Ok, let us for a moment cast aside all debates about the pros and cons of capitalism over communism and whatnot. We know now that there are complete jerks in both schools of thought, and the whole debate is like trying to choose broccoli over aubergine (my kindest apologies to people who like both, or either. As far as I know, I never saw it that way). Rather, what I wish to talk about is the dangers of believing in a sudden inspiration, treating it as if it were a revelation from the realm beyond, just because it is somewhat beautiful, or incomprehensible, or both.
As always, I would like to illustrate this with a very personal experience. See, I am a depression amateur - seriously, I nominate upon me this new profession - I needn't explain or understand what it means, but I do believe it is a great idea (because I love it, and because if you criticize it, it hurts only up to a certain depth, and then it stops). So, one of these days I come up with this idea that depression is the result of a disruption in your humiliation balance. I think it is a good theory, it tells us why people who are at the pinnacle of success or at the very nadir of self-abasement are often most depressed: because, they have either too much or too little of it. Also, like Freud's theories (and most religions), it has the advantage of being formulated using vaguely defined terms, so it can never be disproved - merely adapted!
But then, one night as I was moderately drunk, I decided to top myself, and came up with a plan - that my current theory would be that depression is withdrawal symptom to the addiction to humiliation. If I understood only tiny bits of my former theory, I was entirely clueless about this one. More to the point, even in my alcohol-induced psychosis, I was sure that I was not quite there. But heck, it was beautiful, and I was high, so I posted a question about it on yahoo answers, and was immediately and methodically torn apart by a retired GP.
I think Ayn Rand underwent something of this sort while writing The Fountainhead. Her idea was beautiful, of course, that the people who need to depend on other people to provide meaning to their existence and endow them with 'prestige' are the inferior second-handers, and those that need only their ego to survive (and not the company of humans) are the really superior kind of people. She goes on to demonstrate how true selfishness is not a sin but rather a virtue and an ideal that can never really be achieved, which is rather sensible and picturesque, as such things go. Her theory lends support to the idea that the ego is not really a bad thing. But then, she makes a mess of it when she goes judgmental and preachy as hell. Now, take the case of Roark. Ok, Roark is completely oblivious to the opinions of the people surrounding him. So far, so good. But even Roark needs something. The difference is that while the grubby second-handers need people, Roark needs to feel his power over nature. So, he has to build things to assert that, or break mountains and stuff because, apparently, that is what presses his buttons. What's so good, or different about that? The true egotists would people who would not need to borrow anything from their surroundings for their survival! And yes, Roark also happens to need 'Murica, too.
But we forget that Howard Roark was beyond reproach, in that what he created was the next best thing to perfection. And, so were apparently Gail Wynand, Steven Mallory, Ellsworth Toohey, or Dominic Francon – they were the unparalleled champions at whatever they did, and so it was really easy for them to believe in themselves. What happens to those who are not good at anything, but refuse to be taken in by the second-handers? Ayn Rand conveniently keeps her writing off such topics. Also, is it just me, or is her hatred of women who are less fortunate in matters of physical beauty almost pathological?
Despite what I write, and despite its being bloated, predictable, and lacking a plot (a plot and plotting are not one and the same), I did enjoy her book in parts. I thought the manner in which Peter Keating gain ascendency over his colleagues was brilliant, as was the conversation between Peter Keating and Toohey towards the end of the Novel. The ‘Gallant Gallstone’ was a very clever invention (even though she knew that and made no pretense of hiding it). Also, I found her style to be very unlike anything I read, but that may be because I have not read that many books. I will now try to demonstrate her style more clearly with this tiny fragment of conversation (of my own invention):
The all-to-perfect objectivitist: But, what is it with you? I am sick of the same old stuff that man has been feasting upon for ages now. Wherever I go, it is just ice-cream, and coke, and the inevitable burger-patty. I mean, that was okay for people who would prefer to succumb to a heart attack rather than to boredom, but now we have facebook, goddammit!
Grubby second-hander: But what should we do about it?
TATPO: I think there’s a food for every individual, just as there is an individual to every food. Do you think you could understand that? I think the best thing that you could eat would be whole bananas fried in avocado oil. But, instead of allowing me to marvel at the sight of it, you would only stuff yourself with more chocolate, and pizza, and rocky-mountain oysters.
GSH: Oh, it’s perfectly all right. (Patting the protuberance in his midsection) In fact, I always crap everything out the very next morning.
TATPO: (Placing a sun-kissed hand upon his taut, masculine abdomen) with me, however, things go down only to a certain depth, and then they stop.
(A temporary lull in the conversation as each character tries to avoid the sideways glance of the other.)
GSH: I get it, I suppose. But then, I suppose we all ought to like oranges.
TATPO: Once, when I was in Florida, I flew an F-16 over an orchard of orange trees and systematically destroyed each orange with a shot from a missile bearing a unique Paulo Coehlo quote, while simultaneously pleasuring myself with a fifteenth-century broomstick.
GSH: Good grief! Whatever would you do that for?
TATPO: To think I took you for someone who understood. But, let us not talk of this anymore, shall we, and pass me that piece of toast and that jar of marmalade, would you?
