Christmas: A Note

For your holiday pleasure, I heartily recommend this week's podcast from Start the Week With Andrew Marr. The discussion centers on the Roman Emperor Constantine, who decided it would be politically useful to appropriate a carefully edited version of Christianity for his Empire. The result is nicely summarized in the Nicene Creed, which covers these aspects of Christ: Birth, Passion, Crucifixion, and Resurrection. Carefully omitted from Constantine's religion: Jesus's Ministry. It seems the actual words and deeds of Jesus were too controversial; they didn't serve the Emperor's political agenda.

The podcast explains this much better than I do. But the next time you hear public figures bloviate about their devotion to Christianity, without actually showing any familiarity with the teachings of Jesus–well, perhaps you have Constantine to thank.

Book Report #2

So.

I finished reading The Awkward Age back in May. In my last report, I anticipated a match being made between the protagonist and a certain young woman. Things turned out to be less simple than that; life is messy, which makes for good storytelling. Overall, it was a good read, though the prose is a bit denser than most novels one might pick up.

Next came a few more novels, including Independence Day by Richard Ford and Three Lives by Gertrude Stein. The Ford novel follows a real estate agent dealing with customers and family over a holiday weekend. Not long on plot, though there are a lot of amusing incidents; it's mainly a meditation by a man reaching middle age. The Stein book is an exercise in style: three character portraits written in distinctive voices. There's a lot of repetition, and frankly the book is excruciating to read.

H.L. Mencken's Prejudices: First Series is a collection of his early essays. This was my introduction to Mencken's acid pen. Occasionally the arrows seem lazily tossed at his subjects—he can sound like an Internet troll with good spelling—but generally his aim is true. I look forward to eventually reading his account of the Scopes trial, several series down the road.

Rereading Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, I can see why this novel is a campus favorite: The prose is easy, the chapters are short, and the level of wisdom matches that of the thinking college student. Bad things happen, and it's the grownups' fault.

On to Saul Bellow's Herzog. Even more than Ford, Bellow dispenses with plot; mostly, we get the angry thoughts and writings of Moses Herzog, misogynist. Herzog would have been a terror in the era of email and blogs; he is constantly writing outraged letters to everyone who crosses his path. Bellow is a skilled writer, but this fellow is unpleasant most of the time.

Next is the Library of America's printing of Willa Cather's uncollected stories. One could devote a semester of American literature to the study of these truthful and fully-formed stories. Cather is top-tier.

Today I started reading John Cheever's first novel, The Wapshot Chronicle. It looks like it will be an almost clichéd portrait of a New England small town; the eccentric characters include an elderly nudist, nicknamed Uncle Peepee, who is mostly tolerated by the constabulary. At the time of its publication, the book was criticized as too episodic. We'll see.

Ranking the 2011 Academy Award Nominees

OK, so I'm a little late with this.

I finally saw the last of the nominees in June. Here's my list, top to bottom, of the Best Picture nominees, with the Best Animated Feature nominees folded in:

1. True Grit
Wonderful atmosphere, wonderful dialogue, wonderful performances. Makes me want to read the book.

2. The King's Speech
Charming, inspirational story. The critics who looked down on this as too middlebrow are bozos.

3. Black Swan
A totally insane melodrama. Crazy fun.

4. The Kids Are All Right
A smart, modern comedy.

5. The Illusionist
Beautiful animation, sad story.

6. How to Train Your Dragon
Cheerful story, better-than-average animation.

7. The Fighter
That's one nutty family.

8. Winter's Bone
Probably I am underrating this slow-moving Southern Gothic. The performances were very good.

9. 127 Hours
Proof that the Danny Boyle circus can perform anywhere.

10. The Social Network
The fad movie of the year, though still a good one.

11. Toy Story 3
The cords of manipulation are wearing through the fading fabric of this franchise. Even so, I liked the film.

12. Inception
Didn't hate it, but this one was way too clever for its own good.


Of course this list is just an excuse to mention, by the way, that my movie blog has moved; it's now at http://secondchancecinema.wordpress.com. I even classed the joint up with a movie index.

A More Perfect Union Buster

A man does a good turn to a genie. As reward, the genie offers to grant one wish. "I am a very powerful genie. If you wish it, I can put an end to HIV or world hunger. I can stop global w—."

"Abolish the unions!"

That's the reaction I would expect nowadays if that man happens to be a Republican officeholder. (Such sentiments may or may not be held by rank-and-file R's.) A GOP elected official may praise hard work; but let the working man try to organize, to accumulate power, and he will find that governor or legislator to be a savage enemy.

There seems to be something more than politics going on here. It's true that unions (with the occasional exception of the Teamsters) have supported Democrats at the polls. But other parts of the Democratic coalition don't seem to evoke nearly so much Republican wrath.

It's also true that unions have not always accomplished a public good. The auto unions have taken part in the dismantling of the American auto industry, and some of the failings of American schools can be placed at the feet of the teacher unions. It would seem that any trace of greed in the heart of a laborer is a very bad thing. (And yet greed in the hearts of executives and entrepreneurs is not merely a natural thing, but the very engine that makes our economy go! Amazing!)

I'm trying to work out the psychology of this whole mess.

Perhaps, as society becomes more and more unequal, the powerful become more and more jealous of the diminishing strength of the not-powerful. We will finally get through this bad stretch when the rich control everything!

Perhaps, deep down, many of the powerful sense their own lack of legitimacy, and that suspicion adds to their rage against anyone who would challenge their power. (I doubt this theory, though. I think that a great many people who have lucked into wealth are convinced that their riches testify to their inner virtue.)

Whatever the motivation, the Republicans seem to be pushing for a final, utter victory over organized labor. Earlier this year in Wisconsin, Governor Scott Walker went all-out against the public unions—and got his nose bloodied. And because of the messiness and uncertainty of the legislative process, the Republicans seem to be pursuing a second strategy: Pack the courts with pro-corporate, anti-union ideologues. Regardless of the law today, I foresee the day when judges rule that concentration of power in the hands of corporate executives is an absolute good, while concentration of power in the hands of workers is an absolute evil.

And this will be done without the aid of a genie.

Apprentice Punk

It happened a few months ago. I was walking across a parking lot in the middle of the day. My path took me near a youth, maybe eighteen, not very imposing. As I drew near, he muttered something. I looked around, thinking he might be talking to someone behind me. No one. So I turned back to the kid and said, "What?"

"G'meadolla."

It took me a moment to translate. "You want me to give you a dollar?"

"Yeh. Gi' me a dolla."

I looked around again, to make absolutely sure he was talking to me, and to see if any friends of his might be showing up. Still nobody.

Furrowed brow. "Why should I give you a dollar?"

This was his cue to produce a weapon, or a threat—in which case he would have gotten his dollar—but he did nothing.

I detoured slightly to get around him and went about my business.

So the kid got his feet wet. This may have been his first attempt at thuggery, and while he didn't get his dollar, the experience was relatively painless. Next time he'll be ready to back up his request. Maybe he'll elaborate: "Heh, I need a dolla to get a taco." Maybe he'll start carrying a knife. Maybe he'll bring friends.

But I'll be better prepared too. Of course, the main option will be to fork over the dollar (or whatever amount he requests). But I've got another idea that may work:

"G'meadolla."

"Kid, where do you live? I need to talk to your mama about you asking strangers for money."

Yeah, that might throw him.

Coincidence #6

The last three films I've watched are Catherine Breillat's 2009 retelling of Bluebeard; Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World, a mostly unsuccessful comedy from 2006 that has Albert Brooks traveling (via Air India) to India and Pakistan to find out what makes Muslims laugh; and the 1962 French thriller Le combat dans l'île.

The thriller included a shot of an Air India jet and a mention of Bluebeard. Which is mildly cool.

The Great Recession

Periodically, Andrew Sullivan's blog, The Dish, links to a chart comparing unemployment rates for all the recessions since World War Two. The latest update is here. (Unemployment rates are compared in the second chart.) Have a look. Can there be any doubt that the name, "The Great Recession," is well-deserved?

Book Report

So what does one read after The Fountainhead, which is both an earnest self-help manual as well as a fount of misantropy; which manages to raise a paean to the human spirit, and pee on it at the same time?

I'm glad I asked.

When I decided to blog The Fountainhead, I had chosen another book to read, just for my own pleasure; but I hadn't started it. Now was the time to return to Nathaniel West's 1934 novel, A Cool Million. Boy, talk about a palate cleanser! This short novel (or long parable) tells the story of an innocent from the countryside who ventures out into the world and ... is torn to shreds. This is one dark and bloody satire. (It even touches on the political arguments of the time, such as the war between collectivism and libertarianism. Hmm, where have we heard that discussion?) In some ways the story resembles Candide—the protagonist has a Cunégonde-like admirer who is made to suffer greatly. But in West's world, anyone attempting to cultivate their garden would be trampled by common thieves and grasping capitalists. The book is an acid bath, a universal solvent of cynicism.

Now I am halfway through Henry James's 1899 novel, The Awkward Age. At a rented estate in the English countryside, the Duchess has just laid her cards on the table for Mr. Longdon, which revelation promises to drive the action of the remainder of the book. After reading Rand and West, it takes a while to adjust to James's overstuffed prose. It's a shock to the digestion, like suddenly reverting to certain recipes of the 1950's, when everything was prepared with lots of cream and butter.

"Would you," the Duchess said to him the next day, "be for five minutes awfully kind to my poor little niece?" The words were spoken in charming entreaty as he issued from the house late on the Sunday afternoon—the second evening of his stay, which the next morning was to bring to an end—and on his meeting the speaker at one of the extremities of the wide cool terrace. There was at this point a subsidiary flight of steps by which she had just mounted from the grounds, one of her purposes being apparently to testify afresh to that anxious supervision of little Aggie from which she had momentarily suffered herself to be diverted. This young lady, established in the pleasant shade of a sofa of light construction designed for the open air, offered the image of a patience of which it was a questionable kindness to break the spell. It was that beautiful hour when, toward the close of the happiest days of summer, such places as the great terrace at Mertle present to the fancy a recall of the banquet-hall deserted—deserted by the company lately gathered at tea and now dispersed, according to affinities and combinations promptly felt and perhaps quite as promptly criticised, either in quieter chambers where intimacy might deepen or in gardens and under trees where the stillness knew the click of balls and the good-humour of games....

