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The Fountainhead is not a great novel. Not philosophically, not literarily. The characters are unbelievable. The plot is at times entertaining but mostly boring and far-fetched, yet nauseatingly predictable. The dialogue is predominantly stilted. The vocabulary is monotonous. How many times must she use the word bromide?
There are some truths to be found: most people are made up of conglomerations of what they’ve heard from others. They let the words of others fill their heads and become their own. Original thought is rare; we frequently enshrine mediocrity; brilliance is often ignored and sometimes smashed.
The idea is that if everyone were true to their own integrity, the world would be a better place; this might be true. Many are greedy, selfish, and egotistical without an ounce of integrity. The book thinks integrity makes these undesirable qualities okay, makes people "real." Maybe it does. But this idea makes things rough for the poor bastards who were born passive, affable, or weak. And circumstances play a big part in many people’s lives, whether they are real people in Rand's eyes or not.
One can judge the quality of a book by comparing how many times it produces scoffs compared to chuckles. I chuckled a few times; I scoffed hundreds of times; I rolled my eyes by the minute. The tediousness of this prolixity is nearly unbearable. The characters seem to be motivated by something foreign to what lies at the heart of human volition. Their words and actions ring false. Their thoughts are preposterous.
Rand harps on the invalidity of touting service, sacrifice, and altruism as virtues. What about teachers? What about nurses? What about those in the food service industry: janitors, bartenders, clerks? What about soldiers? Without these “servants”, who are not really human in Rand’s view, a nation might have a bunch of “real” folks with integrity whose state could be dominated by a rival filled with servants. We’d have no decent restaurants or hospitals. We’d be a state of starving, sick people with loads of superfluous integrity and individualism living in filth.
Architecture presented as the highest art and as more important than music, the fact that Roark is the only man capable of building the buildings he builds, Roark seeing trees as merely lumber for man to transform into structures, Ellsworth Toohey’s nebulous reasons for the destruction of other men: these are just a few of the ridiculous things presented.
It is ironic that this monstrosity has been labeled and stamped by so many as a philosophical work. I can think of countless other pieces of literature, not often called philosophical, which carry so much more weight metaphysically, epistemologically, ethically, existentially, etc.
The version I read had a foreword written by Rand. In it, she mentioned Nietzsche, a philosopher she both seemed to admire and contradict. While Nietzsche’s brand of thought can be derided nearly as easily as hers, at least his writing style was inventive.
There is a speech by Toohey near the end that did strike me as something great. He condemns the average, the things humans have created that make the masses feel guilty for natural desires, and the obedient nature of most people; and it's done succinctly and eloquently, and this is Rand's voice at its most powerful. Still, even this bright spot is tarnished by the fact that the reaction by Peter Keating, no matter how much of a doormat Rand has made him, is devoid of reason and self-interest so unthinkably as to make the would-be poignant scene outlandish.
Let’s not forget that at the end of her life, Ayn Rand collected social security and relied on Medicare. This alone does not make her a hypocritical parasite, but at the very least, she was wrong.
There are some truths to be found: most people are made up of conglomerations of what they’ve heard from others. They let the words of others fill their heads and become their own. Original thought is rare; we frequently enshrine mediocrity; brilliance is often ignored and sometimes smashed.
The idea is that if everyone were true to their own integrity, the world would be a better place; this might be true. Many are greedy, selfish, and egotistical without an ounce of integrity. The book thinks integrity makes these undesirable qualities okay, makes people "real." Maybe it does. But this idea makes things rough for the poor bastards who were born passive, affable, or weak. And circumstances play a big part in many people’s lives, whether they are real people in Rand's eyes or not.
One can judge the quality of a book by comparing how many times it produces scoffs compared to chuckles. I chuckled a few times; I scoffed hundreds of times; I rolled my eyes by the minute. The tediousness of this prolixity is nearly unbearable. The characters seem to be motivated by something foreign to what lies at the heart of human volition. Their words and actions ring false. Their thoughts are preposterous.
Rand harps on the invalidity of touting service, sacrifice, and altruism as virtues. What about teachers? What about nurses? What about those in the food service industry: janitors, bartenders, clerks? What about soldiers? Without these “servants”, who are not really human in Rand’s view, a nation might have a bunch of “real” folks with integrity whose state could be dominated by a rival filled with servants. We’d have no decent restaurants or hospitals. We’d be a state of starving, sick people with loads of superfluous integrity and individualism living in filth.
Architecture presented as the highest art and as more important than music, the fact that Roark is the only man capable of building the buildings he builds, Roark seeing trees as merely lumber for man to transform into structures, Ellsworth Toohey’s nebulous reasons for the destruction of other men: these are just a few of the ridiculous things presented.
It is ironic that this monstrosity has been labeled and stamped by so many as a philosophical work. I can think of countless other pieces of literature, not often called philosophical, which carry so much more weight metaphysically, epistemologically, ethically, existentially, etc.
The version I read had a foreword written by Rand. In it, she mentioned Nietzsche, a philosopher she both seemed to admire and contradict. While Nietzsche’s brand of thought can be derided nearly as easily as hers, at least his writing style was inventive.
There is a speech by Toohey near the end that did strike me as something great. He condemns the average, the things humans have created that make the masses feel guilty for natural desires, and the obedient nature of most people; and it's done succinctly and eloquently, and this is Rand's voice at its most powerful. Still, even this bright spot is tarnished by the fact that the reaction by Peter Keating, no matter how much of a doormat Rand has made him, is devoid of reason and self-interest so unthinkably as to make the would-be poignant scene outlandish.
Let’s not forget that at the end of her life, Ayn Rand collected social security and relied on Medicare. This alone does not make her a hypocritical parasite, but at the very least, she was wrong.