

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ppyajunebug 137p · 546 weeks ago

I would have loved to see Ayn Rand as a fashion designer. I feel like she would have given up in frustration because none of her clothes seem like they could ever be real or be on real human beings, but GODDAMN she would try!

Outfits I Have Coveted In Atlas Shrugged

ByDaniel Mallory Ortberg

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