OK, if you say so.

Seriously, I find I have to put my mind into four-wheel drive to take in such passages.

But the pleasure of reading James is his characters. These are people with good and bad tendencies, but their motivations are well worked out; no one is evil purely because the story needs a villain at some point. The conflicts are real (i.e., between real people), not expressions of ideology or cynicism. I'm rooting for Vanderbank and Nanda to get together, but if circumstances take the story elsewhere, it won't be because someone starts behaving out of character or someone else shows up from nowhere to intervene by magic. A true, sensible universe is comforting, and sometimes the reader needs comfort.

The Fountainhead: The Movie

There is a wonderful bit of dialogue in the film version of The Fountainhead that wasn't in the book.

In the book, Dominique Francon has a brief moment of passion with a worker in a granite quarry. By "moment of passion," I mean that she flirts with the man, and later on he shows up at her home and forces himself on her. Much later, her husband Gail Wynand brings home the architect Howard Roark for dinner. When she sees Roark, she recognizes him as the quarryman.

In the film, the rape takes place more or less as in the book. But the subsequent meeting takes place in a public place, a celebration of the opening of Enright House. Dominique had written a column about Roark's work, and at their meeting she mentions her column. Roark (leering): I remember every line of it. Dominique: I wish I had never seen ... your building.

"Column" and "building": What clever ways to get around the censors!

The movie, directed by King Vidor, is a lot of fun, at least for someone who has read the book. Gary Cooper is twenty years too old to play Howard Roark; this is all but acknowledged in the opening scenes of the film, which zip through the novel's early years and only show Roark in darkened silhouette. But Coop is the right "type" for the role—upright and taciturn. Patricia Neal is brilliant as Dominique. She brings TEH CRAZEE, as they say, depicting a very disturbed and very beautiful woman. Raymond Massey is more than adequate as Gail Wynand. In Ayn Rand's screenplay, the figures of Keating and Toohey are much reduced from the book—a wise choice. Max Steiner's score is just the sort of stirring romantic music the film needs.

The clunky parts of dialogue are the sometimes lengthy discourses on Objectivism that Rand insisted on keeping in the screenplay. This was her privilege, and her philosophy is the driving force of the book; but Cooper's delivery of Roark's long courtroom speech is painfully wooden.

Still, Rand did a fine job chopping away big parts of the book to make a two-hour screenplay, and the movie came out much better than I expected.

On Blogging The Fountainhead; And: Conclusions

A few years ago, David Plotz, a not-very-religious writer at slate.com, took on the task of blogging the Bible. It was a popular series of articles. Plotz learned a lot, his readers learned a lot, and he eventually got a book out of the experience. It helped that he's a good writer.

January 2011. Here I am, trying to push myself to write. And here's this book, The Fountainhead, which some denounce as trash and some revere as a religious text. So hey! If Plotz can blog a long book, so can I. If nothing else, it will be good writing practice.

And so it was. I can't vouch for the reader's experience. I'm not sure I even want to think about it. But overall, it's been a gas to write. There will not be a book, however.

The debate over Ayn Rand continues. Andrew Sullivan's blog, The Dish, has hosted an ongoing discussion of Rand's influence. A couple of interesting assertions:

Objectivism is the sort of philosophy many kids adopt and then grow out of by the time they're thirteen. I get the point. We are instructed to sneer at any grownup who looks up to Rand and her ideas. Right. Why limit ourselves to a discussion of the ideas—and from what I've seen of it, I do find Objectivism to be pretty laughable—when we can throw personal insults about. That's so adult.

Rand's novels are particularly appealing to high-achieving girls; they completely identify with the geniuses under attack by a conformist society. Interesting thought. The idea is that in school, girls are put under intense peer pressure not to stand out. Just when they want to discover their selves and cultivate their own abilities, they are told to stay with the pack. Hmm. I don't know if that's true, but it makes sense.

My far-too-brief, altogether-too-pat conclusions—

Ayn Rand was a skilled writer and a droning, ham-handed polemicist. She did a brilliant job skewering the hypocricy of the left. She could write exciting bits of plot. But it was her ambition to preach, to prove her system. Her ideal, the self-contained genius, doesn't work in the real world.

In condemning altruism, she claims that no one can reach the ideal of being a pure altruist; thus we are all condemned to fall short. Yet being a pure individualist is just as impossible for everyone but the sociopath. We are all doomed to be something less than pure egotists.

But I'm venturing into philosophy and getting rapidly out of my depth. Let's get back to the book.

Roark and Toohey bear the burden of personifying the extremes of Rand's world-view; they barely register as human. Roark is innocent genius, mostly disconnected from human interaction. (His out-of-character friendship with Wynand is the one part of the novel's depiction that works.) Toohey is a caricature, a mustache-twirling villain.

Dominique is wildly inconsistent, and not in the way actual human beings can be inconsistent. She simply becomes a different person to suit the story, from devouring femme fatale to icily cordial wife to swooning lover to footnote.

Keating is all flaws and no nobility. He is the bedraggled cat captured by the author and released with a string of cans tied to its tail.

Wynand is the character most fully fleshed-out. He is a man of great genius and drive, but circumstances put him on the path of accumulating power, which eventually gains him nothing. His collapse is a bit abrupt, but he breathes real air from time to time.

Rand's universe is a twisted place. The heroes are all rough beasts, unsociable and instinctively disliked by others. Kindliness is the sign of a villain. The people of the world are full of latent hostility, like iron filings rising up in the presence of a magnet. Originality and genius are frightful things to be beaten down as soon as they appear. To Rand, the primary emotion of man is jealousy. The book seems to have been written from a defensive crouch.

I will be paying one more visit to the world of The Fountainhead, and then I will put it behind me. Stay tuned.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 18-20

In the Roark trial, the prosecution accuses Roark of being something "monstrous and inconceivable"—an egotist. The arresting officer, the night watchman, and other witnesses testify. Keating affirms that it was Roark who designed Cortlandt Homes. The contract is brandished. The prosecution rests. Roark rises to give his statement. It runs 7½ pages.

The man who discovered how to make fire, Roark says, was probably burned at the stake. The inventor of the wheel was probably torn on the rack.

(What? The same guy invented the wheel and the rack?)

Let's face it. There are a few creators; everyone else is a poopyhead second-hander. Creators are not out to help anyone else; they are merely seekers of truth. Second-handers glom off creators' creations. They are parasites.

The creator operates out of his own self, his ego. The ego is the truthiest thing.

There is no collective mind. There are only individuals. Agreements, committee decisions—these are secondary things.

Altruists depend on others for validation. Depending on others is slavery. Slavery—physical bondage—is bad. Altruism—mental bondage—is bad squared.

Second-handers agree with others; they swim with the current. Creators disagree. The creator's virtue is his ability to stand by himself.

Independence is good. Interdependence is evil.

I created Cortlandt Homes. Second-handers perverted it. As its creator, I had the right to destroy it.

This is a great country, built by creators, not second-handers. If I am sentenced to ten years in prison, I will serve my term in memory of what a great country this used to be.

Roark says all these things, and more besides. The prosecution sums up its case. The jury spends a few seconds in the jury room before returning with a verdict of not guilty.

Roger Enright buys the Cortlandt site and has Roark rebuild the project in his own pure vision.

Wynand gets his divorce.

Toohey brings a wrongful termination case before the labor board. He wins. Wynand tells him to report to work the evening of the ruling. Toohey reports, sits at his old desk, and listens to the presses running; Wynand stand nearby. Then the presses stop. Wynand: Hope you enjoyed your job. It's over. I have shut down the Banner.

Toohey finds another job.

Wynand invites Roark to his office and formally invites him to design and construct the Wynand building. It will be the world's tallest skyscraper. Roark accepts and they sign the contract. Wynand specifies that this is the last contact the two of them will have.

Eighteen months later, Dominique comes to the Wynand building construction site. A hoist carries her up, up into the sky. Waiting for her at the top of the universe is Howard Roark.

THE END

I'll have some closing comments anon.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 17

The enemies of Gail Wynand come together to celebrate his defeat. Here's one I love:

"Isn't it splendid? Wynand's surrendered," said a tight-lipped woman; she knew little about Wynand and nothing about the issue, but she liked to hear of people surrendering.

Rand wields the acid pen as well as anyone.

Roark tries to meet with Wynand but is turned away. He writes Wynand a "there's nothing to forgive" letter which is returned unopened.

Dominique is at the country home, thinking about what to do. Of course, she knows what she's going to do.

Roark has rented a house in the Monadnock Valley. Dominique shows up at his door. He asks her to have pity on Wynand, but at the end of the day they rearrange the bedsheets.

Dominique rises early and puts in a bogus call to the local sheriff to report a stolen ring. In a short while the sheriff, a deputy, and a couple of local newsmen show up at Roark's door. With Roark standing by, Dominique invites them in and says that Roark had given her a star-sapphire ring recently; that she had placed the ring on the nightstand next to the bed, beneath an open window; and that this morning the ring was gone. She offers to let them search the place. They say thank you ma'am, we have all we need.

After they leave she tells Roark she's happy now. She has tears in her eyes.

The scandal hits the papers, and at the Banner offices, Scarret urges Wynand to divorce Dominique. OK, he says dully. Scarret gets a divorce attorney on the job tout suite.

Wynand drives out to the country home in Connecticut. Dominique confirms she and Roark had been together before her marriage to Keating, but the night of the ring was her only moment of unfaithfulness to Wynand. He leaves.

Guy Francon calls his daughter. He invites her to stay with him until Roark's trial is over. At the Francon estate, father tells daughter to drink her milk and go to bed. Dominique: OK. Guy: By the way, I approve of your choice. Roark is the right man for you.

