I came across the phrase "Take what you want, but pay the price" again today, and it struck me in a way it hadn't before. Often attributed to Ayn Rand, the phrase’s true origins trace back to Balzac, yet Rand's use of it has cemented it as part of her philosophical lexicon. On the surface, the phrase feels empowering — a bold declaration that the world is yours if you are willing to endure the cost. But the more I sit with it, the more I find myself wondering if there's another layer to this idea — one that Rand’s work hints at but never quite captures. Lately, I've been drawn to the quieter wisdom found in Zen practice, particularly the image presented in The Sixth Zen Patriarch in Contemplation by Yanyong Ding. Both Rand's philosophy and the Zen tradition confront the reality of cost — that every pursuit requires something in return — yet they approach that truth from vastly different directions.
For Rand, this concept underscores her belief in individualism and personal responsibility. To her, achievement is never free; it demands focus, sacrifice, and resilience. In Atlas Shrugged, Francisco d’Anconia famously declares, “You can have anything you want... but you cannot have everything you want. You can have your cake, if you’re willing to bake it. But if you eat it, it’s gone. You can’t eat your cake and have it, too.” This sentiment reflects Rand’s conviction that success — whether in art, love, or business — is transactional. You may pursue your ambitions freely, but the price will be steep, and you alone must bear it.
That idea has resonated with me at points in my life. When I was working on my doctorate, I knew the cost would be measured in late nights, strained relationships, and the constant presence of self-doubt. I accepted that price, believing, as Rand suggests, that effort alone would see me through. “The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me,” Rand once wrote — a line that often feels like a call to arms for those determined to achieve their goals. But what I didn’t understand at the time — and what Rand’s philosophy tends to overlook — is that effort is not always enough. Sometimes the price isn’t paid in sweat or sleepless nights; sometimes it’s paid in stillness, surrender, and the willingness to let go.
That’s what draws me to the monk in The Sixth Zen Patriarch in Contemplation. In the painting, the monk lies peacefully beside a tiger — a creature that traditionally symbolizes power, aggression, and danger. The tiger’s wide, cartoonish eyes seem playful, yet there’s an unmistakable tension in the image. The monk’s calm isn’t passive; it’s deliberate, the product of mastery over fear and impulse. In this way, the monk has taken what he wants — peace — but he has done so by paying a very different kind of price. Unlike Rand’s heroes, who achieve by force of will, the monk’s peace comes not from exertion, but from surrender. His stillness reveals a hard-earned wisdom: that some forms of power — particularly the power to accept what we cannot control — are achieved only by relinquishing the need to control them.
In Zen practice, this kind of surrender is fundamental. As Thich Nhat Hanh writes, “People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.” The monk's willingness to lie calmly beside the tiger reflects this kind of surrender — an acceptance that the tiger may always be there, but that peace is still possible. Where Rand’s philosophy suggests that control is the ultimate path to success, Zen teaches that true mastery often requires giving up control altogether. In this sense, the monk's stillness is a kind of courage — the courage to sit quietly with what is uncomfortable, rather than forcing a desired outcome.
I think back to the moments in my own life when I tried to force things to go my way — believing that if I worked harder, pushed further, or simply endured longer, I could make things happen. For years, I treated success as if it were something I could wrestle into submission. But what I’ve come to learn — often painfully — is that some things resist force. Love cannot be forced. Healing cannot be hurried. Grief cannot be outpaced. In these cases, the price is not more effort but less — the willingness to slow down, sit with discomfort, and accept that some things are beyond my control. As Lao Tzu writes in the Tao Te Ching, “Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear?”
Both Rand’s philosophy and Zen’s teachings speak to the inevitability of cost. Rand demands that we fight and endure, willing to suffer for what we want. Zen asks us to release attachment, to quiet the ego, and to find peace by ceasing to struggle. Both offer wisdom — but only one acknowledges that sometimes the most difficult price to pay is the acceptance that no amount of effort can guarantee the outcome we desire.
The monk’s calm beside the tiger reminds me that peace isn’t the absence of hardship — it’s learning to live beside it. In my own life, I’ve tried both paths: I’ve worked tirelessly to achieve what I believed I wanted, and I’ve struggled to accept the things I cannot change. What I’m learning now is that sometimes the greatest act of courage is knowing which price to pay — when to fight and when to surrender. The tiger is always there — whether it’s ambition, fear, or regret — and the cost of peace is not to conquer it, but to learn how to lie still beside it.