The Fountainhead Has Homoerotic Undertones
So, the yesterday I was talking to Firestone and I made a joke about the homoerotic undertones in The Fountainhead. He was fairly surprised to hear about this, until I linked him to the Facebook group. There's a small but convincing list of quotes there, which inspired me to acquire an e-book and see what I could find.
After randomly turning to a page revealed a slashy exchange between Roark and Cameron, I was kind of inspired to reread the whole thing. But I ignored all the monologues and masturbatory posturing and focused, you know, the Objvectivist equivalent of the dirty bits. I have to say, I have a much better understanding at the age of twenty than I did when I was 15 of what Dominique meant she wanted Howard to conquer and overpower her and, you know, take her now!
So! For your amusement, a rather ridiculously long list of slashy quotes I found in The Fountainhead.
(What? At one point, Gail and Roark go on a cruise, pointedly leaving behind Gail's beautiful wife, and lounge around yacht naked admiring each other's bodies and professing their love. I am not making this shit up)
Howard Roark/Henry Cameron
"Now, do you want it?"
"Yes," said Roark.
Cameron´s eyes dropped; then his head moved down a little, then a little farther; his head went on dropping slowly, in long, single jerks, then stopped; he sat still, his shoulders hunched, his arms huddled together in his lap.
"Howard," whispered Cameron, "I´ve never told it to anyone...."
"Thank you...." said Roark.
After a long time, Cameron raised his head.
"Go home now," said Cameron, his voice flat. "You´ve worked too much lately. And you have a hard day ahead."
Howard Roark/Peter Keating
At first, he was afraid of Roark's reaction. When he saw no reaction, only a silent obedience, he could restrain himself no longer. He felt a sensual pleasure in giving orders to Roark; and he felt also a fury of resentment at Roark's passive compliance.
Keating sat down on the steps beside him. There was no part that he could ever play in Roark's presence. Besides, he did not feel like playing a part now. He heard a faint leaf rustling in its fall to the earth; it was a thin, glassy, spring sound. He knew, for a moment, that he felt affection for Roark; an affection that held pain, astonishment and helplessness.
Roark turned over on his side, looked at him, and laughed. It was a young, kind, friendly laughter, a thing so rare to hear from Roark that Keating felt as if someone had taken his hand in reassurance; and he forgot that he had a party in Boston waiting for him.
"Howard´s a friend of mine," he said happily.
"A friend of yours? You know him?"
"Do I know him! Why, we went to school together--Stanton, you know--why, he lived at our house for three years, I can tell you the color of his underwear and how he takes a shower--I´ve seen him!"
"Do you really think that I do good work?" Keating looked at him, as if his eyes still held the reflection of that one sentence--and nothing else mattered.
"Occasionally," said Roark. "Not often."
Sometimes, looking at the sketch of a structure simpler, cleaner, more honest than the others, Roark would say: "That´s not so bad, Peter. You´re improving." And Keating would feel an odd little jolt inside, something quiet, private and precious, such as he never felt from the compliments of Guy Francon, of his clients, of all others.
Peter Keating/Guy Francon
"He sat on the floor, his head resting against the edge of a couch, his bare feet stretched out, a pair of Guy Francon's chartreuse pyjamas floating loosely about his limbs. Through the open door of the bathroom he saw Francon standing at the washstand, his stomach pressed to its shining edge, brushing his teeth...He remembered vaguely the party to which Francon had taken him the night before, he remembered the caviar in a hollow iceberg, the black net evening gown and the pretty face of Mrs. Dunlop, but he could not remember how he had come to end up in Francon's apartment. He shrugged; he had attended many parties with Francon in the past year and had often been brought here like this."
"Thus Keating achieved the position of chief designer for Francon & Heyer. Francon celebrated the occasion with a modest little orgy at one of the quieter and costlier restaurants. 'In a coupla years,' he kept repeating, 'in a coupla years you'll see things happenin', Pete....You're a good boy and I like you and I'll do things for you....Haven't I done things for you?...You're going places, Pete...in a coupla years....' 'Your tie's crooked, Guy,' said Keating dryly, 'and you're spilling brandy all over your vest....'"
Peter Keating/Ellsworth Toohey
"Dear Peter Keating,
"Drop in to see me at my office one of these days. Would love to discover what you look like.
"E.M.T."
"Really?" said Ellsworth Toohey, with a smile which Keating could not quite classify. "I was certain of it. I was certain you´d say it. You have a very handsome face, Peter Keating, when you don´t stare like this--which is really quite unnecessary."
Howard Roark/Steven Mallory
"Roark."
"Yes?"