At the Banner, Scarret comes up with a story to restore Wynand's reputation: Wynand's support of Roark had all been at the urging of his faithless wife. It was the tragic story of a great man betrayed by a bad woman. Wynand: Do what you want; it's your job.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 15-16

Toohey has managed to get a denunciation of Roark published in his Banner column, "One Small Voice." Wynand fires Toohey and everyone involved in approving the column. (Scarret has been sick with laryngitis, so he's in the clear.) Wynand publishes an editorial apology for ever printing the words of that "contemptible blackguard," Ellsworth Toohey. Toohey stops by Wynand's office to proclaim, "I'll be back, bwa-ha-ha!"

At the Banner, the union goes on strike in support of Toohey and the fired editors. Wynand continues to publish with a skeleton staff, including Dominique; they take up residence in the Banner building. The paper's big advertisers pull out in favor of the strike; circulation plummets as the public supports the strike. The strikers engage in vandalism and murder. No violence is committed against the strikers—not even a threat of violence, or murmurs of retaliation.

Wow, this has to be the most realistic strike in fiction, ever.

After three weeks, Wynand slips out of the building to visit Roark, who tells him not to give in.

After a few more weeks, the paper's board of directors meets. The directors complain that Wynand is engaged in some sort of crusade which will destroy the paper. After much discussion, Scarret suggests a compromise with the strikers: Rehire everyone but Toohey, and take an anti-Roark editorial stance. Exhausted, Wynand agrees.

Leaving Scarret in charge of the paper, Wynand wanders the streets of New York. Eventually the morning edition of the Banner is published, including an editorial by Wynand, denouncing Roark. (It is from Roark's first trial, long ago.) Wynand realizes that as a publisher he had subverted any power he might have had by catering to the prejudices of the great unwashed. The mindless mobs were his boss. Wynand looks around and realizes he's in Hell's Kitchen. I never left, he thinks.

He sees a copy of the Banner on the ground. Roark's picture is on the front page. Someone has trod upon the paper; there is the mark of a rubber heel across Roark's face.

OH MY GOD HAVEN'T I SUFFERED ENOUGH?

Just four chapters to go.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 14

Toohey visits Keating, who has refused to talk to the press since Roark's arrest. Toohey: So you think you can help Roark by being silent? I can make you talk. Who designed Cortlandt Homes? Keating: I did. Toohey: Let me be clear. My goal is to send Roark to prison, where he'll have to obey other people's orders for the first time in his life. It'll destroy him. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Keating: Eek! Toohey: Now—who designed Cortlandt Homes?

Keating pulls his copy of the agreement with Roark out of a dresser drawer and hands it to Toohey. Toohey: Excellent! And just in time for my six-page monologue!

And Toohey explains himself. He is out for power; he wants to rule the world. That's why he promotes altruism—because no one can be perfectly altruistic, and people will feel rotten about themselves when they fail to be selfless. And that's why he promotes mediocre people—so people will lose a sense of what is truly great. That's why he teaches people to laugh at everything—so nothing will be sacred. Don't let people be happy; take away what fulfills them. Urge people to ignore reason and try to intuit things; non-thinking people are easier to rule. Promote collectivism and deny the individual! That will kill men's souls. Ha! Now you know me in all my delicious evilness, but you will continue to obey me because you've been stripped of your ideals, and there's nothing else to do.

Man, I'd hate it if someone visited my home and talked like that.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 11-13

Wynand talks Roark into taking some time off. They take Wynand's yacht for a three-month cruise in the South Pacific. Sorry, Dominique, NO GIRLZ ALOWD.

Roark hops into the ocean for a swim. Wynand congratulates himself for his tremendous moral fortitude in not casting off and leaving Roark in the ocean (not out of any animosity toward Roark, but just because he has the power to do so, to abandon the man mid-ocean; let's all pat ourselves on the back for not being cold-blooded killers, shall we?). This is Wynand grading himself on the curve.

Wynand talks about his newspaper empire. He has published crap, and editorialized idiotic positions, just to curry favor with the world, and increase his power. For so subjugating his own ego, he should be called a self-sacrificing saint. He then goes on to criticize Keating, and the ostentation rich, for kowtowing to the opinions of others instead of following their own egos. Wait, what?

Competence is a fundamental virtue. Some try to push love or charity as values, but these things are inferior to competence.

The true reality is the self. "Second-handers" imagine reality to lie in relationships with others. This is emptiness.

OK, a little food for thought here, but mostly food for poisoning rats.

The vacationers return to New York. Roark sees a newspaper story about Cortlandt Homes which lists Gordon Prescott and Gus Webb as associate designers. Alarm bells go off.

Toohey had insinuated the two into the project, and they began to make little changes—and some not so little. A bureaucrat had demanded that a gymnasium be added to the project, even though there were low-cost gyms available nearby. Other modifications were suggested—a meeting hall, a theater. Prescott and Webb came up with small aesthetic changes. All added to the cost of the project. Roark's beautiful design and low-cost aesthetic were gone, kablooey.

Roark calls on Dominique: I need your help. Find some public event to attend Monday night; make sure the event is at such a place that the route from there to your home goes by the Cortlandt Homes construction site. Fix things so that your drive home takes you by the site at 11:30, and have your car run out of gas right there. Ask the night watchman at the site to go for gas. After he leaves, hide in a trench. Then when the time is right—you'll know—climb out of the trench and get back in what's left of your car. Pretend that you've been there all along.

She follows his instructions, except that she stands up in the trench too early, and flying glass from the explosion (come on, you knew Roark was going to blow the project up) severs an artery. She gets into the smashed car, bleeding, and is found and rushed to the hospital after losing a lot of blood. She survives.

Roark is found near the plunger that set off the explosion. He tells a policeman to arrest him, but otherwise remains silent. Wynand bails him out and asks him in private, did you do this? Duh.

Roark knew that Dominique would want to run off with him after his release on bail. That's why he enlisted her in the plan: With her involved so publicly in the explosion, trying to run off with Roark would only throw suspicion on her. In other words, she has to stay loyal to Wynand (who still has no clue about the past relationship between Roark and Dominique).

Writing in New Frontiers, Toohey demands Roark's execution (for destroying property and injuring one bystander?). There is a public outcry. And here Rand trots out all her favorite targets, the liberal critics who care ostentatiously about the "little people," all demanding Roark's blood.

Wynand decides to cash in all this power he's accumulated to shape public opinion. He throws all the Wynand papers into a campaign to defend Roark. But instead, public indignation is turned against Wynand. How dare this yellow journalist defend a terrorist!

Wynand defends Roark to his rich friends, but they turn their back on him. On the street, a woman throws rotten vegetables at him.

Toohey tells Scarret it's time to make their move—time to take over the Wynand syndicate!

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 9, 10

The Wynand house is built, and Wynand, Dominique, and Roark luxuriate in it. The even seem to enjoy the natural surroundings. Yes! I, too, am shocked!

Roark would like to stay and play, but he has a secret project that's keeping him busy busy busy.

Keating presents Roark's plans for Cortlandt Homes as his own to Toohey. Toohey: Well done!

Wynand sees a copy of the awarded design for Cortlandt Homes in the Banner. He recognizes it as Roark's work. So does Dominique. Roark insists he didn't design the project, and he'll sue anyone who says he did.

Alvah Scarret is getting uppity with Wynand.

Wynand has ordered the Banner to puff Roark. Because it's the Banner, this actually hurts Roark's reputation. Heller complains to Roark about this. Roark is unmoved.

Wynand takes Roark to a run-down, two-block by five-block section of Hell's Kitchen that he bought long ago. This to be the site of the Wynand building, the tallest and awesomest skyscraper in New York. He wants Roark to build it.

One day Keating runs into Katie. Awkward! They go to a quiet sandwich shop to talk. He feels bad about jilting her. Yes, it hurt her terribly. She's over that now. They reminisce. She leaves.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 7, 8

Keating & Dumont is in crisis; the firm is no longer in favor. The exposition was a flop. The A.G.A. has been supplanted by the Council of American Builders. Keating's mother has moved back in with him, at his request. He has aged.

One thing gives Keating peace (though not happiness). From time to time he goes to a private place, a shack in the hills, and paints, albeit amateurishly. This was the hobby he loved, the hobby he gave up for architecture.

Keating's partner, Neil Dumont, urges him to try to get the commission for Cortlandt Homes, a low-income housing project. Keating's old advocate Ellsworth Toohey may be in a position to influence the award.

Keating goes to Toohey to ask for help. Toohey explains that things change. The only way Keating & Dumont can get Toohey's backing is by submitting the best proposal. —Don't you know that individuals don't count, Peter?

The only hope is to once again ask for Howard Roark's help.

Roark's composure slips momentarily when he sees Keating, who is thirty-nine (Roark is thirty-seven) but looks much, much older. Keating: I have to face it—I'm a parasite, and I've always been one. I've always relied on your ideas, or other people's. I can't design Cortlandt Homes on my own. Is there any way you could design the project, which would then have my name put on it? Roark: I'll think about it. Let's talk tomorrow.

The next day, at Roark's home—

Roark: I'll do it, but only if I'm sure you understand my motivation. This isn't a favor for you; I am an egotist, not an altruist.

(after much talk)

Keating: You don't want the money, you don't want the glory, you aren't in it to provide for the poor. You want to do this because you love solving the problem of providing housing at low cost. You want to do this because you love the work. (And if you bid on the project directly, Toohey would block you.)

Roark: YES!!!!!! You understand!!!!! Let's have a drink. The usual conditions apply—no interfering with my design. You will be hard-pressed by bureaucrats to alter the plans, but you must stand firm.

Keating: You have my word.

Roark: Then sign this contract. If you deviate from my design, I'll make the contract public and ruin your reputation. But if the project is built according to my specifications, I'll give you my copy of the contract, and you can destroy it.

Keating (after signing): Now ... could you have a look at these?

