Howard Roark Laughed

Okay, so “The Fountainhead”.

It came up during my day yesterday and I feel the need to explain myself.

The Fountainhead was written by Ayn Rand, who is an objectivist.

I don’t follow her politics; I hardly know anything about her at all. I’m a master of getting what I need out of something and not necessarily studying the history of it. I have no need for her politics, but her story touched something way down deep, and I work at reading The Fountainhead at least once a year, or when I really need it.

The main character is Howard Roark, architect. He’s loosely based off of Frank Lloyd Wright, and Howard’s mentor, Henry Cameron, is loosely based off of Louis Sullivan.

Roark is an “ideal” human being, is absolutely, totally, completely without reservation, utterly self-reliant. Everything he needs he has, every idea is his, every thought is his own. His art, his buildings, its unchangeable (well, he could change them if he so chose), but no one else can. He would rather destroy, than defend. One of my favorite images of him is when he walks down the street; he doesn’t even see other people, not even in his purview to regard anyone else, for what? He never seeks opinions (why would he? he’s the only one that matters) and never second guesses.

His antagonist (almost protagonist) is Peter Keating, architect. Peter borrows ideas for his buildings, will change them if you ask, and is constantly seeking out others opinions of his own work. He’s easily swayed, easily manipulated and so unsure of himself it’s almost painful to read. Of course, he’s the more successful of the two, by miles. His relationship with his mother is enough to send you over the edge, and his relationships with women are painfully un-passioinate.

I saw in it so early, an unappealing version of myself as Peter Keating. Who hasn’t? Who doesn’t check every last decision they make with someone else? It’s so frustrating! ARGH! It’s something I’ve always wanted to change in myself, and this book made it so…obvious, so…apparent. Peter Keating is just like me, Howard Roark is nothing like me, but should be.

So when I’m feeling apologetic as I was a few weeks ago, or unsure of my creativity or my work, or my relationship or my life, I like to Howard Roark it out. It helps me to remember his red shock of hair, his straight lines, his uncompromising stance on his inner self, his knowledge of who he is and where he stands in the world.

Howard Roark would despise me. But I love him for it.