"Roark, I wish I´d met you before you had a job to give me." He spoke without expression, his head lying back on the pillow, his eyes closed. "So that there would be no other reason mixed in. Because, you see, I´m very grateful to you. Not for giving me a job. Not for coming here. Not for anything you´ll ever do for me. Just for what you are."
Then he lay without moving, straight and limp,
Howard Roark/Austen Heller
Austen Heller came to look at the house frequently, and watched it grow, curious, still a little astonished. He studied Roark and the house with the same meticulous scrutiny; he felt as if he could not quite tell them apart. Heller, the fighter against compulsion, was baffled by Roark, a man so impervious to compulsion that he became a kind of compulsion himself, an ultimatum against things Heller could not define. Within a week, Heller knew that he had found the best friend he would ever have; and he knew that the friendship came from Roark´s fundamental indifference. In the deeper reality of Roark´s existence there was no consciousness of Heller, no need for Heller, no appeal, no demand. Heller felt a line drawn, which he could not touch; beyond that line, Roark asked nothing of him and granted him nothing. But when Roark looked at him with approval, when Roark smiled, when Roark praised one of his articles, Heller felt the strangely clean joy of a sanction that was neither a bribe nor alms.
Howard Roark/Gail Wynand
He looked at Roark´s hand. He thought he would like to have a bronze paperweight made of it and how beautiful it would look on his desk.
"What in hell made you think I liked you?"
"Now you don´t want any explanations of that. You've reproached me once for causing you to be obvious."
"But the house--it´s you, Howard," said Wynand. "It´s still you."
It was the first sign of emotion on her face, a quiet shock, when she heard the "Howard." Wynand did not notice it. Roark did.
She felt numb. Wynand had never spoken like this to any guest in their house; Roark had never spoken like this to any client.
Wynand asked: "Howard, that ´Yes´--once granted, can it be withdrawn?"
She wanted to laugh in incredulous anger. It was Wynand´s voice that had asked this; it should have been hers. He must look at me when he answers, she thought; he must look at me.
"Never," Roark answered, looking at Wynand.
"Hello, Dominique?...Yes....Tired?...No, you just sounded like it....I won´t be home for dinner, will you excuse me, dearest?...I don´t know, it might be late....I´m eating downtown....No. I´m having dinner with Howard Roark....Hello, Dominique?...Yes....What?...I´m calling from his office....So long, dear." He replaced the receiver.
They were alone. Dominique had excused herself after dinner. She had known that they wanted to be alone.
She understood his purpose when she found that she could feel her love for him proved by the room, by Wynand, even by his love for Wynand and hers, by the impossible situation, by her enforced silence-the barriers proving to her that no barriers could exist.
“But I´ve waited for it all these years. And now you´ll wait with me. Do you know that I really like to torture you, in a way? That I always want to?"
"I know."
"I don´t know anyone on earth I´d rather order around than Mr. Roark," said Wynand gaily, "whenever I can get away with it."
"You´re getting away with it."
"I don´t mind taking orders, Mrs. Wynand," said Roark. "Not from a man as capable as Gail."
Roark climbed back on deck; Wynand looked at Roark's body, at the threads of water running down the angular planes. He said: 'You made a mistake on the Stoddard Temple, Howard. That statue should have been, not of Dominique, but of you."
He leaned on the rail and looked down at Roark in the water. Roark floated on his back, his body stretched into a straight line, arms spread, eyes closed. The tan of his skin implied a month of days such as this. Wynand thought that this was the way he liked to apprehend space and time: through the power of his yacht, through the tan of Roark´s skin or the sunbrown of his own arms folded before him on the rail.
He had not sailed his yacht for several years. This time he had wanted Roark to be his only guest. Dominique was left behind.
The thought gave him pleasure: the sense of power and the sense of surrender to Roark in the knowledge that no conceivable force could make him exercise that power.
'"Howard, this is what I wanted. To have you here with me."
"I know."'
"I even admit that I love them. But I couldn´t love them if they were my chief reason for living. Do you notice that Peter Keating hasn´t a single friend left? Do you see why? If one doesn´t respect oneself one can have neither love nor respect for others."
"To hell with Peter Keating. I´m thinking of you--and your friends."
Roark smiled. "Gail, if this boat were sinking, I´d give my life to save you. Not because it´s any kind of duty. Only because I like you, for reasons and standards of my own. I could die for you. But I couldn´t and wouldn´t live for you."
"Howard, what were the reasons and standards?"
"Then..." He glanced about the room, Wynand´s bedroom. "I don´t want to say it here. But you know it."
"You love him very much?"
"Yes."