He shows Roark his recent paintings. Roark looks at them for a while, then says quietly, "It's too late, Peter." Keating leaves, and Roark experiences something horrible he has never felt before: pity. What a monstrous sensation, he thinks.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 5, 6

Wynand and Roark have more conversations and continue bonding. Wynand thinks the people who read the Banner are fools. Wynand likes power. Roark avoids power; once he was offered power over a woman, and he refused it. Wynand hates people who are trying to find themselves.

Dominique defers to their friendship, her deference a sort of self-discipline.

Toohey holds a conversation with various rich friends. They kick around ideas: Freedom is achieved by total compulsion. Unselfishness is the greatest virtue.

One of Toohey's friends, Jessica Pratt, devoted her life to caring for her sister Renée, who eventually married Homer Slottern, owner of a chain of department stores. Renée is a slug.

Eve Layton is married to Mitchell Layton, the rich fellow Toohey talked into investing in the Banner. Eve's mission is to be avant garde, a few steps ahead of everyone else. Her husband hates her. Eve describes all of her philosophical conclusions as self-evident. There are no persons, just a collective; that's self-evident.

Sometimes I wonder where Ayn Rand came up with all these people who are so against freedom. Then today I was reminded that Rand grew up in the Soviet Union.

Oh, that's where.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 4

Wynand reveals to Dominique that he is having a house built for them; that the architect is Howard Roark; and that he has invited Roark over for dinner. Dominique manages to put on a façade of normalcy during the dinner; internally, she is dazed. She also doesn't believe the house will ever be built.

Five days later Wynand visits Roark in his office, and they chat amiably. On the spur of the moment, Wynand invites Roark to dine out, then phones Dominique to let her know he won't be home for dinner; he's having dinner with Roark.

Dominique has been fighting the urge to visit Roark herself.

At the Banner, Wynand instructs Toohey to never mention Roark in his column again.

The Fountainhead: Howard Roark: 1-3

I have to admit, Parts 2 and 3 were a bit heavy going, with twists and turns that are either illogical or iron-bound by logic. The moderately heavy philosophizing didn't help, perhaps because I don't relate much to an outlook that proclaims, You can tell I love mankind because I consider most men to be dreck. Happily, the beginning of the final part is refreshing.

We start in 1935, with an introduction to a Pennsylvania resort that Howard Roark has nearly completed. It sounds like a wonderful place, with well-spaced private cottages that complement the terrain. Then we backtrack to 1933, when Roark is given the commission.

He has heard about plans for a resort in the Monadnock Valley and pays a visit to the leader of the project, one Caleb Bradley. Roark quickly sizes Bradley up as the type who would never go for Roark's sort of work, but he is surprised when he is called back for an interview with the board. He lays out his vision of a resort for the middle class, with inexpensively made pools and tennis courts and plenty of privacy. Roark makes his usual demand of total control over the design, and he is sure these jokers will turn him down; but to his surprise they sign him up and send him on his way to build the resort. He gathers his friends, including Mike and Mallory, and the resort becomes a labor of love. All the while, Mallory is suspicious. But the resort opens to little fanfare and quickly becomes a success. Roark is called off by Kent Lansing to complete the Aquitania Hotel in New York. And other commissions come along.

Then the Monadnock bubble bursts. The board had sold shares of the project amounting to 200% ownership, and then they had hired an architect with a history of eccentricity, failures, and thwarted projects. The man was sure to fail, and no one was more appalled than Caleb Bradley when his venture became a success. Hmm, I wonder if Mel Brooks read The Fountainhead?

With the unexpected success of Roark's resort, his architectural genius begins to get recognition. Austen Heller writes a laudatory article about the project, and Roark is recognized by the A.G.A. and even gets an exhibit in the Museum of the Future. He is invited to join a group of architects designing the 1937 World's Fair, but he insists on designing the entire exhibition himself; which is to say, he is passed over.

But then Gail Wynand invites him to design a country home for himself and his wife Dominique. Roark goes to Wynand's office, and the two übermenschen bond. After the meeting, Wynand has an aide pull together all clippings published about Roark by the Banner.

They meet again on the land where the home is to be built. Wynand: I'm not going to apologize for the hatchet job the Banner did on the Stoddard Temple. Roark: No prob. Wynand: Really? Roark: Really-dealy.

They bond some more. Wynand even unwinds and talks about his childhood, and the time he was beaten to within an inch of his life.

A month later, Roark has his drawings ready. Wynand is more formal; he has swallowed any traces of any bonding which might have happened between the two of them. He explains the brutal facts of life to Roark. There are two alternatives. One, Roark declines the job, in which case Wynand uses his clout to make sure Roark never gets a commission again—never even gets a job as a quarryman again. Two, Roark accepts the job to build the home in the design of Roark's sole choosing, and he also signs an exclusive contract with Wynand obliging him to design future buildings in styles specified by other interested parties; Roark will be making Tudor, Renaissance, and Gothic building according to other men's directions. Roark says sure, I can do that, and by the way, here's what I will end up building for your country home—drawing a hybrid monstrosity of styles that only the most tone-deaf of architectural critics could applaud. Wynand: Wow! That took guts! How do you know I won't accept your garish design and bind you to horrible labors for the rest of your life? Roark: I trust your integrity. Wynand: Ha! I have no integrity. Roark: Yes you do. Wynand: (folds)

So Roark agrees to build a home for Wynand and Dominique, and he will not be bound by any contract afterward. Wynand: Come have dinner with us tonight. I haven't told Dominique anything about the house or who is building it; it will be a surprise. Roark: Yes it will.

The Fountainhead: Gail Wynand: 8-9

Wynand and Dominique spend the two weeks after their wedding in his penthouse. Talking, mostly. Then he returns to work at the Banner. Scarret notices that he is happy; Toohey says, too bad.

A popular columnist at the Banner, Sally Brent, decides to disobey the boycott and shows up at the penthouse to interview Dominique, who gives her lots of "He's so dreamy" material, which Brent fashions into a profile of the couple. A copy of the draft article is sent to Wynand. Brent is fired. She pens an article about the Wynands that is published in New Frontiers.

Dominique places her copy of the "Fire the bitch" cable on her mirror. When Wynand sees it, she tells him Toohey gave it to her. She can't gauge his reaction, other than to observe his continued interest in the piece of paper.

Dominique gets tickets for Wynand and herself to a horrible play being puffed by Fougler. They sit through the whole thing. The audience is bullied by critical opinion into laughing at the dreadful comedy; Fougler has claimed a person's worth can be measured by their ability to appreciate the play. Dominique sees the play as an abomination created by the Banner; afterward, she tweaks Wynand: This is your life's achievement! Wynand: I can think of something worse—having a good play performed in front of the crowd of jackasses we sat among tonight.

This is an ongoing theme of the book: There are a few great men and women, and the rest of the people of the world are unworthy. Nice. I'd like to see that in needlepoint.

On another occasion, Wynand tells Dominique: What you really love is integrity. I look for opportunities to show it doesn't exist. What I admire is power.

Gazing at the skyline from their penthouse one night, Wynand says to Dominique: Some day I will have a Wynand Building erected to house the Banner. It will be a great achievement. But I'm not ready for that yet. Dominique: Do you know what you need to do right now? Fire Ellsworth Toohey. He's scheming to gain control over the Wynand newspaper syndicate. From there he plans to take over the world.

I am not making this up. And so far as I can tell, the only way Dominique could know this is if she is reading The Fountainhead. Yeah, that must be it.

Wynand: Wha? I'm the master-of-the-universe type, not Toohey. Fuhgeddaboudit.

And still later Dominique asks Wynand's forgiveness for what she is doing to him. She doesn't love him. Wynand: No worries. I love you.

Dominique crumples up the "Fire the bitch" cable and throws it out.

The Fountainhead: Gail Wynand: 7

Having gotten her Reno divorce, Dominique returns to New York. Wynand meets her at the train station and is ready to go to the judge. Dominique says no; they need to have a big wedding, as befits the great Gail Wynand. After a moment he says OK, that'll take a week to set up; I'll put you up at the hotel of your choice.

And sure enough the wedding takes place, in a big hotel ballroom. The bride wears black. After the ceremony Dominique is surprised to learn the Wynand papers have been banned from covering the wedding. She decides that's a good thing and thanks Wynand.

In his penthouse bedroom that night, she starts to put on her frigid act. Wynand says, "It won't do, Dominique," and she loosens up.

At the Banner a few days later, Scarret and Toohey confer. The paper has received thousands of letters protesting Wynand's wedding. How dare he marry a divorced woman! How dare they not get married in a church! This could be the beginning of a bad trend.

Scarret asks Toohey why he writes on occasion for a lefty magazine, New Frontiers. Rumor has it that Toohey arranged financing for the magazine, which Toohey confirms. Hmm. Then Toohey reveals that he has arranged for Mitchell Layton to buy a large share of the Banner. (How does one make such arrangements?) Layton is kind of a flaky leftist radical.

Wynand doesn't know about this. He's not as watchful of his syndicate as he used to be.

I guess this is going somewhere.

Two chapters to go in Part 3.

The Fountainhead: Gail Wynand: 6

The Council of American Writers has just watched the performance of a play having something to do with muskrats. Everyone agrees the play is putrid, except for the critic Jules Fougler, who calls it a great play. Anyone can praise a good play, but it takes something special to take something that smells and turn it into a hit.

And this isn't the first instance of garbage being sold to the public as great art. Toohey had puffed The Gallant Gallstone, as well as a more recent travel book, and both were received well by the public, despite being terrible.

Keating arrives after the performance and is told that he has missed a great work, provided that he isn't a literal-minded person with limited imagination.

Toohey writes a column in praise of modern architecture, even the work of Henry Cameron, which has come to be appreciated of late. The column is painful to read, as usual.

Keating feels exhausted just thinking of the scope of the Stoneridge project. He turns the job over to two colleagues. One of the colleagues, Cornelius Dumont, becomes a partner of the firm when Guy Francon retires.

The Fountainhead: Gail Wynand: 5

Keating hesitates momentarily, but he agrees to the divorce when assured he will get the Stoneridge commission. On top of that, Wynand gives him a check for $250,000. That had to be significant money in those days.

