The Fountainhead

“‘I think’ said Keating slowly, ‘it is more important to make changes you find necessary than to okay every drawing just as Mr. Stengel designed it.’

Because Francon said nothing, but only looked straight at him, because Francon’s eyes were focused and his hands limp, Keating knew that he had taken a terrible chance and won; he became frightened by the chance after he knew he had won.

They looked silently across the desk, and both saw that they were two men who could understand each other.”

The connection between Keating and Francon is shown through their body language and their shared gaze, as well as their mutual understanding of the implicit values guiding Keating’s advice. The desire to impose one’s power over others by making unnecessary changes to their work is a common trait of the so-called “second-handers” who function as the novel’s antagonists, and the exchange also foreshadows the conflicts facing Roark throughout the novel.

“In February of 1925 Henry Cameron retired from practice.

For a year, he had known that the day would come. He had not spoken of it to Roark, but they both knew and went on, expecting nothing save to go on as long as possible. A few commissions had dribbled into their office in the past year, country cottages, garages, remodeling of old buildings. They took anything. But the drops stopped. The pipes were dry. The water had been turned off by a society to whom Cameron had never paid his bill.”

These short statements of absolute fact create a sense of inevitability and finality. The listing of the minor jobs undertaken by Cameron emphasizes the dire situation of his company and the extent to which his prestige has deteriorated. The listed items also mimic the “drops” described in the metaphor of work as water. This metaphor highlights the necessity of clients by associating them with the most fundamental prerequisite for life. The lack therefore creates a sense of desperation and futility, lending pathos to Roark and Cameron’s grim determination to endure.

“It doesn’t say much, only ‘Howard Roark, Architect.’ But it’s like those mottoes men carved over the entrance of a castle and died for. It’s a challenge in the face of something so vast and so dark, that all the pain in on earth—and do you know how much suffering there is on earth?—all the pain comes from that thing you are going to face. […] May God bless you—or whoever it is that is alone to see the best, the highest possible to human hearts. You’re on your way into hell, Howard.”

The simile in this quote shows the importance of Roark’s identity as an architect and the extent of his dedication to the field. Cameron provides a warning and a blessing, elevating Roark’s struggles to establish his career to the level of a holy mission. Cameron’s prediction of the opposition that Roark will face foreshadows the coming conflicts throughout the remainder of the novel and underlines the theme of The Conflict Between Innovative Genius and Society. Cameron’s sentiments are later repeated by Dominique in the novel’s final chapter, creating a sense of completion to Roark’s final success and the narrative’s conclusion.

“Well, lads and lassies, here’s a fairytale with a moral: seems there was, once upon a time, a little boy with hair the color of a Hallowe’en pumpkin, who thought that he was better than all you common boys and girls. So to prove it, he up and built a house, which was a very nice house, except that nobody can live in it, and a store, which is a very lovely store, except that it’s going bankrupt. He also erected a very eminent structure, to wit: a dogcart on a mud road. This last is reported to be doing very well indeed, which, perhaps, is the right field of endeavor for that little boy.”

Representing the derisive reactions of society to Roark’s work, this passage recasts Roark’s trials and triumphs as a mocking allegory in the style of a fairy tale or fable. The writer’s belittling infantilization of Roark combines with a supercilious tone and a condescending attitude that deliberately insults Roark’s endeavors. This frivolous attack stands as a sharp contrast to the stark reality of Roark’s true hardships and struggles.

“There is no personality stamped upon that building—and in this, my friends, lies the greatness of the personality. It is the greatness of a selfless young spirit that assimilates all things and returns them to the world from which they came, enriched by the gentle brilliance of its own talent. Thus a single man comes to represent, not a lone freak, but the multitude of all men together, to embody the reach of all aspiration in his own.”

Toohey’s flowery and circuitous rhetorical style contrasts with the more straightforward style of Rand’s usual prose and mimics the excessive rhetorical flourishes favored by the humanitarian academics and politicians that Rand rejected. Toohey’s praise of Keating is excessive and inauthentic, showing the worthlessness of a self-esteem that is dependent on others.

