Book Cover: This dude on front with the glowy ball who actually reminds me a lot of those androgynous, monochromatic giants that used to stalk around the American Idol opening credits. That or a Ken doll.
 |
| Hi, I'm Bob Bland. Can I interest you in some white toast? |
Author: Ayn Rand. For the record, the first name is pronounced to rhyme with ‘mine.’ But, if you go around pronouncing it ‘Ann’ everybody is still going to know who you’re talking about. That kind of unending mispronunciation is what you’re going to get when you basically make up your own name from scratch. Not that I’m judging, you move to a new country and gain new friends and want to make an entirely fresh start, its fine to get a little frisky with the baby naming books. I’m just saying if you decide to spell your name ‘U-N-I-Q-U-E’ but pronounce it ‘Brittany’ you’re going to run into a lot of problems.
And actually, Rand’s name can function as a great test to determine what kind of person you’re trying to have a literary conversation with. For instance:
You: “Blah blah [Ann] Rand blah blah blah…”
Other Person: “Blah blah blah…”
Here, Other Person makes no notice of mispronunciation of author’s name. If Other Person is known to have a working knowledge of Rand’s works and has certainly been around the name enough to know better, we can conclude that Other Person believes there are more important topics about the woman than her name and doesn’t feel it necessary to correct the pronunciation. Continue chatting, and perhaps attempt to initiate a high five on the mispronunciation you just shared.
You: “Blah blah [Ann] Rand blah blah blah…”
Other Person: “Blah blah [Ayn] Rand blah blah blah…”
Here, Other Person does not outright correct the name, but says the correct pronunciation in their volley of the conversation. Other Person may just be following up naturally on your statement, believes that correct pronunciation of Rand’s first name is crucial and respectful, or just wants to make sure you know that s/he knows the correct pronunciation. Whichever the case, the correct pronunciation was slipped in coolly and without further emphasis, so Other Person is probably not overly concerned with the name and more concerned with letting the conversation continue its natural course. Continue with the conversation, and use only Rand’s last name for the remainder of the conversation. Snacks might also help the situation.
You: “Blah blah [Ann] Ra-”
Other Person: ACTUALLY, IT’S PRONOUNCED [AYN]
Other Person has overridden you before you could even finish saying the author’s name, with an increase in decibel levels that made you physically jump, and also probably a tone that indicates that his/her estimation of your intelligence level just bottomed out somewhere around ‘Jack Russell terrier after a minor car accident.’ Other Person is NOT interested in a quality conversation about literature. Other Person only wants to make sure that as many people as possible know that Other Person is VERY SMART and KNOWS A LOT ABOUT LITERATURE AND ART AND MAYBE PHILOSOPHY. It is very important that you DO NOT CONTINUE TO ENGAGE. Lower your eyes, hide your teeth, and make no sudden movements as you back away from Other Person. If you have snacks, toss in opposite direction as a distraction.
 |
| Seriously, though, it's Ayn. She will cut you. |
Category: American Literature, 20th century literature, and I’m going to add speculative fiction onto this, too. There are not a whole lot of science fiction elements in here, not like Atlas Shrugged, but I think it’s safe to say that the piece does not take place in our universe merely as New York City gets shuffled around with key skyscrapers missing and new ones going up.
Why I Read It: The Fountainhead marks the first step on The Road to Finnegan’s Wake. My sister visited me in Cheyenne last May and I took her over to Phoenix Used Books downtown. We were only supposed to be in there for about twenty minutes because we were meeting someone else for dinner. We ended up being late because Phoenix is the best place in town and it’s easy to forget things like ‘time’ and ‘other people’ exist when you’re staring down row after row of books you’ve never read at really affordable prices. My sister ended up buying me The Fountainhead for…some reason. Actually, that part is slipping my mind. But it turns out the owner is a huge Ayn Rand fan, so while originally The Fountainhead was just another stop on the Road, it’s now become the port of entry to Rand Land.
Reading Time Period: August 14, 2010 to October 18, 2010. Easily the longest time period it’s taken me to read a single book all year. Except, of course, for Les Miserables, but I was reading other things at the same time. The problem was that, in the past two months, I have taken a two week trip to Ireland, taught everyone else at my job how to do my job so I could leave said job, left said job, drove the two thousand miles from Cheyenne to Oviedo, set up my apartment, and started a job search which became a wild decision to go back to school and get a second degree. I’ve been busy, is what I’m saying, and anyway, The Fountainhead isn’t exactly something you can scream through.
Book Printing and Condition: Printed in 1993 by Signet. It’s got some water damage around the edges and the back cover is torn just an eensy little bit, otherwise in solid condition.
