First, distinctions between the two women:

Dagny Taggert (Atlas Shrugged) is the Vice-President of Taggert Railroads, despite the handicapping factor of her femininity. She has earned her position, unlike her nepotistic brother, James, Taggert Railroads’ President. She prefers suit-pants and wears dresses only occasionally. She smokes. She loves only successful men. She builds things only to have society destroy them.

She fights faltering industry, searching for competent workers. She wants to make the world work, wants to make it better, regardless of how hard it lashes back at her.

She wants to make her railroad work. Because it’s hers.

She works against Galt because she wants to have faith in people. And because she doesn’t want to let go of her own property.

Dominique Francon (The Fountainhead) is the wealthy heir of an architect. She loathes society: It repeats, it copies, it steals. She writes a column about architecture in a Wynard paper, for the general public, as all Wynard articles are. She despises the masses, but she chooses to prod fun at them by participating in the system.

She doesn’t make full use of any of her talents. She destroys beautiful things to avoid letting society destroy them. She tries to defeat Roark because he is beautiful, and she believes she has to beat society to the punch.

Dominique sees through society, knows masses are motivated by ignorance and laziness, are easily led. And so she mocks. But Dagny sees the problems without understanding the motivations. She is a doer and not a sardonic watcher-on. So she tries to fix. Desperately.

Dominique must learn to accept mankind’s foolishness without living in fear of it. To live within society and try to achieve, regardless of the world. Dagny must learn to turn her back on the world and her achievements, until mankind is ready to accept them.

Understanding Rand’s point of reference, her major female characters are prodigious - born into wealth and success, but possessed of the will and nerve to maintain reputations free of stereotype. Indeed, in terms of occupation and behavior, Rand’s women are deliberately more masculine than feminine. This woman-as-man character is feminine only when she chooses and primarily in terms of sexuality (Dagny and Dominique) or as a means by which to gain unsavory respect and favors (Dominique). This is both progressive for the era, by suggesting that women both can achieve great goals and deserve the chance to do so, and regressive - it only sees women as successful if they are successful in the same ways as men and never as the ultimate establishers of revolution and progress.

In each book, the male alone, the perfect male (the one I firmly believe Rand would have been attracted to, were he alive), succeeds in fully changing society: rising above all expectations and pre-concieved patterns through his own individuality and self-confidence or by founding a private utopia to restore vitality and innovation to the world. He begins with incorruptible ideals and even she, his counter-part, must learn from him: to abandon society’s opinions and ignorance or it’s slovenly greed nestled behind altruism. He studies hard math or science (Roark - Civil Engineering; Galt - Physics and Philosophy); he is physically fit, tall, sharp-boned and striking. Galt at least, with his blond hair and blue eyes, could be Russian in physiognomy, by description. (Though not so, Howard Roark, whose most outstanding physical characteristic is his redheaded-ness.)

In Atlas Shrugged, in particular, Dagny overpowers men in almost every field. Except for that of sexuality. Here, she is submissive almost to a fault, seeking only to be used for the male protagonist’s pleasure. Even when Hank Rearden believes his desires towards her degrade her, she wishes only to be “degraded”. In Dominique’s case, she even wishes to be “raped” in order to feel more completely owned by Roark. This, perhaps, is Rand’s way of showing that sex is not disgraceful, that a woman may succeed within her career but still have womanly instincts. But must womanly instincts be also submissive instincts?
As both Dagny and Dominique feel similarly about sex, one can only assume that Rand herself was looking for a “perfect” man to be dominated by.

Something else worthy of note: in her two primary novels, both Roark and Galt face true competitors for their positions as prime-lovers. Roark by Wynard, the empire-savant, and Galt by both Francisco d’Anconia, Dagny’s adolescent lover, and Hank Rearden, the inventor of Rearden Steel. And yet, overall, neither had even the possibility of being displaced, for both have such charming self-possession, intelligence, work-ethic and natural confidence that they are glorified almost to the immortal. Both women do have real emotional attachment towards the other men, but neither allow this to overtake their affection for Galt or Roark. And in both stories, he knows it, flaunts it, doesn’t let her forget that she can’t live without him.

