The Fountainhead: Chapter One - "Shitter On The Roof"
So, here goes. I'm a goin' in.
"HOWARD ROARK laughed.
He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone--flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays."
Oh Christ. This is going to be bad, isn't it? As opening paragraphs go this is...wow. This has I AM SEVENTEEN AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS MY PAIN written through it like BRIGHTON through rock. Dear fucking God, what have I let myself in for?
"His body leaned back against the sky. It was a body of long straight lines and angles, each curve broken into planes."
Yeah. I'm so fucked.
We also learn that curvy, plany, liney, angly nekkid Howard (who sounds like a cubist nude study) is ginger ("His hair was neither blond nor red, but the exact color of ripe orange rind.") and he's laughing about something that happened to him that morning - which I'm going to stick my neck out and say is probably not something the rest of us would consider funny but Howard is laughing in that darkly ironic way one can only laugh when one is SEVENTEEN AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS YOUR PAIN. Let's face it, he's probably not laughing at his pubes, although he should - with that improbable anime hair colour they must be a hilarious Ronald McDonald shade.
Sorry, I don't want to bombard you with block quotes the whole time but this is just...oh dear God, would you just look at this mess?
"He was looking at the granite. He did not laugh as his eyes stopped in awareness of the earth around him. His face was like a law of nature--a thing one could not question, alter or implore. It had high cheekbones over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the mouth of an executioner or a saint."
Oh, the Fountainhead's easy - they said. It's actually the most readable of all of Rand's work. Yeah right. Are you fucking kidding me? This is terrible. Terrible. This is the kind of bullshit I might have written when I was sixteen - his face was like a law of nature? Argh.
So, Howard looks out on nature and thinks about all the ways he's going to rape it to create buildings, and manages to remain incredibly pompous while doing so.
"He looked at the granite. To be cut, he thought, and made into walls. He looked at a tree. To be split and made into rafters. He looked at a streak of rust on the stone and thought of iron ore under the ground. To be melted and to emerge as girders against the sky. These rocks, he thought, are here for me; waiting for the drill, the dynamite and my voice; waiting to be split, ripped, pounded, reborn; waiting for the shape my hands will give them."
Howard, put your fucking knickers on and grow up. This can only end badly, you know. You're ruminating on your godlike power with your wingwang flapping in the breeze but before you know it you'll be holed up in some horrible collective in Colorado having to listen to that windy fuckbag John Galt. Nobody wants that, Howard. So stop waving your dick at Mother Nature - she's not impressed, although I'm sure she finds your pubes funny. You can count on Mother Nature to have a sense of humour, ostriches being a case in point.
He doesn't put his pants on. He jumps. And there was much rejoicing.
Except he was actually diving into a lake. Fuck.
And he can swim. Double fuck.
Turns out Howard was laughing because that morning he'd been expelled from the Architectural School of the Stanton Institute of Technology. He puts his tatty clothes on and walks back to his boarding house "with a loose, lazy expertness of motion." Or expertise, if you prefer. Why am I suddenly reminded of Twilight? Surely 'chagrined' can't be far off? Argh.
"People turned to look at Howard Roark as he passed. Some remained staring after him with sudden resentment. They could give no reason for it: it was an instinct his presence awakened in most people."
However, if Howard Roark had stopped to ask people why they resented him they'd have said 'Because you're an enormous self-centred bastard who thinks the world revolves your ridiculous angst.' Of course, Howard does not ask anyone because..."Howard Roark saw no one. For him, the streets were empty."
People don't like Howard because Howard has no concept of Other People. Funny, that. Because usually people can't get enough of people who live solely for themselves and never lift a finger for others - I mean, seriously? Aren't people like that always surrounded by friends and relatives who pile laughing babies in their laps and bring them hot suppers and call them whenever there's a party because it's not a party without them filling the room with the force of their warm, thoughtful personality? There was me thinking they died alone in cold flats that smelled of Winalot and old Lambert and Butler's and their passing was greeted by something akin to relief by those who were unlucky enough to be related to them. Clearly life experience has left me hopelessly naive. Thank you for this education, Ayn Rand.
Anyhoo - it's commencement day at the school and Howard runs into his landlady, Mrs. Keating, with whom he has a brief natter. Or rather, she natters and he looks at her like she's a piece of shit.