“He waited. It amused him to wait, because he knew that the waiting was unbearable to her. He knew that his absence bound her to him in a manner more complete and humiliating than his presence could enforce. He was giving her time to attempt an escape, in order to let her know her own helplessness when he chose to see her again. She would know that the attempt itself had been of his choice, that it had been only another form of mastery.”

Roark’s desire to psychologically dominate and subjugate Dominique mimics his prior sexual and physical domination of her. The violent language and imagery of words such as “escape” and “bound” match the violence of his attack and reinforce the connection between sexual violence, cruelty, and domination, which play significant roles in the uniquely peculiar courtship between Roark and Dominique.

“‘What in the hell are you really made of, Howard? After all, it’s only a building. It’s not the combination of holy sacrament, Indian torture and sexual ecstasy that you seem to make of it.’

‘Isn’t it?’”

Heller’s rhetorical question to Roark is countered by a laconic rhetorical refutation of Roark’s own. This humorous exchange showcases the close friendship and camaraderie between the two characters, while also indicating Roark’s dedication to his work through his implied agreement with Heller’s list of exaggerated associations. The scene therefore demonstrates the importance of Architecture as a Mirror for Society and the Individual.

“There’s nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. […] Every human soul has a style of its own, also. It’s one basic theme. You’ll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living creature. Years of studying a man won’t show it to you. His face will. You’d have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing else.”

Throughout Rand’s work, a character’s outward appearance echoes their inner personality and moral value. This quote makes an explicit connection between inner characterization and physical appearance. However, the fact that the antagonist, Ellsworth Toohey, is acknowledging this meta-reality strikes an ominous tone because the admission demonstrates the extent of his perceptiveness and his willingness to exploit the vulnerabilities of other characters.

“Once, he stopped Roark on the way out and said suddenly: ‘I had a son once—almost. He was born dead.’ Something had made him say that, and he looked at Roark, not quite certain of what he had wanted to say. But Roark smiled, his eyes closed, and his hand covered the old man’s shoulder, like a handshake, and then he walked away.”

In this quote, a parallel is drawn between a stillborn infant and Roark’s half-constructed building. This comparison illustrates the depth of the pain that Roark feels and creates a deep sense of pathos and loss for what might have been.

“Yes Uncle Ellsworth…I…I didn’t think of it that way. I mean, I always thought that I must think…But you’re right, that is, if right is the word I mean if there is a word…Yes, I will believe…I’ll try to understand…No, not to understand. To feel. To believe, I mean…Only I’m so weak…I always feel so small after talking to you…I suppose I was right in a way—I am worthless…but it doesn’t matter…it doesn’t matter…”

As Catherine succumbs to the corrosive and toxic influence of Toohey’s ideologies, this passage demonstrates the negative impact that his influence has over those in his power. Catherine’s truncated speech, excessive use of ellipses, and frequent self-correction and repetition all indicate the character’s confused and uncertain state of mind. The negative sentiments she expresses and the harsh negative vocabulary such as “weak” and “worthless” show her vulnerability and suffering and create a deep sense of sympathy for the death of the independent person she once had the potential to be.

“I’ve given you, not my sacrifice or my pity, but my ego and my naked need. This is the only way you can wish to be loved. This is the only way I can want you to love me. If you married me now, I would become your whole existence. But I would not want you then. You would not want yourself—and so you would not love me long. To say ‘I love you’ one must first know how to say the ‘I.’”

This quote lays out Roark’s—and therefore Rand’s—understanding of real love. By explicitly rejecting the idea that love is “sacrifice” or “pity” and that love of the other can only come at the expense of the self, Roark implicitly defines love as the opposite of such things. His statement therefore undermines other examples of so-called love that are modeled throughout the novel, showing that they do not live up to Roark’s standards and are ultimately inferior. The final sentence reframes the well-known phrase of “I love you” by placing emphasis on the “I” and therefore the ego—a pithy and memorable encapsulation of the individualist perspective on love.

“Gail Wynand raised a gun to his temple.

He felt the pressure of a metal ring against his skin—and nothing else. He might have been holding a lead pipe or a piece of jewelry; it was just a small circle without significance. ‘I am going to die,’ he said aloud—and yawned.”