"Enough to sacrifice..."
He smiled. "You´ve been afraid of that ever since I came here for the first time?"
"Yes."
He looked straight at her. "Did you think that possible?"
After randomly turning to a page revealed a slashy exchange between Roark and Cameron, I was kind of inspired to reread the whole thing. But I ignored all the monologues and masturbatory posturing and focused, you know, the Objvectivist equivalent of the dirty bits. I have to say, I have a much better understanding at the age of twenty than I did when I was 15 of what Dominique meant she wanted Howard to conquer and overpower her and, you know, take her now!
So! For your amusement, a rather ridiculously long list of slashy quotes I found in The Fountainhead.
(What? At one point, Gail and Roark go on a cruise, pointedly leaving behind Gail's beautiful wife, and lounge around yacht naked admiring each other's bodies and professing their love. I am not making this shit up)
Howard Roark/Henry Cameron
"Now, do you want it?"
"Yes," said Roark.
Cameron´s eyes dropped; then his head moved down a little, then a little farther; his head went on dropping slowly, in long, single jerks, then stopped; he sat still, his shoulders hunched, his arms huddled together in his lap.
"Howard," whispered Cameron, "I´ve never told it to anyone...."
"Thank you...." said Roark.
After a long time, Cameron raised his head.
"Go home now," said Cameron, his voice flat. "You´ve worked too much lately. And you have a hard day ahead."
Howard Roark/Peter Keating
At first, he was afraid of Roark's reaction. When he saw no reaction, only a silent obedience, he could restrain himself no longer. He felt a sensual pleasure in giving orders to Roark; and he felt also a fury of resentment at Roark's passive compliance.
Keating sat down on the steps beside him. There was no part that he could ever play in Roark's presence. Besides, he did not feel like playing a part now. He heard a faint leaf rustling in its fall to the earth; it was a thin, glassy, spring sound. He knew, for a moment, that he felt affection for Roark; an affection that held pain, astonishment and helplessness.
Roark turned over on his side, looked at him, and laughed. It was a young, kind, friendly laughter, a thing so rare to hear from Roark that Keating felt as if someone had taken his hand in reassurance; and he forgot that he had a party in Boston waiting for him.
"Howard´s a friend of mine," he said happily.
"A friend of yours? You know him?"
"Do I know him! Why, we went to school together--Stanton, you know--why, he lived at our house for three years, I can tell you the color of his underwear and how he takes a shower--I´ve seen him!"
"Do you really think that I do good work?" Keating looked at him, as if his eyes still held the reflection of that one sentence--and nothing else mattered.
"Occasionally," said Roark. "Not often."
Sometimes, looking at the sketch of a structure simpler, cleaner, more honest than the others, Roark would say: "That´s not so bad, Peter. You´re improving." And Keating would feel an odd little jolt inside, something quiet, private and precious, such as he never felt from the compliments of Guy Francon, of his clients, of all others.
Peter Keating/Guy Francon
"He sat on the floor, his head resting against the edge of a couch, his bare feet stretched out, a pair of Guy Francon's chartreuse pyjamas floating loosely about his limbs. Through the open door of the bathroom he saw Francon standing at the washstand, his stomach pressed to its shining edge, brushing his teeth...He remembered vaguely the party to which Francon had taken him the night before, he remembered the caviar in a hollow iceberg, the black net evening gown and the pretty face of Mrs. Dunlop, but he could not remember how he had come to end up in Francon's apartment. He shrugged; he had attended many parties with Francon in the past year and had often been brought here like this."
"Thus Keating achieved the position of chief designer for Francon & Heyer. Francon celebrated the occasion with a modest little orgy at one of the quieter and costlier restaurants. 'In a coupla years,' he kept repeating, 'in a coupla years you'll see things happenin', Pete....You're a good boy and I like you and I'll do things for you....Haven't I done things for you?...You're going places, Pete...in a coupla years....' 'Your tie's crooked, Guy,' said Keating dryly, 'and you're spilling brandy all over your vest....'"
Peter Keating/Ellsworth Toohey
"Dear Peter Keating,
"Drop in to see me at my office one of these days. Would love to discover what you look like.
"E.M.T."
"Really?" said Ellsworth Toohey, with a smile which Keating could not quite classify. "I was certain of it. I was certain you´d say it. You have a very handsome face, Peter Keating, when you don´t stare like this--which is really quite unnecessary."
Howard Roark/Steven Mallory
"Roark."
"Yes?"
"Roark, I wish I´d met you before you had a job to give me." He spoke without expression, his head lying back on the pillow, his eyes closed. "So that there would be no other reason mixed in. Because, you see, I´m very grateful to you. Not for giving me a job. Not for coming here. Not for anything you´ll ever do for me. Just for what you are."