"He stood looking at her. She knew that he did not see her. No, she thought, it was not that exactly. He always looked straight at people and his damnable eyes never missed a thing, it was only that he made people feel as if they did not exist. He just stood looking. He would not answer."
Yeah, you see - I have no idea why anyone wouldn't adore Howard. Isn't he a sweetheart? (Oh, and the headhopping in this section is already appalling - clunking back and forth between the characters. Word to the wise - if you can't do it without it looking clunky either practise until you can or don't fucking do it at all.)
We learn that the Dean has called for Howard, also that Mrs. Keating's son Peter is graduating today. Roark goes up to his room and looks at his architectural drawings.
"The structures were austere and simple, until one looked at them and realized what work, what complexity of method, what tension of thought had achieved the simplicity. No laws had dictated a single detail. The buildings were not Classical, they were not Gothic, they were not Renaissance. They were only Howard Roark.
Right so. Then he finds one he hates and slashes it all up. Cheer up, Emo kid.
Mrs. Keating comes up to observe what a singular and unusual young man Howard is and tells him he ought to dress to meet the Dean. Howard doesn't, because the Dean is no longer his Dean. Bear in mind he's not showered and probably smells like the bottom of a pond from wallowing nekkid in the lake, but Howard's just too special to observe courtesies like putting on a clean shirt and not smelling like the bottom of a pond. Shit, he is literally Ebony Dark'Ness Dementia Raven Way. It's only a matter of time before he starts bellowing at people for being 'stoppid prep sheepz' and slathering on the black eyeliner with a trowel.
There then follows a long description of the university in which it is compared to "a medieval fortress, with a Gothic cathedral grafted to its belly." Okay then. I have a feeling it's meant to sound both ecclestiastical and ridiculous to demonstrate Rand's contempt for the church - let's face it, subtlety was never her strong point.
"When Roark entered the office, the outlines of the Dean’s figure swam dimly behind his desk, which was carved like a confessional. He was a short, plumpish gentleman whose spreading flesh was held in check by an indomitable dignity."
This is some of the ugliest prose I have ever encountered in my life. Nothing fits and everything feels as though it's been slapped there for effect. It's just so...Sixth Form, for want of a better expression. This is the kind of vague metaphorical puke you spew forth while listening to Radiohead's Fake Plastic Trees and crying into your UCAS forms because your boyfriend hasn't called. (Well, I did. I don't know what you were doing.)
Howard has a chat with the Dean in which he basically says learning about architecture is worthless to him because he's just that fucking l33t - in the process of which he appears to diss Palladio, dismissing all Renaissance architecture as 'Italian postcards'. Naturally Rand doesn't mention Palladio by name because what Ayn Rand appears to know about architecture could very well be written on the back of an Italian postcard with plenty of room leftover to draw a big hairy cock with jizz-drops squirting from the crown. And balls. Massive balls.
Then Howard takes a ruler and tells the Dean that the Parthenon is a pile of shite. Howard, you're like, soooo edgy! You're the edgiest iconoclast to ever slaughter a sacred cow! Wow, you're so daring!
I cannot believe this book was written by an adult. It reads like the frothings of a very angry teenager.
Then we get this:
"The Client," said the Dean. "The Client. Think of that above all. He’s the one to live in the house you build. Your only purpose is to serve him. You must aspire to give the proper artistic expression to his wishes. Isn’t that all one can say on the subject?"
"Well, I could say that I must aspire to build for my client the most comfortable, the most logical, the most beautiful house that can be built. I could say that I must try to sell him the best I have and also teach him to know the best. I could say it, but I won’t. Because I don’t intend to build in order to serve or help anyone. I don’t intend to build in order to have clients. I intend to have clients in order to build."
"How do you propose to force your ideas on them?"
"I don’t propose to force or be forced. Those who want me will come to me."
HUH?
Yeah, give it up, Howie. You're destined to be the worst architect in history, if you ever get the chance to practise. I mean, can you imagine? Picture the scene - Howard is hanging out in his office, naked, waving his plonker at a globe on the desk, contemplating covering the island of Madagascar with his creative juices.* The 'phone rings.
Howard: Roark
Client: Howard, hi. How's it going?
Howard: Skip the pleasantries, peon. I'm a busy man. What do you want?
