The Fountainhead –
You either love it or simply hate it
I’d like to believe that the book chose me. A dear friend
gave it to me many months back, entreating me to read it and confessed it has a
very deep and sad romantic link in her life. She had not managed to read even a
page but insisted that she would feel spiritually fulfilled if I did. Although
I hated the fat, cheap print at first sight, I accepted it not to snub my
friend who had the appearance of someone doing one of the best deeds of a
lifetime. The amateurish cover with the
picture of a man holding a ball of light failed to capture my interest. Ayn
Rand’s The Fountainhead, it read. At that point in time, I didn’t have the
minutest clue that it was a classic, best seller that propounded a ground
breaking philosophy that changed the course of thinking for a whole generation
in the US and the world over. I could read no more than three pages of the book
that night.
Several weeks later, one boring evening with nothing to do,
I picked up the book, and once again started reading it with renewed
concentration – but phew! Couldn’t go past page 4. The Fountainhead was
destined to spend some more dusty days on my book shelf. Every time I abandoned
a book, I felt a great sense of guilt clawing at my heart. I was quite
desperate not to push this ‘loan’ of a
gift to the long list of books I had jilted. So it was with slight
trepidation that I ventured to give it another shot last month. This time, I
slowly crossed page 4 after which I realized there was no way I was jilting it!
Guess the book had sensed I was ready to relish its true beauty, and was
unravelling itself to me page by page. Every word and idea in it clung to me. I
felt a rush of adrenaline as Rand’s central characters began playing out their
roles. The book accompanied me everywhere I went, even to the bathroom. Just
holding it or carrying it in my bag gave me inexplicable satisfaction,
anticipation and hope.
The book promised to propel me beyond the plateau I found
myself stuck in – both in my professional and personal life. I felt once again
like the excited Literature student of the 1990s who scribbled quotable quotes
in her journal and walked about with a glint in her eyes, bubbling with nervous
energy and an unhidden thirst for accomplishment. I never wanted to stop
reading The Fountainhead, but I also didn’t want to finish reading it. Slowly,
paragraph by paragraph, I imbibed its words. And went about my daily routine,
day dreaming about the characters, their intent, inspiration and eccentricities
whenever possible.
I must confess, The Fountainhead is not for every mind. It
demands uninterrupted concentration and a penchant for abstract ideas to be
able to even read a few pages, leave alone relating to it and enjoying what it
proclaims to the world. Built on the foundations of architecture and the
principles that inspire the profession, the book reminded me of my close friend
in school (my rival and nemesis) – a versatile, brilliant soul and the only one who had become
an architect from among my batch mates. Another inspiration to keep reading the
book was a colleague who professed to have been in love with architecture
before he was forced to give in to his family’s pressure and veer into
engineering like most others.
Since it wasn’t light reading, I took almost a whole month
to complete the reading journey. A bumpy one that left me feeling a bit dizzy
and tired at the end of it.
Ayn Rand’s hero Howard Roark successfully proves to the
world that only unapologetic individualism and pure egotism can get man to grow, and create anything beautiful and worthwhile. Herd like mentality to pander to
popular taste or blindly follow established philosophies kills true creativity.
I could understand and perhaps even relate to all the characters including
Roark – the brilliant and stoic rebel, Gail Wynand – the powerful capitalist who
yields to popular public sentiments, Ellsworth Toohey– the cunning ideasmith
who moulds public opinion, and Peter Keating – the parasite who lives on borrowed ideas, growing to great heights of
fame.
However, the only soul that left me baffled and angry was Dominique
Falcon, the heroine whose actions confound the average mind. Any fiery feminist
will break down the premises on which Dominique was conceived and built upon. I
wonder why as a female writer, Ayn Rand shaped Dominique the way she has in this
book. She is the biggest crack in The Fountainhead, removing whom, the book
stands as a clever monument to individualism and egotism.
The Fountainhead is not a straightforward book. You either
love it or simply hate it. You got to experience it firsthand to understand
what I say here. Has it kept its promise of lunging me out into a fresh world
of inspiration? The impact is not immediate but I shall wait and watch!
