So Who's John Galt?

Where's Ragnar Danneskjold? I want to smoke a cigar with Francisco D'Anconia and have a drink with Hank Rearden.

He was holding her half-stretched across the bed. He was tearing her clothes off, while her face was pressed against him, her mouth moving down the line of his neck, down his shoulder. She knew that every gesture of her desire for him struck him like a blow, that there was some shudder of incredulous anger within him - yet that no gesture would satisfy his greed for every evidence of her desire.

She knew that what she felt with the skin of her arms was the cloth of his shirt, she knew that the lips she felt on her mouth were his, but in the rest of her there was no distinction between his being and her own, as there was no division between body and spirit. Through of the steps of the years behind them, the steps down a course chosen in the courage of a single loyalty: their love of existence - chosen in the knowledge that nothing will be given, that one must make one's own desire and every shape of its fulfillment - through the steps of shaping metal, rails, and motors - they had moved by the power of the thought that one remakes the world for one's enjoyment, that man's spirit gives meaning to insentient matter by molding it to serve one's chosen goal. The course led them to the moment when, in answer to the highest of one's values, in an admiration not to be expressed by any other form of tribute, one's spirit makes one's body become the tribute, recasting it - as proof, as sanction, as reward - into a single sensation of such intensity of joy that no other sanction of one's existence is necessary. He heard the moan of her breath, she felt the shudder of his body, in the same instant.

Ahhh. It doesn't get much better than reading Ayn Rand at the age of eighteen.