Client: Er...right. Um...it's about the house.
Howard: The house is magnificent. It is stark, beautiful, cold. Like my soul.
Client: Okay. Yeah. It's terrific - we like it a lot. It's just that...well...my wife can't seem to find the facilities, if you catch my drift.
Howard: I do not build to provide you with facilities.
Client: Yes, so you say - but we're paying you. I'll get to the point, Howard - where's the fucking toilet? It's not in the bathroom where it should be.
Howard: Ahahahah, yes. It would disturb the clean lines of my vision, so I removed it. I took pity on you and your pathetic defecative needs and placed it somewhere where it will not be so obtrusive.
Client: (Testily) Yeah. Fine. Where'd you put it?
Howard: On the roof.
Client: You put the toilet on the roof? Are you insane?
Howard: Just because it is customary to put toilets in bathrooms I do not see why I should follow suit. The triumph of the individual...
Client: Fuck the triumph of the individual. I have a toilet on my roof. How am I supposed to get up there?
Howard: Through your own initiative. It is not my concern.
Client: (Pause) No, Howard - this is the bit where you tell me that you at least provided a stepladder. And you didn't, did you? So my wife and I are supposed to somehow BOOTSTRAP our way onto the roof in order to pee - is that what you're telling me? And while we're on the subject, why is the electrical socket right next to the bath? Water + electricity = NOT GOOD. Did you not take that particular science class?
Howard: Man should not fear electricity. It is the fire of the Gods and man is master. Our mastery of electricity is the triumph of Prometheus unbound...**
Client: You're so fucking fired, Roark. And yes, I will be suing you, even if you can't afford it. I can't imagine you have many clients left.
(Howard gazes down at an empty book of appointments and smiles slowly. His eyes are mad and a slow trickle of drool runs down his chin.)
Howard: Let them come. Let them come.
* Covering Madagascar in terrible squirming nastiness is notoriously difficult, as anyone who has ever played Pandemic II can attest. They always close the fucking ports.
** Rand, a notorious fag-ash Lil, said that smoking was good because it 'represented the triumph of man over fire' and viewed it as an act 'of Promethean creativity.' Unfortunately, as she later discovered, Man's triumph over CANCER was still pending.
"HOWARD ROARK laughed.
He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone--flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays."
Oh Christ. This is going to be bad, isn't it? As opening paragraphs go this is...wow. This has I AM SEVENTEEN AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS MY PAIN written through it like BRIGHTON through rock. Dear fucking God, what have I let myself in for?
"His body leaned back against the sky. It was a body of long straight lines and angles, each curve broken into planes."
Yeah. I'm so fucked.
We also learn that curvy, plany, liney, angly nekkid Howard (who sounds like a cubist nude study) is ginger ("His hair was neither blond nor red, but the exact color of ripe orange rind.") and he's laughing about something that happened to him that morning - which I'm going to stick my neck out and say is probably not something the rest of us would consider funny but Howard is laughing in that darkly ironic way one can only laugh when one is SEVENTEEN AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS YOUR PAIN. Let's face it, he's probably not laughing at his pubes, although he should - with that improbable anime hair colour they must be a hilarious Ronald McDonald shade.
Sorry, I don't want to bombard you with block quotes the whole time but this is just...oh dear God, would you just look at this mess?
"He was looking at the granite. He did not laugh as his eyes stopped in awareness of the earth around him. His face was like a law of nature--a thing one could not question, alter or implore. It had high cheekbones over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the mouth of an executioner or a saint."
Oh, the Fountainhead's easy - they said. It's actually the most readable of all of Rand's work. Yeah right. Are you fucking kidding me? This is terrible. Terrible. This is the kind of bullshit I might have written when I was sixteen - his face was like a law of nature? Argh.
So, Howard looks out on nature and thinks about all the ways he's going to rape it to create buildings, and manages to remain incredibly pompous while doing so.
"He looked at the granite. To be cut, he thought, and made into walls. He looked at a tree. To be split and made into rafters. He looked at a streak of rust on the stone and thought of iron ore under the ground. To be melted and to emerge as girders against the sky. These rocks, he thought, are here for me; waiting for the drill, the dynamite and my voice; waiting to be split, ripped, pounded, reborn; waiting for the shape my hands will give them."
