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!