Before heading west, Dominique visits Mallory, who, unprompted, brings her up to date on Roark's activities. Currently the Übermensch is working as architect of a department store in Clayton, Ohio.

Keating feels lousy about himself. He drops in on Toohey and gives the man a check for $10,000 for the charity of his choosing. He tells Toohey about Dominique leaving him to marry Wynand. This is alarming news.

Toohey has lunch with Scarret. They agree that both Dominique and Wynand are dangerous. Putting them together makes dangerous squared. Shiver. There's probably no way to stop the marriage, but Toohey and Scarret need to work together. Toohey asks Scarret to demonstrate their solidarity by firing Jimmy Kearns, a smart, independent-minded drama critic for the Banner, and replace him with Jules Fougler, well-known but expensive.

Scarret talks to Wynand about the planned marriage to Dominique. She will be a divorcee! What a scandal! Wynand is unmoved. He issues instructions that none of the papers in the Wynand chain shall ever publish any story or picture featuring Dominique, other than a brief announcement of Wynand's wedding.

Dominique has subconsciously chosen a train route from New York to Reno that includes a stop in Clayton, Ohio. When she hears the station announced, she gets out, and she seeks out Roark's department store construction site. At the site, she encounters Roark, and they bring one another up to date. Dominique asks if she can stay the night; he refuses. She asks him to give up architecture and marry her. As kindly as he can manage, he declines and tells her to marry Wynand (even though this is, from Roark's perspective, an even worse match than Keating, due to the implacable dedication to mediocrity of the Wynand papers). Roark then escorts Dominique back to the train station, where she boards a train heading west.

What's to Eat?

For fun I thought I would take inventory of all the eating places within easy walking distance—three blocks or so—of where I live. It turns out to be quite a list:

Adam's: Halal Meat - Grocery - Grill
Aloha Grill - Hawaiian Food
Armonds Bakery & Cafe
Arpi's Phoenicia Deli
Best Dog Gone Sports Grille
Buffalo Wild Wings Grill & Bar
The Bull & Bear Tavern & Eatery
Burger Guys
Café Caspian - Persian Restaurant
Cascadas Restaurante y Cantina
Charley's Grilled Subs
Chick-fil-A
Chipotle - Burritos & Tacos
Edomae Sushi
Empório Brazilian Café
La Finca Mexican Restaurant
Fuddruckers
Hank's Crawfish: Cajun Grill - Oyster Bar
Imperia Bar & Grill - Russian Restaurant
Jack in the Box
Luby's
McDonald's
The Moghul's Restaurant & Lounge
Mumbai Spice
New York Pizzeria
Nit Noi Thai Restaurant
P.F. Chang's China Bistro
Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen
Piatto Ristorante
Pizza Hut
Raising Cane's Chicken Fingers
Rioja - Spanish Tapas Restaurant
Rockfish Seafood Grill
SJR Fusion Bistro
Sapori Ristorante Italiano
Thai Bistro
Tops Burgers & Wraps
El Toro Mexican Restaurant
Wing Stop
Wok Bo - Chinese Buffet

There's also a banquet hall; a pub which probably serves food; and a gas station which may have sit-down dining.

And there are three "coming soon" signs:

Freebirds World Burrito
Portugallia - Portuguese & Angolian Cuisine
Potbelly Sandwich Shop

I am so lucky ... to be on a tight budget, so that I can't afford to eat myself into a coma.

The Fountainhead: Gail Wynand: 4

On Wynand's yacht, Dominique complains that people call her a hater of mankind. Tut-tut, says Wynand.

"... As a matter of fact, the person who loves everybody and feels at home everywhere is the true hater of mankind. He expects nothing of men, so no form of depravity can outrage him."

And ...

"... Those who speak of love most promiscuously are the ones who've never felt it. They make some sort of feeble stew out of sympathy, compasson, contempt and general indifference, and they call it love. Once you've felt what it means to love as you and I know it—the total passion for the total height—you're incapable of anything less."

That's right: überlove. Catch it.

I could not make this stuff up.

Not only that; Wynand has never felt small while looking at the stars, or the Grand Canyon. Because man is mightier than all that nature crap.

Gee, hubristic much?

Nature never did much for Dominique either; it's buildings—like the New York skyline—that make her shiver. Wynand: Same for me!

—OMG! You're me!

—And you're me!

—I love me!

—And I love me too!

—Will we marry us?

—Yes, we will!

Then it's settled: The yacht trip will be one week instead of two. As soon as they return, Dominique will get a Reno divorce, and then she and Wynand will marry. Keating can still build Stoneridge.

And they decide to remain chaste till their wedding night. To keep things pure (although there would be nothing impure if they did fool around).

The Fountainhead: Gail Wynand: 2-3

Ah, the Keatings and their sterile marriage. Dominique is always polite—so polite that Keating's frightened mother has fled their home and moved to a small apartment. One evening, Keating tells Dominique he has just read The Gallant Gallstone; to prove it, he sums up the book in the exact wording that was used in a book review in the Banner. He expresses frustration that Dominique never ventures an opinion about anything. He is living with a beautiful, polite zombie.

They analyze themselves: Dominique is trying to put herself in a position of self-disgust, and not succeeding. Keating is trying to find some self-respect, and not succeeding.

Toohey calls. Yes, by all means come by, Ellsworth! We were on the verge of facing reality; it was just too horrible.

Toohey reveals he has arranged for Dominique to meet Gail Wynand, in the hope of getting Keating the Stoneridge commission. While Keating is getting drinks in the kitchen, Toohey expresses satisfaction to Dominique that their bad marriage has thoroughly degraded Keating, but disappointment that Dominique hasn't been brought down as well. Bwa-ha-ha! How are those highballs coming, Peter?

Dominique meets Wynand, who reveals that Toohey gave him the statue to get him to agree to the meeting. Dominique reveals the sculptor's name: Steven Mallory—the fellow who took a shot at Toohey. Wynand: Why was the statue built? Dominique: For the Stoddard Temple. You were out of town. Wynand: Was the Temple worthy of the statue? Dominique: The statue was almost worthy of the Temple. Wynand: How do you know I was out of town? Dominique: Because you fired me by cable. Wynand: Wait, you're Dominique Francon? Small world. Dominique: Regarding Stoneridge—I will sleep with you if you give the commission to my husband. Wynand: Well, that's direct! You love your husband? Dominique: I despise him. And he's a third-rate architect. And I have no interest in sleeping with you. Wynand: Then why this offer? Dominique: I wish to degrade myself as much as possible. Wynand: Excellent. I think I shall like you. We will start off with a two-month cruise on my yacht. Let's have dinner with your husband tomorrow at some fancy restaurant.

Afterward, Wynand arranges to see several of Mallory's works. He buys five for his private gallery.

At the dinner, Wynand reveals the terms of the deal to Keating. Wynand: Of course, if you object, I can give the commission to your rival over there, Ralston Holcombe. Keating: (mortified, but unable to object).

Two days before the cruise, Wynand shows Dominique his private gallery—the art work he never shares with anyone. Dominique: Were you trying to curry favor with me by showing me this? Wynand: No, I just wanted you to see it.

Wow, this is all so believable.

The Fountainhead: Gail Wynand: 1

Gail Wynand's backstory: Growing up in Hell's Kitchen, Wynand used his fists of fury to establish himself as a gang leader at age twelve. He was canny and he was clever: Growing up, he came up with all sorts of innovations that were ignored by his superiors. The rough-and-tumble world was his classroom, and he specialized in figuring out how things worked. Once he was severely beaten by a longshoreman, and a saloonkeeper ignored his plea for help. Years later he used his power to drive the saloonkeeper to bankruptcy and suicide, but he took no revenge on the longshoreman.

The world taught him cynicism. He once offered his heart to a woman, and when she revealed herself to be an empty-headed twit, he made sure never to fall in love again. He once clipped an editorial decrying corruption; he thought it was the greatest thing he had ever read. Later he met the author of that editorial, who dismissed his own writing as swill. From then on Wynand had it in for integrity in any manifestation.

He showed up at a newspaper one day and hung around until they gave him a job. He quickly moved up, applying competence, hard work, and guile to build a newspaper empire. Eventually he moved into a glass-enclosed penthouse in mid-Manhattan. On the floor below he kept a private art gallery.


It is October 1932. Wynand has built an empire on yellow journalism, and groups pay him homage even though his editorials oppose their interests. Today Wynand notices references to the "Gallant Gallstone" inserted into various stories in the Banner; he learns it is the title of a novel by the demented Lois Cook—some oddball allegory on free will. Ellsworth Toohey may be behind the insertions.

Wynand has also purchased a large block of land on Long Island, which he wants to develop into Stoneridge, a community of small homes. He has not selected an architect for the development, but late in the day Toohey comes to his office and suggests Peter Keating. Wynand is not convinced, so Toohey suggest he meet with the very persuasive Mrs. Keating. Wynand: Wha? Toohey: Look—I've had a present shipped to your home. If you like the present, please grant Mrs. Keating an interview; if not, we will trouble you no more.

Wynand goes home, where the latest of a long string of mistresses is waiting. He gives her two things: a diamond bracelet, and the heave-ho. She is consoled by the jewelry (because she is no longer the woman of integrity she was when he first met her and decided to corrupt her).

Wynand reads in his library for a while, but is suddenly struck with the lack of desire to do anything. While doing nothing, he rummages through a dresser drawer and finds a gun he keeps there. He idly presses the gun to his temple and thinks of pulling the trigger, because the story has gotten really slow here. Rand: Keep reading or I kill this character!

Wynand puts down the gun and goes to his study, where there is a huge crate—Toohey's present, which no one has noticed. Wynand pries open the crate, and there stands a statue of a naked woman. He calls Toohey on the phone—it's the middle of the night by now—and agrees to meet with Mrs. Keating. He also demands to know the name of the sculptor, because the statue is clearly the work of an artistic genius. Toohey pretends to have trouble remembering the name.

I don't know why Wynand didn't have a conversation with the statue. Maybe that's being held for a later chapter.