Where I bought it: The Phoenix, for $2.49.
Thoughts: We’re going to have to break this up:
Ayn Rand and Kaboomski
I used to think Ayn Rand sucked at subtlety. This was back when I read Atlas Shrugged in high school, and, like every other high school kid currently or ever alive, I thought I knew everything. And, really, her stuff reads about as subtle, as, oh, how long has it been since someone picked on Michael Bay on the internet? Oh, whatever, he deserves it. Her stuff reads about as subtle as a Michael Bay movie. Most of the plots points are easily predictable and her characters don’t so much have traits and layers as they do catchphrases. If Ayn Rand wrote a sitcom, it would star Urkel and Screech, and the guy from Good Times who kept saying “Dinomite!” If she wrote movie reviews, they would be titled things like “Darth Vader is Luke’s Dad” and “HOLY SHIT HE WAS DEAD THE WHOLE TIME.” If she wrote a speech, it would be sixty pages long and just be a reiteration of everything that already happened in the thousand pages before it (oh, wait…).
Ayn Rand is not subtle, is my point.
But I’ve since changed my view point on why. It’s not that Ayn Rand is not good at being subtle. It’s just that she has absolutely no use for subtlety and doesn’t even try. I imagine the Rand family crest is a knight giving the finger to an onion. It’s not that she can’t write layered characters and scatter tiny clues so that after a while the reader goes ‘oh, shit,’ and everything clicks and understands what the writer is trying to say without ever saying it. It’s just that Ayn Rand does not have time for that bullshit.
 |
| "I have cigarettes to smoke, I just do not have time for your bullshit right now." |
Ayn Rand has a MISSION. A WORD. A THESIS that she wants to get out to the public, and she can’t be just dropping hints and hoping that people understand. That is why her books are the equivalent of a pimp slap. Because, God dammit, you are going to get the message or she will NOT be responsible for what she does next.
Howard Roark
P96 – I am seconds away from writing Mrs. Shannon Roark all over my Trapper Keeper.
I really don’t want to be the guy comparing Ayn Rand and Fucking Stephenie Meyer, so how about I’m the guy contrasting the two?
It’s no secret that Twilight and the subsequent sequels are just God awful. And I don’t think it’s any secret at this point that the whole set of books are just Fucking Stephenie Meyer’s fantasy put down onto paper without any thought towards characterization, growth, or, well, sanity. Edward Cullen is literally the man of Fucking Stephenie Meyer’s dreams, someone she wishes she could have steamy staring contests with in meadows and then marry and have sparkly, bizarre vampire sex with.
Howard Roark is the man of Ayn Rand’s dreams. Both women have written books about a man they idolize. The similarities stop there.
Fucking Stephenie Meyer took the man of her dreams and wrote him into what amounts to a bodice ripper.
Ayn Rand took the man of her dreams and made him save himself, his friends, and attempt to save the world. And because I’d very much like to stop talking about Fucking Stephenie Meyer now, we’re going to focus on Howard Roark.
Because, to Ayn Rand, Howard Roark isn’t just an imaginary lay. Howard Roark is the man that all men – all people, really – should aspire to be. He’s not so much the man of her dreams, but the man of her ideals. He, like John Galt, is the realization of her philosophy. He’s handsome but kind of weird looking, he’s intensely independent and emotionally cut off to the point where Asberger’s starts looking like a quality suggestion. Oh, and when we first meet him he’s naked. So, there’s that.
Roark is a man who doesn’t compromise, because even compromise is at fatal sin (poor Wynand). Everything he does must be done by him, and him alone, because man must stand and think for himself and fuck everyone else who tries to change him. Roark is also completely unafraid to be taken down a peg or two hundred on account of his stubbornness. He just keeps plugging away, taking the hits, happy because at least he’s not bowing down to every other opinion like everyone else seems to be doing.
And bringing it right back around, I hate Edward Cullen because he’s a terrible human being. I fell in love with Howard Roark because besides the fact that I’m 74% sure that he’s a robot (I AM HOWARD-BOT. I AM PROGRAMMED TO BUILD. I DO NOT COMPREHEND WHAT YOU CALL EMOTIONS) he stands and fights for great things. But this does lead me to…
Ayn Rand and Collaboration
To Ayn Rand, there is nothing worse in the world than collaboration. If you ask people to join together to work on something, then, according to her, everyone is just going to make sure everyone else is happy and the meeting is just going to turn into a tickle fight and you’re going to end up with something slipshod and terrible and most likely bland and stupid. And while I’m not saying that doesn’t happen, I also don’t think that collaboration is something to be avoided at all costs.