(An interesting exception here is Peter, whom Dominique never loves, never tries to love, and who, while successful, is never so in his own right. He is “competition” for Roark only in the sense that time Miss Francon spends with him, even in marriage, is time Roark doesn’t have. Which is precisely as Dominique intends it.)

Besides these few competitors, both women are essentially chaste. Dominique, for all her icy beauty is a virgin until her encounter with Roark. Dagny has been with both d’Anconia and Rearden before John Galt but staunchly avoided anyone between these far interspersed relationships. From this, we can gather that Rand doesn’t want her characters labeled whores, but rather seeks to prove that women too can have multiple partners.

It’s difficult to determine whether Rand was a true believer in women’s equality, or only an ardent feminist in terms of social, rather than sexual, gender relations. Furthermore, must the two be different? Could supporting social equality be all that is required of feminists, while sexual preferences are left as an altogether separate issue?

While they might seem the complete product of circumstance, there is always one basis for any love triangle: poor timing.

There are two basic scenarios:

If a girl and a boy are (ostensibly) in love and have just committed to each other, but the boy meets another girl and (unintentionally, against his best efforts) falls head-over-heels for her, there may be a love-triangle.

Similarly, if a boy meets a girl and falls in love with her but cannot at that moment stay with her, or believes he will never see her again, and returns home or moves to meet a new girl, his closest match since the first, whom he commits to, only to consistently run into the first girl again, there may be a love-triangle.

The question that then arises to any author is, which is more valuable, love or commitment?

If commitment is the foundation of love, one may well err with commitment. But if love is not an ephemeral concept, not a mere spark but a Vestal hearth which burns regardless of will, commitment only serves as a chain to bind.

Certainly, one cannot undervalue commitment - without it there would be no monogamy, no lives together. But commitment is often just another tool to create obligations on behalf of the hero, another way to test his integrity.

But is choosing to remain with one you love (but less) integrity? Or is choosing to betray commitment at society’s behest to pursue a stronger love integrity?

Perhaps it depends on the situation. The hero who is choosing to look for a greater love is never sacrificing just himself. There are often others, perhaps even beyond the one he is originally committed to, who will suffer because of his decision. In the end, his joy must outweigh their despair, or regardless of his desire, he must stay with his original lover.

On the other hand, failure to discern the appropriate reaction (if one reaction clearly outweighs the other) can be considered a tragic flaw. The hero who walks away from his family and children for another woman, or who chooses a lusty and evanescent affair over his wife might be viewed through such a lens.

In some instances, there simply is no correct reaction. Choosing to stay with the first love in light of the second is false, but choosing to go with the second despite the first is hurtful. Both persons are lovable, both persons are loved, both persons could create happiness. In such a situation one could reason both that to switch from a successful, happy relationship to an unfounded, potentially happy relationship is a pointless risk, and conversely, that if such a chance is not taken, it will be regretted for as long as the hero lives.

Which side erred on and the complexities of the choice are critical to the development and depth of all characters involved.

You cannot own people - and even if they say you do, they can’t mean permanently or completely; they can’t mean with all of the caveats you wish to impose (”Don’t talk to her.” “Don’t stand so close.” “Don’t go.”).

Yet, I wish I owned you - in the worst and best ways possible. I wish I could make you stay with me, indefinitely. I wish I could know you would never fall for anyone else. I wish I could set rules for you to follow, so I could be certain of your behavior.

But I want you to be you, and I want you to choose me and restrict your behavior accordingly. I don’t want to need to make rules or worry about having them broken.

I wish I owned you - I, the ever competitive. I wish I could defeat you, my one steady foe over these past years.

But then, I enjoy the struggle, and I enjoy your challenge - the thrill of knowing you might succeed where I cannot. Compared to matching our wills, I would find unearned dominance shallow.

I wish I owned you, but more accurately, I wish I knew you would continue to choose me, to give yourself to me of you own free accord.

No, I cannot own you, but I need you to be mine.

The ink heart on my hand bleeds
Like I will
If you leave.