Howard, put your fucking knickers on and grow up. This can only end badly, you know. You're ruminating on your godlike power with your wingwang flapping in the breeze but before you know it you'll be holed up in some horrible collective in Colorado having to listen to that windy fuckbag John Galt. Nobody wants that, Howard. So stop waving your dick at Mother Nature - she's not impressed, although I'm sure she finds your pubes funny. You can count on Mother Nature to have a sense of humour, ostriches being a case in point.
He doesn't put his pants on. He jumps. And there was much rejoicing.
Except he was actually diving into a lake. Fuck.
And he can swim. Double fuck.
Turns out Howard was laughing because that morning he'd been expelled from the Architectural School of the Stanton Institute of Technology. He puts his tatty clothes on and walks back to his boarding house "with a loose, lazy expertness of motion." Or expertise, if you prefer. Why am I suddenly reminded of Twilight? Surely 'chagrined' can't be far off? Argh.
"People turned to look at Howard Roark as he passed. Some remained staring after him with sudden resentment. They could give no reason for it: it was an instinct his presence awakened in most people."
However, if Howard Roark had stopped to ask people why they resented him they'd have said 'Because you're an enormous self-centred bastard who thinks the world revolves your ridiculous angst.' Of course, Howard does not ask anyone because..."Howard Roark saw no one. For him, the streets were empty."
People don't like Howard because Howard has no concept of Other People. Funny, that. Because usually people can't get enough of people who live solely for themselves and never lift a finger for others - I mean, seriously? Aren't people like that always surrounded by friends and relatives who pile laughing babies in their laps and bring them hot suppers and call them whenever there's a party because it's not a party without them filling the room with the force of their warm, thoughtful personality? There was me thinking they died alone in cold flats that smelled of Winalot and old Lambert and Butler's and their passing was greeted by something akin to relief by those who were unlucky enough to be related to them. Clearly life experience has left me hopelessly naive. Thank you for this education, Ayn Rand.
Anyhoo - it's commencement day at the school and Howard runs into his landlady, Mrs. Keating, with whom he has a brief natter. Or rather, she natters and he looks at her like she's a piece of shit.
"He stood looking at her. She knew that he did not see her. No, she thought, it was not that exactly. He always looked straight at people and his damnable eyes never missed a thing, it was only that he made people feel as if they did not exist. He just stood looking. He would not answer."
Yeah, you see - I have no idea why anyone wouldn't adore Howard. Isn't he a sweetheart? (Oh, and the headhopping in this section is already appalling - clunking back and forth between the characters. Word to the wise - if you can't do it without it looking clunky either practise until you can or don't fucking do it at all.)
We learn that the Dean has called for Howard, also that Mrs. Keating's son Peter is graduating today. Roark goes up to his room and looks at his architectural drawings.
"The structures were austere and simple, until one looked at them and realized what work, what complexity of method, what tension of thought had achieved the simplicity. No laws had dictated a single detail. The buildings were not Classical, they were not Gothic, they were not Renaissance. They were only Howard Roark.
Right so. Then he finds one he hates and slashes it all up. Cheer up, Emo kid.
Mrs. Keating comes up to observe what a singular and unusual young man Howard is and tells him he ought to dress to meet the Dean. Howard doesn't, because the Dean is no longer his Dean. Bear in mind he's not showered and probably smells like the bottom of a pond from wallowing nekkid in the lake, but Howard's just too special to observe courtesies like putting on a clean shirt and not smelling like the bottom of a pond. Shit, he is literally Ebony Dark'Ness Dementia Raven Way. It's only a matter of time before he starts bellowing at people for being 'stoppid prep sheepz' and slathering on the black eyeliner with a trowel.
There then follows a long description of the university in which it is compared to "a medieval fortress, with a Gothic cathedral grafted to its belly." Okay then. I have a feeling it's meant to sound both ecclestiastical and ridiculous to demonstrate Rand's contempt for the church - let's face it, subtlety was never her strong point.
"When Roark entered the office, the outlines of the Dean’s figure swam dimly behind his desk, which was carved like a confessional. He was a short, plumpish gentleman whose spreading flesh was held in check by an indomitable dignity."