Doing his own thing worked out for Howard because he was a genius in his field. But even in the confines of the book, would anybody want a house designed solely by Peter Keating? Isn’t that pretty much guaranteed to consist of three walls and a gun turret? And outside of the book, here in the real world, I can give you a good example of where individual control fails: George Lucas.
I’m going to assume many people already know what I’m talking about, but if you don’t happen to live on the internet or personally know any nerds, I’ll explain: when George Lucas was working on movies where other people had artistic and creative input, he created the Star Wars movies. When he was working on movies where he was the sole voice in all matters and any dissenters were taken out back and shot, he created the prequels. Haven’t seen the prequels? Lucky bastard.
So, while I agree that sometimes an individual has a vision and we all just need to let him go and do his thing (Oh, hi, Kubrick), sometimes we need to sit a guy down with a team of other people and keep him from eating his own toenails.
Gail Wynand and Compromise
P450 – Dear Mr. Gail Wynand: Marry me, you fantastic bitch. Kisses! Shannon.
Poor Gail Wynand. He’s just a dude who wanted to rule his world. But he committed a cardinal sin as far as Rand is concerned – he did it on literally everybody else’s terms, not his own. It wasn’t enough that he owned the paper and that he made a conscious decision to do what he did. His paper followed the whims of everyone, the collective consciousness that made up the city. He didn’t try to change anyone mind’s, he just listened and gave them what they want. He compromised. And that’s a death sentence for Rand, and that’s why, despite how fabulously bitchy he is, he’s essentially ruined by the end of the novel. He tries to implement his own thoughts and the readers go bananas and fuck him over. It does lead to perhaps one of my favorite parts of the whole novel, though:
“The presses stopped.”
By the end of the novel Toohey has gained control of The Banner, essentially taking over the lifeblood of Wynand. And Toohey is being shitty, like always. Except Wynand has the final ace. He’s blown the whole thing up, just to keep it from Toohey. He’s sacrificed the only that every really mattered to him to keep it from becoming the vehicle Toohey would use to drive the world. And while that’s not nearly enough to keep a bastard like Toohey down for long, and while he deserves all the bad things to happen to him, his immense “BUH?!?” reaction is hugely satisfying.
Ayn Rand and J.K. Rowling
P636 - Rand has created a completely evil character here. No shades of gray, no dissenting views. In fact, not evil. Evil.
J. K. Rowling deserves a lot more respect than she gets from certain literary circles. I’m not saying she’s a flawless writer, but she is a talented one, and dedicated, and the Harry Potter universe she wove is as intricate as it is layered. Characters grow, events are foreshadowed books in advance, and everything is closed in a concrete resolution (glaring at you, Lost). And yes, there is a lot of summing up and obvious choices made and there’s kind of a formula she follows for each book, but they did start out as kid’s books.
What she had in common with Rand is the ability to create completely evil characters. You could argue Rowling creates flat, unlayered characters because she created children’s books, but a) the Harry Potter series is one that grows up with the kids who read it, and it really stops being a kid’s series around Prisoner of Azkaban, and b) most of her characters, even the smaller ones, have subtle and well built layers. Much like Rand, it’s not that Rowling can’t write layered characters, it’s that she recognizes in certain situations it’s best if a character is flat.
And I’m not talking about Voldemort. That guy is a hot mess of emotions and trauma and headless, bleeding bunnies. A psychologist could make a career off that guy, if she didn’t get stabbed first. No, I’m talking about Dolores Umbridge.
You hate her. You hate her right now, even if you’ve never read the books and you don’t know who she is. Look at that name. Isn’t that the ugliest name? Oh, wait, you only hate her right now? Let’s see how she’s introduced:
“He thought she looked just like a large, pale toad. She was rather squat with a broad, flabby face, as little neck as Uncle Vernon, and a very wide, slack mouth. Her eyes were large, round, and slightly bulging. Even the little black velvet bow perched on top of her short curly hair put him in mind of a large fly she was about to catch on a long sticky tongue.”
Has that hate evolved into loathing yet? Do you not just want to punch this woman in the face and never, ever stop? And that’s just where Rowling starts with this woman. It is all just a goddamn sprint downhill from there. There is nothing redeeming about this woman. She is a horrible person with way more power than morals who terrorizes people while laughing this cutesy little laugh and loving the color pink and kittens and being a total bigot. And you never find out why. There is no back story on this awful woman because Rowling understood that she didn’t need back story. She was evil. Period. Done and done. By the time you finally get the entire picture of this woman, your loathing has somehow evolved into a vendetta where even your great grandmother hated her.