Then he lay without moving, straight and limp,
Howard Roark/Austen Heller
Austen Heller came to look at the house frequently, and watched it grow, curious, still a little astonished. He studied Roark and the house with the same meticulous scrutiny; he felt as if he could not quite tell them apart. Heller, the fighter against compulsion, was baffled by Roark, a man so impervious to compulsion that he became a kind of compulsion himself, an ultimatum against things Heller could not define. Within a week, Heller knew that he had found the best friend he would ever have; and he knew that the friendship came from Roark´s fundamental indifference. In the deeper reality of Roark´s existence there was no consciousness of Heller, no need for Heller, no appeal, no demand. Heller felt a line drawn, which he could not touch; beyond that line, Roark asked nothing of him and granted him nothing. But when Roark looked at him with approval, when Roark smiled, when Roark praised one of his articles, Heller felt the strangely clean joy of a sanction that was neither a bribe nor alms.
Howard Roark/Gail Wynand
He looked at Roark´s hand. He thought he would like to have a bronze paperweight made of it and how beautiful it would look on his desk.
"What in hell made you think I liked you?"
"Now you don´t want any explanations of that. You've reproached me once for causing you to be obvious."
"But the house--it´s you, Howard," said Wynand. "It´s still you."
It was the first sign of emotion on her face, a quiet shock, when she heard the "Howard." Wynand did not notice it. Roark did.
She felt numb. Wynand had never spoken like this to any guest in their house; Roark had never spoken like this to any client.
Wynand asked: "Howard, that ´Yes´--once granted, can it be withdrawn?"
She wanted to laugh in incredulous anger. It was Wynand´s voice that had asked this; it should have been hers. He must look at me when he answers, she thought; he must look at me.
"Never," Roark answered, looking at Wynand.
"Hello, Dominique?...Yes....Tired?...No, you just sounded like it....I won´t be home for dinner, will you excuse me, dearest?...I don´t know, it might be late....I´m eating downtown....No. I´m having dinner with Howard Roark....Hello, Dominique?...Yes....What?...I´m calling from his office....So long, dear." He replaced the receiver.
They were alone. Dominique had excused herself after dinner. She had known that they wanted to be alone.
She understood his purpose when she found that she could feel her love for him proved by the room, by Wynand, even by his love for Wynand and hers, by the impossible situation, by her enforced silence-the barriers proving to her that no barriers could exist.
“But I´ve waited for it all these years. And now you´ll wait with me. Do you know that I really like to torture you, in a way? That I always want to?"
"I know."
"I don´t know anyone on earth I´d rather order around than Mr. Roark," said Wynand gaily, "whenever I can get away with it."
"You´re getting away with it."
"I don´t mind taking orders, Mrs. Wynand," said Roark. "Not from a man as capable as Gail."
Roark climbed back on deck; Wynand looked at Roark's body, at the threads of water running down the angular planes. He said: 'You made a mistake on the Stoddard Temple, Howard. That statue should have been, not of Dominique, but of you."
He leaned on the rail and looked down at Roark in the water. Roark floated on his back, his body stretched into a straight line, arms spread, eyes closed. The tan of his skin implied a month of days such as this. Wynand thought that this was the way he liked to apprehend space and time: through the power of his yacht, through the tan of Roark´s skin or the sunbrown of his own arms folded before him on the rail.
He had not sailed his yacht for several years. This time he had wanted Roark to be his only guest. Dominique was left behind.
The thought gave him pleasure: the sense of power and the sense of surrender to Roark in the knowledge that no conceivable force could make him exercise that power.
'"Howard, this is what I wanted. To have you here with me."
"I know."'
"I even admit that I love them. But I couldn´t love them if they were my chief reason for living. Do you notice that Peter Keating hasn´t a single friend left? Do you see why? If one doesn´t respect oneself one can have neither love nor respect for others."
"To hell with Peter Keating. I´m thinking of you--and your friends."
Roark smiled. "Gail, if this boat were sinking, I´d give my life to save you. Not because it´s any kind of duty. Only because I like you, for reasons and standards of my own. I could die for you. But I couldn´t and wouldn´t live for you."
"Howard, what were the reasons and standards?"
"Then..." He glanced about the room, Wynand´s bedroom. "I don´t want to say it here. But you know it."
"You love him very much?"
"Yes."
"Enough to sacrifice..."
He smiled. "You´ve been afraid of that ever since I came here for the first time?"
"Yes."
He looked straight at her. "Did you think that possible?"