Wynand is introduced in the moment of his suicidal ideation, with his passive ennui clearly indicating that although he has no great desire for death, he no longer feels fulfilled or satisfied with life. His indifference is shown by the comparison of the gun to benign objects, a stylistic choice that contrasts the dramatic impact of the opening sentence. This pattern is also echoed in the comedic juxtaposition between his bold declaration and yawning reaction.

“‘I don’t want you to suffer, Peter,’ she said gently. ‘This, now, is real—it’s I—it’s my own words—I don’t want you to suffer—I can’t feel anything else—but I feel that much.’

He pressed his lips to her hand.

When he raised his head, she looked at him as if, for a moment, he was her husband. She said: ‘Peter, if you could hold on to it—to what you are now—’”

The fleeting connection between Keating and Dominique, shown through her words and their body language, portrays Keating as a sympathetic character. His obvious weakness frames him as a victim, and there is a sense of inevitability and pathos to their impending loss of connection. The habitual disconnect between the characters increases the emotional impact of the brief honesty and closeness of this moment.

“One can’t love man without hating most of the creatures who pretend to bear his name. It’s one or the other. One doesn’t love God and sacrilege impartially. Except when one doesn’t know that sacrilege has been committed. Because one doesn’t know God. […] Love is reverence and worship, and glory, and the upward glance. Not a bandage for dirty sores.”

This quote uses evocative language and religious metaphors to indicate the value and sanctity of true love, which is akin to worship. This concept is juxtaposed and contrasted with the negative and base imagery associated with altruistic love as a form of sacrilege.

“‘You’re not logical, Lance,’ said Ike. ‘Not in the cosmic sense you aren’t. To write a good play and to have it praised is nothing. Anybody can do that. Anybody with talent—and talent is only a glandular accident. But to write a piece of crap and have it praised—well, you match that.’”

The irony and dark humor inherent in this quote align with that of the other “second-handers” who value mediocrity over genius, but in this passage, the sentiment is expressed in such a blunt and counterintuitive a manner that the inherently illogical nature of the argument is immediately apparent. This quote embodies one aspect of The Conflict Between Innovative Genius and Society.

“‘All the giants of spirit I’ve broken. I don’t think anybody ever realized how much I enjoyed doing it. It’s a kind of lust. […] just let me see a man of higher dimension—and I’ve got to make a sort of Toohey out of him. I’ve got to. It’s like a sex urge.’ […]

‘Why didn’t you set out to destroy me?’

‘The exception-making, Dominique. I love you. I had to love you. God help you if you were a man.’ […]

‘The man I couldn’t break would destroy me.’”

This conversation between Wynand and Dominque foreshadows the fact that in Wynand’s upcoming meeting Roark, the protagonist will prove to be the exception to Wynand’s ability to corrupt other men’s integrity. By extension, their association will ultimately destroy Wynand by forcing him to face his own hypocrisy. The passage also connects Wynand’s love for Dominique, his lust to destroy integrity, and his soon-to-be-realized passion for Roark. These interwoven concepts show the depth of the connection that binds the three characters together, emphasizing the complexity of their intermingled emotions for each other.

“‘I don’t always like being Gail Wynand.’

‘I know that.’ […]

‘Have you always liked being Howard Roark?’

Roark smiled. The smile was amused, astonished, involuntarily contemptuous.

‘You’ve answered,’ said Wynand.”

Wynand and Roark both speak in short, matter-of-fact sentences that echo their forthright personalities. They understand each other implicitly and immediately, showing that they are already on the same wavelength. The contrast between Wynand’s confession and Roark’s reaction to the same question highlights the differences between the two characters, who function as foils for each other. The exchange also illustrates Roark’s moral and philosophical superiority, for he cannot conceive of ever being anything other than himself.

“‘Doing your duty, officer?’ Toohey asked, the echoes of his laughter like jerks in his voice. ‘Protecting law and order and decency and human lives?’ The policeman scratched the back of his head. ‘You ought to arrest me, officer.’

‘Okay, pal, okay,’ said the policeman. ‘Run along. We all take one too many once in a while.’”

