I never tire of browsing in bookstores. I very seldom buy books, both because it is cheaper to take them out of the library and because if I rent them from the library I am motivated to read them by the due date. There are some sections of bookstores which always draw me near: the literary criticism section, where I investigate the supply of Barthes and Baudrillard, the women's issues section, and the biographies. Then I drift over to the rows of fiction lining the wall -- the fiction section inevitably snakes around the store. I pause near the I's, to read the back of John Irving's The 158-Pound Marriage for the umpteenth time. I pass by the Faulkner books to marvel at the luxuriously-bound gold and black editions of The Sound and the Fury, and I stare pensively at the Ayn Rand books, feeling that everything is all right in the world as my gaze passes over The Fountainhead. Wondering why Rand's other books, like The Virtue of Selfishness, are not in this section, I realize with a start that I will have to trek over to the non-fiction department for this book, the title of which I have been wanting to grace my bookshelf for years.