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 14-15

To prepare for these chapters, please cue up the "Stump the Chumps" music from NPR's Car Talk.

The day after Katie Halsey and Peter Keating make plans to elope, Dominique Francon shows up at Keating's door. "Marry me, Peter. This is a one-time offer." And because Keating is world-class stupid, he agrees. They drive to Connecticut and get married by a judge. Then they return to Keating's place, where Dominique tells him she will return with her belongings tomorrow.

Off she goes to make boom boom on her wedding night wif her snookums Howard Roark. The next morning she tells Roark she loves him—the first time she's ever said such a thing. Then she reveals her marriage to Keating.

It takes the energy of three galaxies to suppress an explosion, but Roark does so, because he is the Übermensch. Dominique does some 'splainin': She knows they are out to destroy Roark, and eventually they will succeed. She can't stand to be there when that happens, but just to show them, she has chosen the most hellish fate she can imagine for herself—marriage to Keating. Roark: If I asked you to get the marriage annulled, and instead to become my wife and property, would you do so? Dominique: Yes. Roark: OK, then that's out. I love you. Buh-bye.

Keating's mother is dropping some eye of newt into her cauldron when Keating tells her that he has married Dominique. She squeeeeeeeeeees with delight and phones her friends with the news. The next day Dominique arrives with her things and is very polite to everyone, and Keating's mother realizes she is going to hate Dominique.

That evening Guy Francon joins the Keatings for dinner. He has a momentary insight that Dominique is in hell, but she reassures him.

Other guests drop by to congratulate the couple. After all the guests are gone, Dominique turns to Keating and in that seductive way of hers we know so well says, "Let's get it over with." She lies inert while he tries to have a grand time. Afterward he remembers about the quarryman, and he asks who her lover was. "Howard Roark." "Fine, keep it secret if you must."

The next day they receive a gift of white lilacs from Toohey. A few days later he comes by for dinner at the new couple's invitation. (Keating's mother is out with a previous engagement.) Keating: Well, don't we make a jolly threesome! While Keating answers a phone call, Toohey speaks with Dominique: I see what's going on! You've always been in love with that fellow Roark! But of course he will have nothing to do with you, so out of spite you married Keating! I know all and see all! Bwa-ha-ha! Dominique: Hmm, I overestimated you. Toohey: ???

Stoddard and Toohey choose a committee of architects to make the alterations to the Stoddard Temple: Keating, Prescott, Snyte, and a self-important novice idiot named Gus Webb. The four architects sit around and bond, becoming close friends. As part of their comradely cutting-up, "Gordon L. Prescott told a few jokes of a bathroom nature." (These are the actual words of the author. I will never be able to look at my own bad writing in the same way again.)

In September 1931 a group of carefully-chosen subnormal children move into the renovated structure. Catherine Halsey becomes an occupational therapist there.

Toohey quietly purchases the statue of Dominique and takes it away.

Roark's office has shrunk back to a single room. He takes whatever meager work he can find. He also pays Mallory's rent, because artists of genius must be supported for the benefit of art. Roark imagines that if he were thwarted from doing his art, Mallory would suffer more than a whole slew of people would suffer if they had been run down by a tank. Because great artists suffer greatly, you see.

One day Roark goes by the former Stoddard Temple to see what's been done to it. Toohey has been waiting for Roark to drift by. Toohey: Aha! I knew you'd come here eventually. I completely understand your work. What do you make of this building as it stands now? Roark: I see no purpose in discussing it. Toohey: Well, what do you think of me? Roark: I don't think of you. What else to you have to say? Toohey: Nothing.

And although the folks at the Ayn Rand Institute toy with the idea of asking for government intervention when they hear me say it, this is the end of Part 2 of The Fountainhead.

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 12-13

I haven't mentioned it before, but the Stoddard Temple is designed to feature horizontal lines, rather than vertical, and it is open to the air; plus, there's that statue of the naked woman. In other words, it is unlike any other religious building in the world.

Stoddard returns from his travels just before the scheduled grand opening, is given a surreptitious tour of the Temple by Toohey, and is persuaded to sue Roark because the temple is unlike any other religious building in the world. The suit asks for Roark to pay for alterations to make the space suitable. Oh, and the grand opening is canceled.

Toohey writes a column titled "Sacrilege," excoriating Roark. The column goes on and on in the windiest prose imaginable and oh please make it stop make it stop

The A.G.A. denounces the Stoddard Temple, as do all those councils of fools Toohey organied.

Dominique goes to Toohey's office and Toohey cajoles her and lectures her about Roark and goes on and on and here we go again please make him stop make him stop

The trial opens in February 1931. Each day after the proceedings, Mallory, Heller, Enright, Landing, and Mike the builder (who has worked on every one of Roark's projects) get together to console Roark. Except that he doesn't need consoling, because he is the Übermensch.

Toohey is the first plaintiff witness and he testifies that Stoddard Temple bad bad, and the courtroom audience erupts, and the judge bangs his gavel and threatens to have the court cleared, and oh my my please make the clichés stop make them stop

Roark, acting as his own attorney, does not cross-examine. Keating testifies for the plaintiff and talks about Roark being expelled from school, and Roark bad bad, and it's obvious Keating is very drunk. OK, we knew Keating was a worm, but ... really? And again no cross-examination.

And the usual gang of architectural idiots—among them Holcombe, Prescott, and Snyte—testify that Temple bad bad, and Roark waives cross-examination.

On the fourth day is the last plaintiff's witness: Dominique Francon. And she says, yes, I agree with these witnesses; this Temple is a threat to all of us. Roark's design, honoring the human spirit, depicts man as heroic and striving for excellence. (She does not mention the hubba-hubba depiction of woman.) And this is contrary to the vision of Toohey, who sees man as a mewling beggar, apologizing to the Eternal for his manifold faults. So Roark's Temple is a vision of man's nobility that utterly betrays the viewpoint of the building's sponsor and all right-thinking people. And this time she says it in a way such that people can pick up on the sarcasm.

Roark does not cross-examine. He lays before the judge ten snapshots of the temple, and he rests his defense.

Finding for the plaintiff.

Stoddard announces that the remodeled building will be repurposed as the Hopton Stoddard Home for Subnormal Children.

Dominique submits her trial testimony as the text for the latest installment of her newspaper column. Alvah Scarret says the Banner can't print that. She insists. He cables the column to a vacationing Gail Wynand, asking what to do. Wynand cables back: "Fire the bitch. G.W." Toohey, skulking around the Banner offices, gets a copy of the cable before Scarret does and triumphantly presents it to Dominique. She packs and leaves.

At home, Toohey is visited by his niece Catherine. She's been depressed and unhappy—hasn't read the paper in days. She fears she is turning into a bad person. In her social services job, she has come to feel contempt for the needy people she is supposed to be helping, and she doesn't understand why. Helping the poor was supposed to make her happy! She whines on and on and please please please make her stop

Toohey tells her that she is simply being selfish, which is a perfectly normal thing. He tells her that to stop being unhappy, she must stop wanting things; when her egotism is gone, her unhappiness will end.

The next day Keating comes a-calling. He wants to see Katie, whom he hasn't seen in six months. Alone with her, he confesses he did a very bad thing and afterward went on a bender. He's better now; seeing her makes him feel all better. They should get married! They should elope, day after tomorrow! They agree, and Keating leaves.

Toohey finds Katie sobbing with happiness. She tells him she's not afraid of him any more.

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 11

The Cosmo-Slotnick Building opens in December. After the ceremonies Toohey takes Keating to dinner in a pricy restaurant. Toohey: You would have looked better with a wife at your side. Keating: "Katie doesn't photograph well." (Yikes.) Toohey: Oh yeah, I forgot you were engaged. I was thinking of Dominique. Keating: I don't love Dominique. Toohey: Personal love is evil; it's discrimination. All are equal; everyone should be loved equally.

At the annual Arts Ball the architects come costumed as their best buildings. Gordon Prescott dresses as a grain elevator. Heh.

Dominique visits Roark at his office. He is making a model of the Aquitania. Watching his hands shape the clay makes her legs go weak.

Roark contacts Steven Mallory (the artist who took a shot at Toohey) to sculpt a statue for the Stoddard Temple. Mallory: Why do you want me? My name is mud. Roark: You're a genius. Mallory: OK. Roark: It will be a naked woman. I'd like Dominique Francon to be the model. Mallory: Wowee!!!

Construction on the temple, atop a rock overlooking the Hudson, is underway. On the grounds is a shack in which Mallory works on his statue. One day Dominique is having trouble finding the right way to stand. She and Mallory are about to call it a day when Roark arrives. Inspired, Dominique throws off her robe and strikes a heroic pose: How 'bout these apples, Steve? Mallory: Woo-hoo! Perfect!!!

In May construction is halted on the Aquitania Hotel when the owners go bankrupt. In her newspaper column, Dominique dubs it the Unfinished Symphony.

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 10

In June 1929 the Enright House opens, and Howard Roark begins to get more business. He has already gotten a contract to build the Norris house in the country, and Anthony Cord selected Roark in May to build a fifty-story office tower in Manhattan. Roark's office has expanded to four rooms, and he has a loyal staff.

Dominique has developed the habit of going in walks in the city, particularly walks to Roark's buildings. Late one night she rides the Staten Island ferry out and contemplates the city. Then she takes a long walk and arrives at Roark's door at 4:30am. She just wants to be with him. No boom boom this time. They start spending weekends together in the country. They talk about their growing mutual ownership of one another.

A corporation wants to build a luxury hotel, the Aquitania, on Central Park South. In early June, one of the board members, Kent Lansing, sets his sights on Roark. Roark: I don't do well with groups; no board will ever hire me. Lansing: Groups of men are like vacuums. I can make them do what I want. Roark: I like you. Why stick your neck out for me? Lansing: Because you will build a great building, and that's what I want.

Thanks to Lansing's persistence, at the end of July Roark gets the commission.

Dominique visits Toohey. She tells him she tried to stop the Aquitania job from going to Roark, but she's happy he got it.

