Over the summer, AP Literature students were assigned to choose between two novels: The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay and The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. One of which is 360 pages long; the other: seven hundred and twenty five.
I chose The Fountainhead, and all of its beautiful 725 pages.
The Fountainhead revolves around an architect by the name of Howard Roark, who tries to stay true to his own ideas, even when others don’t agree. The novel showcases four key characters, each representing different ideas: Peter Keating (Part I), Ellsworth M. Toohey (Part II), Gail Wynand (Part III), and Howard Roark (Part IV). Taking place in the world of corporate America, the story examines how each navigates the challenges of their profession—either working within the system or resisting it.
If you are one of those students who struggle to invest their time wisely, I would not recommend diving in. The Fountainhead is a classic—a novel you would have to soak in and bathe. I had at least two filled Post-It notes every couple pages. It is a time-consuming, and life-consuming book. But incredibly, irrevocably irresistible.
In these past couple months, this novel has lived in the file cabinets of my mind; projecting each moment in my head on replay like a broken film projector. Each character, each concept—and Rand’s entire philosophy: I drank like an alcoholic. The more I absorbed, the harder it became to look away, even when it unsettled me or angered me deeply; it made me want to consume even more.
I read and read for hours each day, it was addicting; reciting some of the monologues in my mind. One in particular was stated by the main character, Howard Roark: “The creator lives for his work. He needs no other men. His primary goal is within himself. The parasite lives second-hand. He needs others. Others become his prime motive.”
I fear a lot of my ideas and perceptions had been received or created second-handedly. Much of the modernist values embraced by the men who came before me were themselves adopted and then reshaped into something more selfish—a recurring, cyclical problem. This philosophy stuck with me so strongly because I felt that I, too, was a part of her system of beliefs—guilty yet connected.
This book seemed to hold many of my own principles, as if the author had gathered my scattered thoughts and condensed them into one long, intricate novel. I understood everything, felt every emotion, and watched each page unfold as if the characters’ lives existed just beyond the reach of my hand.
I saw the characters before me in my own life too. I saw Dominique Francon’s cynical glare reflected in the eyes of a woman on the sidewalk passing a poor man. I glimpsed Peter Keating’s judgment in my friend’s expression when I told them my celebrity crush was Gerard Way. I saw these characters, felt their presence, and spoke to them quietly in the margins—collecting intimate conversations preserved on yellow sticky notes left behind in chapter five.
I thought the introduction to these deeper or philosophical books would help others form that deeper understanding society needs. To my dismay, this was far from the case. The students I spoke with emphasized their disdain for the book, complaining primarily about its philosophy and storyline. Senior student Leah Pierini stated: “It’s terrible. There’s no philosophy”.
When I first discussed this novel with my peers, I was surprised to find this out. I thought that everyone loved it as much as I did. I thought: ‘surely this will be in their top five at least’, ‘surely they think about it as much as I do’.
Oh, how wrong I was.
When I washed my dishes, I thought about how cruel Peter Keating is to Katie.
When I folded my laundry, I thought about the similarities between me and Howard Roark.
I expressed my love for Howard Roark and repeated his name in my head countless times during the day. I thought of these characters as if they were a part of my life. I had never felt a book so deeply, and so absolute.
There is something about the descriptive and (something) way Rand writes that makes me feel like I’m right in the pages of the book; sitting with Howard Roark as he sketched his drafts for a building he was assigned.
I couldn’t believe anyone thought differently, and even more so, disliked it. The main reason for their aversion must be identified as one simple definition: It was misinterpreted and overlooked.
It was unbelievable. It reminded me of the situation in AP lit class when students wrote To Kill A Mockingbird underneath the ‘disliked’ column of recently-read novels.
I took it as a direct offense; a stab to my stomach.