Rand creates the same type of character with Ellsworth Monkton Toohey. Again, do you not just hate this guy already? His last name sounds like someone spitting, his first name is pretentious and his middle name is as stupid as his stupid face. He is Rand’s boogeyman, the thing that hid in her closet as a child and stole all her smokes as an adult.
Whether he actually believes that people are interchangeable, that no one is better than anyone else, and that a life should only be lived in service to everyone else is moot. Ellsworth sells that shit like it’s a Frisbee and it’s currently 1954, because that’s how he gains and stays in power. And, just like Umbridge, the worst part about it is he’s not upfront about it. He pretends that he’s doing what’s best for the people while really he’s just forwarding his own agenda. He even pimps out his own niece in the process. Ellsworth Toohey is a character that is tailor made to boil blood.
Rand actually does give Toohey back story, and almost seems to give us a reason as to the ‘why’ of Toohey in the form of Johnny Stokes, but really, the guy was just born a sociopath. He’s a high functioning nutbar with just enough charisma to control whatever room he’s in, and I’ve never wanted a character to be a real person more, because all I want to do is hit him in the face with a seven iron.
Steven Mallory is the Most Badass Character Ever.
Ever. Because here we have a man who has his priorities straight. Who knows what’s important in life. Who starts off his time in the book by taking a shot at Ellsworth Toohey, which is already hardcore. But then, Steven Mallory describes the one thing in the world that scares him:
"Probably. But not quite. I'm not afraid any more. But I know that the terror exists. I know the kind of terror it is. You can't conceive of that kind. Listen, what's the most horrible experience you can imagine? To me - it's being left, unarmed, in a sealed cell with a drooling beast of prey or a maniac who's had some disease that's eaten his brain out. You'd have nothing then but your voice - your voice and your thought. You'd scream to that creature why it should not touch you, you'd have the most eloquent words, the unanswerable words, you'd become the vessel of absolute truth. And you'd see living eyes watching you and you'd know that the thing can't hear you, that it can't be reached, not reached, not in any way, yet it's breathing and moving there before you with a purpose of its own. That's horror. Well, that's what's hanging over the world, prowling somewhere through mankind, that same thing, something close, mindless, utterly wanton, but something with an aim and a cunning of its own. I don't think I'm a coward, but I'm afraid of it. And that's all I know - only that it exists. I don't know its purpose, I don't know its nature."
Romero, eat your fucking heart out.
Night of the Living Dead was released in 1968. Twenty-five years before that, Steven Mallory is a man afraid of zombies. Talk about being ahead of the curve.
And this is not just some random speech. These zombies are exactly what Ellsworth Toohey turns people into it. It’s what he turned his own niece into, Katie, a nice girl in the beginning who’s only real problem was that she was relying on Peter Keating, Sad Sack Extraordinaire, to save her from the world her uncle was building. And the last we see of Katie, she’s mindlessly chatting away about how her work is important and how much better she is now that she’s thinking about other people and this guy says that and that guy says this and you really shouldn’t drink coffee, Peter, Americans drink too much coffee, everyone knows that. Mallory’s Zombie, in the flesh.
Rand’s best example of Mallory’s Zombie, though, is cleverly written. At a meeting, with Tooehy present, natch, everyone is talking, but they might as well just be humming with fingers in their ears.
‘“Lois Cook said…”
“Ike – what’s his name again – says…”
“Jules Fougler said…”
“Lancelot Clokey said…”
“Gordon Prescott said…”’
Everybody repeats what they have heard other people say, people who probably heard it from somebody else. And in the entire section Rand does not signify who is talking. Because it doesn’t matter. Everybody is interchangeable. Well, almost everybody.
“Ellsworth Toohey said nothing.”
Because he doesn’t have to. This is his vision, self sustaining and flowering like he never believed possible. Mallory’s Zombies on the rampage.
Ayn Rand Was a Total Nerd
She writes about zombies. Even she’d be pissed at George Lucas. And she’s definitely a Dr. Who fan:
"…it gave Scarret a funny feeling of apprehension, like the sight of a tiny crack in a solid wall; the crack could not possibly endanger the wall - except that it had no business being there." P414
A crack in the wall that has no business being there? Where have I heard that one before?
Ayn Rand and Yakov Smirnoff
Has anyone else imagined what would happen if you locked these two in a room with each other? Because I’m pretty Yakov would say something like, “In Soviet Russian, objectivism defines you!” And then Ayn Rand would pin him to the table with her elbow in his throat and put out her cigarette in his eye.