Toohey has a friend, Hopton Stoddard, an heir and brilliant investor, who is about to take an extended trip abroad. Stoddard is concerned about the afterlife—his own afterlife. He isn't sure which religion is the right one, so he proposes to bribe his way into heaven: He wants to build the Stoddard Temple of the Human Spirit, an interdenominational thumbs-up to whatever gods might be paying attention.

Toohey hatches an evil plan. He calls Stoddard one day with this idea: The man to build your temple is Howard Roark. You must give him complete freedom to build as he sees fit. He will want to decline the job—he is an atheist. You say to him that from his buildings, you can tell that he is a deeply religious man. Don't bother looking at any of his drawings, and don't sign a contract before you go on your trip; you can pay Roark his fee when you return. It should be sufficient to make some financial arrangements with your bank before you go. Now, you'll want publicity for your Temple, so keep the construction site hidden behind fences, and don't let the press see anything before the grand unveiling. Oh, and whatever you do, don't let Roark know I suggested this. If it gets out that I steered a big commission to Roark, all my other architect friends will be jealous. But if you can get Roark to take this job ... it's just a matter of time, Pinky, before we take over the world!!! Wait, did I say that out loud?

So Stoddard goes to Roark and lays it out just like Toohey suggested. Roark is very suspicious—this guy Stoddard gives him the willies. But "deep down you're a very religious man" strikes home. Roark agrees to build the Temple.

Bwa-ha-ha!!!

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 9

EMT's backstory:

Ellsworth Monkton Toohey was a fragile, sickly child, nicknamed Elsie by his classmates. He had an older sister, Helen, who enjoyed good health. His father, unimaginative and unambitious, managed a shoe store. His mother was the nervous type, inclined to chase religious fads. The sicker Elsie got, the nobler his mother felt taking care of him.

Elsie was quiet, studious, well-behaved, and almost eerily even-tempered. He did not go for sports. His best subjects were English, civics, history, and penmanship. He had a brilliant memory. He also had a wonderful voice, both speaking and singing.

Elsie's rival in school was Johnny Stokes. Johnny was athletic and very handsome, and he learned without effort. He was as surprising as Elsie was stolid. Elsie's one surprising moment came when he sprayed Johnny with the garden hose as Johnny and his mother walked by in their Sunday finest. He was getting back at Johnny because Johnny had bullied several children at school. After committing the deed, Elsie submitted readily to his parents' mild punishment.

Elsie was eleven when his mother died. A homely maiden aunt moved in to run the household.

In high school Elsie became a star debater.

At age sixteen he lost interest in religion and took up socialism. He instructed his aunt to stop calling him Elsie.

His mother's life insurance paid for his education at Harvard. He impressed his patrician classmates by frankly owning up to—even exaggerating—the humbleness of his own origins. He became a dormitory philosopher, with a growing band of followers. No gift is worthwhile, said "Monk," unless it truly cost the giver. Devote yourself to things you consider vile; the goal is to utterly squelch the ego.

After getting his Master's degree at another university—his thesis was "Collective Blah Blah Arcane Blah Blah Architecture"—he took a variety of jobs. He reviewed books, preferring novels about the ordinary, the sickly, the rural; and especially, novels without heroes. He also worked as a career adviser at the university, steering students away from careers they might enjoy; they must put usefulness to society above personal satisfaction. Eventually he became an architecture critic, writing columns in a succession of magazines.

In 1921 Helen died, and Toohey's niece, Catherine Halsey, moved in with him.

In 1925 Toohey's book, Sermons in Stone, was published and became a bestseller. Gail Wynand's newspaper syndicate hired him to write a column, "One Small Voice," on subjects of his choosing. At the New York Banner, Toohey befriended the "little people" working for the paper. He even recommended people to fill vacancies at the Banner, and Alvah Scarret was happy to follow his recommendations. Toohey's people were mostly "young, brash, competent, shifty-eyed and shook hands limply." I have no idea what that signifies.

In addition to the Council of American Builders, Toohey organized the Council of American Writers, chaired by Lois Cook, and the Council of American Artists. Both organizations—all three, actually—were stuffed with ninnies.

So there you have it.

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 8

Ding-dong. Gentleman caller for Miss Dominique Francon. It's Ellsworth Toohey!

—Good evening, my dear. (Bring me a liqueur, please.) It is time to reveal that I am a supervillain! Bwa-ha-ha! Thank you for steering business away from Howard Roark and into the hands of your father's partner, Peter Keating. You please me very much! There is a pottery manufacturer, Gilbert Colton, who wants to build a factory here, in the modern style. It will be a plum job. Make sure Roark doesn't get the commission. And now I will get philosophical, because all the best villains are philosophers. Look at the great city! It is said that all the inventions of civilization arise from the genius of twelve men. Without them we would be living in caves. Is this good or bad? On the one hand, we get the benefits of all their cleverness. On the other hand, we the mediocre multitudes are surrounded with objects that remind us how inferior we are to those twelve geniuses; how can we stand the constant humiliation? Think about it.

So Dominique continues her campaign, becoming a social butterfly and tearing into Roark's reputation by day. And then she and Roark get together at night, at her place or his, and tear into one another in a very different way, hubba hubba! And sure enough, she steers the Colton factory job to Keating, and when she asks Roark if he wanted that job badly, he answers yes, badly, and then more hubba hubba.

Austen Heller is angry at Dominique for trashing Roark.

One day Roger Enright shows up at Dominique's office and enlists her in an impromptu trip to the site where the Enright House is going up. She is transfixed; the site oozes Roark's genius. She writes a column saying someone should drop a bomb on the site, because when it is built no human being will be worthy to live in it. But almost everyone who reads the column thinks she is just hatin' on Roark some more, which is what she intended.

Everyone thinks Dominique is in love with Keating, because of all the business she is steering his way. That is, everyone but Keating, who has his doubts.

Keating attends a meeting of the Council of American Builders. Gordon Prescott speechifies: We architects are actually the shapers and arrangers of empty space. So, clearly, emptiness is superior to substance; nothingness is superior to somethingness. Extending the logic, the beautiful are inferior to the ugly, the rich are inferior to the poor, the gifted are inferior to the inept.

After the meeting Toohey and Keating chat. Kindness is the highest value, says Toohey; we must always be kind and loving. That's why I criticize things that are not kind. Are you feeling the love?

This is crazypants.

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 7

A week after the dinner party, Dominique column condemns the Enright building as "insolent." Toohey comes by her office and taunts her: So you've decided to play a trick on Roark? All right. But you really should write about the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. That Keating is really a great architect and a  fine fellow. He and Roark go way back. Of course, Roark probably thinks Keating is mediocrity personified. It must grate on Roark to be beaten by Keating, over and over.... Dominique: Get out!!

That evening Sutton calls Dominique to discuss her column; they meet for lunch the next day. Sutton: I was about to pick Roark for my building when I read your column. Now I have my doubts, because you're real smart. Dominique: Pick Roark if you want to have a brilliant failure of a building. Or you could go with the man of the hour.

Sutton calls on Roark. Sutton: Sorry, I was about to pick you but am going with Keating, at Dominique's suggestion. Why are you laughing so strangely?

That evening Dominique calls on Roark at his room. Dominique: How does it feel to be pwned? I hate you. I gonna destroy you. But now we make-a the boom boom.

They make-a the boom boom.

Ooh—twisted!

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 6

This chapter begins with a paean to Roger Enright, Self-Made Man, and pardon me while I fwow up. There are certainly men and women of great accomplishment, but the myth of the person who succeeds without anyone's help is a bit of self-deceiving claptrap. Dream on, ye high priests of individualism.

Roark reopens his office to work on the Enright Building. Mostly he focuses on the construction, but occasionally he thinks of Dominique, knowing it must be driving her crazy not knowing who or where he is. This amuses him.

Joel Sutton is a successful businessman who met Roark through Enright. Sutton has trouble reading people, so he loves everyone without discrimination. He is planning to put up a big office building, and if a smart guy like Enright would hire Roark, maybe Sutton will too. He meets with Roark and likes him; after much thought, he just might award Roark the commission, some time down the road.

In December Austen Heller visits Roark and urges him to attend a formal dinner put on by Kiki Holcombe. Sutton will be there; it will be Roark's chance to make a favorable impression. After some argument, Heller convinces Roark to attend. Gosh, I hope Heller's assistance doesn't cut into Roark's credentials as a self-made man, although I guess it could be argued that Roark's inherent excellence, which he self-made to spray all over everyone he meets, provided the motivation for Heller to try to assist Roark in the first place. Does that theory work?

At the dinner, Toohey is demonstrating to all the guests how courageous and clever he is by telling them things they don't want to hear in ways they want to hear them. Or something. Keating is there too, still enjoying the celebrity of the Cosmo-Slotnick commission, although he would be happier if Dominique would pay attention to him.

Then Roark arrives, orange hair and all dressed up. He is introduced to Dominique, and no one knows her brain is exploding except the two of them. They converse politely.

There is much mingling and conversation. Roark talks to Sutton, who invites him to play badminton. Roark: I don't play badminton. Later Keating tells Roark he should have sucked up to Sutton and pretended he played badminton.

Toohey also sees Roark for the first time, and he watches him obsessively. Toohey and Dominique have special powers and can see that Roark is very handsome and that Roark's soul blazes forth with great style like a million suns. No one else sees this.

Yes, it's all about the really special people. The rest of us don't really count, do we?

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 5

Dominique has returned to New York. She takes long walks and imagines fear on the faces of all the passers-by. She is no longer free; Roark has affected her. She goes to the Banner to resign her job, which she hates, but then she stops to think: Resigning would amount to letting Roark control her (?), while keeping her job would be a defiance of Roark's control—which would really be another form of control, dang it. Since keeping her job makes her life more difficult than letting it go, she decides to keep the job after all. So there.

Toohey comes into her office and shows her a newspaper clipping with a drawing of the Enright House. Her reaction: The designer should kill himself, because building such a perfect thing means that it will be degraded by contact with humans.

Mallory is on trial for the attack on Toohey. The latter appears in court and pleads for leniency for the accused. Mallory gets off lightly: He is convicted and given a two-year suspended sentence. He does not seem pleased.