The dramatic irony of this passage lies in the fact that Toohey is confessing the absolute truth, as, in essence, his every manipulation is designed to strike a blow against “law and order and decency and human lives.” Although his confession is met with the assumption that he is drunk or otherwise intoxicated, this darkly comedic dismissal breaks the tension of the chapter even as it provides the ominous implication that society will never recognize Toohey and his ilk as the threats they are.

“You can devote your life to pulling out each single weed as it comes up—and then ten lifetimes won’t be enough for the job. Or you can prepare your soil in such a manner—by spreading a certain chemical, let us say—that it will be impossible for weeds to grow. This last is faster. I say ‘weed’ because it is conventional symbolism and will not frighten you. The same technique, of course, holds true in the case of any other living plant you may wish to eliminate: buckwheat, potatoes, oranges, orchids or morning glories.”

Toohey uses this analogy to explain the methodologies and values that he has been shown to use throughout the novel. The analogy aptly illustrates his complex social manipulations by using simple imagery, and the listing of various valuable or useful domesticated plants reiterates with emphasis that his goal is to remove from society all those individuals who have the most potential to create and innovate.

“‘Yes, of course I suffered. All young people do in such situations. It seems foolish afterward. I cried, and I screamed some dreadful things at Uncle Ellsworth, and he had to call a doctor to give me a sedative, and then weeks afterward I fainted on the street one day without reason, which was really disgraceful. All the conventional things, I suppose, everybody goes through them, like measles. Why should I have expected to be exempt?—as Uncle Ellsworth said.’ He thought that he had not known there was something worse than a living memory of pain: a dead one. ‘And of course we knew it was for the best. I can’t imagine myself married to you.’”

As Catherine enumerates her reactions to Keating’s abandonment, there is a sense of disconnect between the deeply emotional and pathos-evoking scenes of her past and the dispassionate and dismissive tone with which she describes them. Her tone implies a sense of loss, and the emotionless recitation makes it clear that the more passionate and honest version of Catherine is now long gone, destroyed by Toohey’s corrosive influence. Even more significantly, Catherine quotes her uncle as an ultimate authority on the matter of her own emotions and inner world, showing that her own perspective has been fully eclipsed by his.

“Resistance fed him and made him stronger. This was war, and he had not engaged in a real war for years, not since the time when he laid the foundations of his empire amid cries of protest from the whole profession. He was granted the impossible, the dream of every man: the chance and intensity of youth, to be used with the wisdom of experience. A new beginning and a climax, together. I have waited and lived, he thought, for this.”

Rand uses a powerful metaphor to compare Wynand’s internal struggle to an outright war. This dynamic elevates the stakes of the conflict to life and death, creating a sense of imminent danger. The positive opportunity that this figurative battle offers to Wynand is described as “impossible” and a “dream,” and this diction suggests what he stands to gain should he succeed in standing firm in his convictions. Likewise, the description of this battle as both beginning and climax creates a sense of grandeur that exacerbates the fall from grace that characterizes his eventual surrender.

“When Wynand appeared in any department of the building, the employees obeyed him as they had obeyed him before. He was still a machine and they knew that it was a machine more dangerous than ever: a car running downhill without combustion or brakes.”

Rand metaphorically describes Wynand as a broken machine that is out of control and dangerous but lacks an internal power source. He no longer has the force of will or conviction to motivate him, and he is simply going through the motions of life, devoid of any sense of independent will to arouse his passions or guide his actions.

“The choice is not self-sacrifice or domination. The choice is independence or dependence The code of the creator or the code of the second-hander. This is the basic issue. It rests upon the alternative of life or death. The code of the creator is built on the needs of the reasoning mind which allows man to survive. The code of the second-hander is built on the needs of the mind incapable of survival. All that which proceeds from man’s independent ego is good. All that which proceeds from man’s dependence upon men is evil.”

Roark speaks in short, precise sentences that lay out a logical argument. This contrasts with Toohey’s florid speech, just as Roark’s ideas and values are the direct antithesis of those espoused by Toohey and his supporters. In this protracted monologue, Roark lays out Rand’s own views on Individualism and the Importance of Independence.