This is some of the ugliest prose I have ever encountered in my life. Nothing fits and everything feels as though it's been slapped there for effect. It's just so...Sixth Form, for want of a better expression. This is the kind of vague metaphorical puke you spew forth while listening to Radiohead's Fake Plastic Trees and crying into your UCAS forms because your boyfriend hasn't called. (Well, I did. I don't know what you were doing.)
Howard has a chat with the Dean in which he basically says learning about architecture is worthless to him because he's just that fucking l33t - in the process of which he appears to diss Palladio, dismissing all Renaissance architecture as 'Italian postcards'. Naturally Rand doesn't mention Palladio by name because what Ayn Rand appears to know about architecture could very well be written on the back of an Italian postcard with plenty of room leftover to draw a big hairy cock with jizz-drops squirting from the crown. And balls. Massive balls.
Then Howard takes a ruler and tells the Dean that the Parthenon is a pile of shite. Howard, you're like, soooo edgy! You're the edgiest iconoclast to ever slaughter a sacred cow! Wow, you're so daring!
I cannot believe this book was written by an adult. It reads like the frothings of a very angry teenager.
Then we get this:
"The Client," said the Dean. "The Client. Think of that above all. He’s the one to live in the house you build. Your only purpose is to serve him. You must aspire to give the proper artistic expression to his wishes. Isn’t that all one can say on the subject?"
"Well, I could say that I must aspire to build for my client the most comfortable, the most logical, the most beautiful house that can be built. I could say that I must try to sell him the best I have and also teach him to know the best. I could say it, but I won’t. Because I don’t intend to build in order to serve or help anyone. I don’t intend to build in order to have clients. I intend to have clients in order to build."
"How do you propose to force your ideas on them?"
"I don’t propose to force or be forced. Those who want me will come to me."
HUH?
Yeah, give it up, Howie. You're destined to be the worst architect in history, if you ever get the chance to practise. I mean, can you imagine? Picture the scene - Howard is hanging out in his office, naked, waving his plonker at a globe on the desk, contemplating covering the island of Madagascar with his creative juices.* The 'phone rings.
Howard: Roark
Client: Howard, hi. How's it going?
Howard: Skip the pleasantries, peon. I'm a busy man. What do you want?
Client: Er...right. Um...it's about the house.
Howard: The house is magnificent. It is stark, beautiful, cold. Like my soul.
Client: Okay. Yeah. It's terrific - we like it a lot. It's just that...well...my wife can't seem to find the facilities, if you catch my drift.
Howard: I do not build to provide you with facilities.
Client: Yes, so you say - but we're paying you. I'll get to the point, Howard - where's the fucking toilet? It's not in the bathroom where it should be.
Howard: Ahahahah, yes. It would disturb the clean lines of my vision, so I removed it. I took pity on you and your pathetic defecative needs and placed it somewhere where it will not be so obtrusive.
Client: (Testily) Yeah. Fine. Where'd you put it?
Howard: On the roof.
Client: You put the toilet on the roof? Are you insane?
Howard: Just because it is customary to put toilets in bathrooms I do not see why I should follow suit. The triumph of the individual...
Client: Fuck the triumph of the individual. I have a toilet on my roof. How am I supposed to get up there?
Howard: Through your own initiative. It is not my concern.
Client: (Pause) No, Howard - this is the bit where you tell me that you at least provided a stepladder. And you didn't, did you? So my wife and I are supposed to somehow BOOTSTRAP our way onto the roof in order to pee - is that what you're telling me? And while we're on the subject, why is the electrical socket right next to the bath? Water + electricity = NOT GOOD. Did you not take that particular science class?
Howard: Man should not fear electricity. It is the fire of the Gods and man is master. Our mastery of electricity is the triumph of Prometheus unbound...**
Client: You're so fucking fired, Roark. And yes, I will be suing you, even if you can't afford it. I can't imagine you have many clients left.
(Howard gazes down at an empty book of appointments and smiles slowly. His eyes are mad and a slow trickle of drool runs down his chin.)
Howard: Let them come. Let them come.
* Covering Madagascar in terrible squirming nastiness is notoriously difficult, as anyone who has ever played Pandemic II can attest. They always close the fucking ports.
** Rand, a notorious fag-ash Lil, said that smoking was good because it 'represented the triumph of man over fire' and viewed it as an act 'of Promethean creativity.' Unfortunately, as she later discovered, Man's triumph over CANCER was still pending.