(And, judging by the dogeared page, this is the point where my book's previous owner laid down the tome, perhaps never to take it up again. I venture into new territory.)

Toohey had urged Keating to form an organization of young architects, and when the group convenes at Toohey's home, Keating is elected chairman. The young people are concerned about injustice, particularly prejudice against the young; surely they deserve a guaranteed job on getting out of college. And oh, those evil rich....

Toohey addresses the group, now called the Council of American Builders. He explains that architects are supremely important, due to their service to their fellow man and their championing of the poor and the homeless.

Ding-dong! Dominique at the door: May I come in, Ellsworth? Ah, I see the man who used to be in love with me is here! Keating: (sputter). Dominique: Why didn't you invite that Howard Roark fellow? Keating and Toohey: (sputter). Dominique: Peter, will you take me home?

On the cab ride, Keating reaches over, takes Dominique's hand, and kisses her wrist. Instead of her usual indifference, she is revulsed. Keating: O - M - G! You've ... been ... with someone! Dominique: Yes, some quarryman. Keating: I will always love you. Dominique: You represent everything I despise, even though you're the best of the world. We must stay apart. If I ever come back to you ... (shudder) ... well, you've been warned.

Gosh, I wonder if anything is being foreshadowed here.

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 3-4

Keating arrives at his office. Going through the morning papers, he finds an article saying that philanthropist Thomas L. Foster had died, and one of his beneficiaries was Ellsworth Toohey, to whom he had willed one hundred thousand dollars. Professing not to believe in inheritance, Toohey had turned the bequest over to a progressive institute, the Workshop of Social Study, where Toohey lectured on "Art as a Social Symptom."

OK. I'm sure this will eventually turn out to be interesting.

Keating is mulling over the selection of a sculptor for a statue of Industry to grace the lobby of the Cosmo-Slotnick building. A design had been solicited from Steven Mallory, an acquaintance of Dimples Williams, one of the stars employed by Cosmo-Slotnick Pictures. Mallory had crafted a model of a slender nude man, heroically poised to smash through any barrier he met. It gave the onlooker a feeling of diminishment. It would not do. Slotnick had asked Keating to find another sculptor.

Keating has a couple of possible sculptors in mind and is savoring the power of making the selection when he notices an envelope on his desk with his name. It contains a proof copy of Toohey's column for tomorrow's Banner. The column praises Keating for the Cosmo-Slotnick building, along with a handwritten note from Toohey asking Keating to come by his office. Keating phones Toohey's office and makes an appointment for late the following afternoon. After the call, Keating resumes his work and later passes the column along to Guy Francon. Returning from lunch, Keating learns that someone has fired a shot at Toohey in an apparent assassination attempt. The shot missed, and the shooter turned out to be Mallory, who was apprehended but would not reveal his motives. Toohey had taken the shooting in stride and had not recognized his assailant; but on hearing the name Mallory he appeared struck with fear.

The next day Keating keeps the appointment as scheduled. Toohey is a thin, fragile-looking man with an air of kindness and a habit of joshing. In conversation, they size one another up. Toohey seems to sense how little Keating had to do with the design of the Cosmo-Slotnick building; oddly, that seems to incline Toohey to like Keating all the more. Keating brings up the shooting and, sensing Toohey's fear, likes him all the more. Brothers in insecurity, I guess.

Toohey mentions a woman named Lois Cook, whom Toohey calls "the greatest literary genius since Goethe." Cook is looking for an architect to design a small residence for her in the Bowery. Keating is interested.

Toohey expresses pleasure that Keating is engaged to his niece, Catherine. Keating: Ah, yes. I love her very much. Toohey: Good! Take care of her.

A few days later, Keating is reading Clouds and Shrouds, a travel book by Lois Cook. It is incomprehensible gibberish. Keating likes it. Turning to the Sunday paper, he sees a sketch of the Enright House, designed by Howard Roark. It gives the appearance of a giant piece of crystal growing out of the ground, mathematically perfect. (Huh? Maybe some sort of way-ahead-of-its-time fractal design?)

Keating goes to tea at the residence where Katie and her uncle live. The subject of marriage comes up. Keating: Of course, when we're married, Katie will have to give up her job. Katie: Wha? But I love what I do. Katie is a day nursery attendant at the Clifford Settlement House. She enjoys caring for poor, sick children. New subject: Howard Roark. Keating: Roark and I go way back, you know. Toohey: Really? What's he like what's he like what's he like? Keating: Odd, but manic about architecture.

Keating meets Lois Cook, who is slovenly in appearance and cynical in demeanor. She hints at awareness that her writing is nonsense. She asks Keating to design the ugliest house in New York. Keating accepts.

I'm getting a bit of an odd vibe from Part 2. It reminds me of the experience I've had with some TV shows. The first season is wonderful, but when the second season rolls around, the show seems a bit off. Disjointed. Unfocused. Well, maybe Rand is just laying a lot of groundwork, setting up things that will all come together soon. We shall see.

The Fountainhead: Ellsworth M. Toohey: 1-2

Roark is cutting granite at a quarry owned by Francon. It's an exhausting job. He likes it.

Dominique is spending the summer at a family mansion three miles from the quarry. She stays there alone, interacting with no one except the caretaker and his wife. Sometimes she hears blasting from the quarry.

One hot day Dominique walks to the quarry. She espies a redheaded laborer, a manly man. He sees her. They don't speak, but there is crack-a-blam! a connection. She desires him and hates him because she desires him. Miss Francon is thawing.

She comes back to the quarry a few times, always looking covertly for the red-headed worker. One time she encounters him close up, and she asks him why he is working there. He: For the money.

Dominique decides that to reclaim her freedom she must stop going to the quarry. She strikes up acquaintance with her neighbors and starts going to parties. One night a man taking her home tries to get fresh. She is repulsed.

She has protected herself by staying away from Red. But it would be even more exciting to be near him, so that she can test her resistance. She needs a pretext to bring him into her lair. There is a white marble slab in front of the fireplace in her bedroom. She takes a hammer and beats away at the slab with all her might. Eventually there is a noticeable scratch in the surface.

She goes to the quarry and looks up the redhead. Dominique: Would you like to earn some extra money? Redhead: Sure. Dominique: At my mansion, the marble in front of one of the fireplaces is broken. I need the stone taken out and a replacement ordered. Come tonight. Use the servants' entrance.

Red comes to the mansion, caked with dust from the quarry. Dominique points out the "broken" slab. Red has a look, takes out a hammer and chisel, sets the chisel in the scratch, and strikes once with the hammer. The marble splits. Now it's broken for real. While breaking up and removing the marble, he lectures her on types of marble. He also comments that the fireplace is poorly designed. (By Guy Francon.) He will order a replacement stone to be delivered to her home. She pays him a dollar and he leaves.

Every day Dominique waits feverishly for the marble. One day it arrives. She sends a note to the quarryman: The stone is here; I want it put in tonight. She gets a note back: It will be done.

That night Dominique is beside herself with anticipation, but instead of Red, a short Italian shows up. She: Why are you here? He: Red sent me to fix-a you fireplace. She: Oh! Uh, of course! Uh, go right ahead.

She is furious and terrified; she knows she's hooked. She is able to hold off several days but eventually goes on horseback to the quarry. He's not there. Furious, she finds a small tree branch, strips off the leaves, and whips her horse, racing hither and yon through the countryside. Then she happens upon the redhead, walking home from work. She stops. Dominique: Why didn't you come to fix the fireplace? Red: Surely it didn't make any difference who finished the work—or did it? (She hears: underline, triple question mark, triple exclamation point.) She slaps his face with the improvised quirt and rides off.

Three days later, Dominique is in her bedroom late at night when Red shows up, enters through the open French windows, and proceeds to have his rough way with her. She resists but does not cry out. After he leaves, she drags herself to the bathroom, but decides not to bathe because she wants to keep traces of him on her as long as possible.

Eww.

Some days later, Roark receives a letter from Roger Enright, the oil baron who wants to build an apartment building. Enright is still looking for an architect (and presumably has no idea his functionary had dismissed Roark long ago), and he has spent some time hunting down the designer of the Fargo store. Please come to New York! Roark is on a train within the hour. He is surprised to find himself thinking idly about Dominique. This is the first time in his life he has ever thought about another human being.

Dominique learns the redhead has quit his job at the quarry and left. She is relieved, in a way, that she never learned the man's name. If she knew who he was, she would feel compelled to track him down. If he remains a stranger, she is safe.

Okay, so as soon as I praise the quality of The Fountainhead, what should come up but two chapters of suds. I have to go rinse now.

The Fountainhead: Peter Keating: 15

Keating is convinced he is going to lose the Cosmo-Slotnick competition, and he is very frightened. If only he can force Heyer out and get promoted to partner before the results are announced.... He digs up some old dirt on Heyer and goes to the old man's house, where he threatens to expose Heyer unless he resigns from the firm. Instead, Heyer strokes out and dies. After the funeral, Keating learns that Heyer, with no surviving relatives, had left everything to him: two hundred thousand dollars plus Heyer's stake in the firm.

The results of the Cosmo-Slotnick competition are announced: The winning firm is Francon & Heyer! Keating's share of the prize money is twelve thousand dollars, but more importantly, he is celebrated as the young genius architect of the moment. He goes to Roark and offers him a check for five hundred dollars for his help with the winning design. Roark endorses the check back to Keating. Roark: This is a bribe; I am buying your silence—never tell anyone that I helped design that building. Keating: You egoist! I hate you! Wait ... I been under stress lately. I sorry. Bye.

Roark, down to his last dollars, learns that the Manhattan Bank Company is ready to accept his design on a new building. If he'll just agree to a few very, very minor changes.... Roark: Nein! Hier stehe ich. Ich kann nicht anders. Then Roark goes to his office, locks up, and hands the key to the landlord. He is busted. He looks up his buddy Mike, who gets him a job as a quarryman.

But Howard Roark will be back.

And that's the end of Part One.