(Greedy toast-munching follows.)
GSH: (with his mouth full) what do you think of my marmalade?
TATPO: (also with his mouth full) I do not think of your marmalade.
All of this sounds horrendous, I know, but when you read the first few pages of the book that have been written in a similar vein, and realize that there are around 680 more to go, curiosity gets the better of you and you end up reading all of it. And, after you have done that and realized how you wasted away the greater part of a lifetime, there is nothing much left apart from rating it a nondescript 3 and quietly slipping away to your grave.
I think I like Catherine Hasley the best. I believe she realized very early on what a rotten propaganda-pushing gimmick it all was. Which is why, she quit the scene before the first quarter of the novel was up, and returned only for very brief episodes to express her contempt for the people she was burdened with.
As always, I would like to illustrate this with a very personal experience. See, I am a depression amateur - seriously, I nominate upon me this new profession - I needn't explain or understand what it means, but I do believe it is a great idea (because I love it, and because if you criticize it, it hurts only up to a certain depth, and then it stops). So, one of these days I come up with this idea that depression is the result of a disruption in your humiliation balance. I think it is a good theory, it tells us why people who are at the pinnacle of success or at the very nadir of self-abasement are often most depressed: because, they have either too much or too little of it. Also, like Freud's theories (and most religions), it has the advantage of being formulated using vaguely defined terms, so it can never be disproved - merely adapted!
But then, one night as I was moderately drunk, I decided to top myself, and came up with a plan - that my current theory would be that depression is withdrawal symptom to the addiction to humiliation. If I understood only tiny bits of my former theory, I was entirely clueless about this one. More to the point, even in my alcohol-induced psychosis, I was sure that I was not quite there. But heck, it was beautiful, and I was high, so I posted a question about it on yahoo answers, and was immediately and methodically torn apart by a retired GP.
I think Ayn Rand underwent something of this sort while writing The Fountainhead. Her idea was beautiful, of course, that the people who need to depend on other people to provide meaning to their existence and endow them with 'prestige' are the inferior second-handers, and those that need only their ego to survive (and not the company of humans) are the really superior kind of people. She goes on to demonstrate how true selfishness is not a sin but rather a virtue and an ideal that can never really be achieved, which is rather sensible and picturesque, as such things go. Her theory lends support to the idea that the ego is not really a bad thing. But then, she makes a mess of it when she goes judgmental and preachy as hell. Now, take the case of Roark. Ok, Roark is completely oblivious to the opinions of the people surrounding him. So far, so good. But even Roark needs something. The difference is that while the grubby second-handers need people, Roark needs to feel his power over nature. So, he has to build things to assert that, or break mountains and stuff because, apparently, that is what presses his buttons. What's so good, or different about that? The true egotists would people who would not need to borrow anything from their surroundings for their survival! And yes, Roark also happens to need 'Murica, too.
But we forget that Howard Roark was beyond reproach, in that what he created was the next best thing to perfection. And, so were apparently Gail Wynand, Steven Mallory, Ellsworth Toohey, or Dominic Francon – they were the unparalleled champions at whatever they did, and so it was really easy for them to believe in themselves. What happens to those who are not good at anything, but refuse to be taken in by the second-handers? Ayn Rand conveniently keeps her writing off such topics. Also, is it just me, or is her hatred of women who are less fortunate in matters of physical beauty almost pathological?
Despite what I write, and despite its being bloated, predictable, and lacking a plot (a plot and plotting are not one and the same), I did enjoy her book in parts. I thought the manner in which Peter Keating gain ascendency over his colleagues was brilliant, as was the conversation between Peter Keating and Toohey towards the end of the Novel. The ‘Gallant Gallstone’ was a very clever invention (even though she knew that and made no pretense of hiding it). Also, I found her style to be very unlike anything I read, but that may be because I have not read that many books. I will now try to demonstrate her style more clearly with this tiny fragment of conversation (of my own invention):
The all-to-perfect objectivitist: But, what is it with you? I am sick of the same old stuff that man has been feasting upon for ages now. Wherever I go, it is just ice-cream, and coke, and the inevitable burger-patty. I mean, that was okay for people who would prefer to succumb to a heart attack rather than to boredom, but now we have facebook, goddammit!
Grubby second-hander: But what should we do about it?
TATPO: I think there’s a food for every individual, just as there is an individual to every food. Do you think you could understand that? I think the best thing that you could eat would be whole bananas fried in avocado oil. But, instead of allowing me to marvel at the sight of it, you would only stuff yourself with more chocolate, and pizza, and rocky-mountain oysters.
GSH: Oh, it’s perfectly all right. (Patting the protuberance in his midsection) In fact, I always crap everything out the very next morning.
TATPO: (Placing a sun-kissed hand upon his taut, masculine abdomen) with me, however, things go down only to a certain depth, and then they stop.
(A temporary lull in the conversation as each character tries to avoid the sideways glance of the other.)
GSH: I get it, I suppose. But then, I suppose we all ought to like oranges.
TATPO: Once, when I was in Florida, I flew an F-16 over an orchard of orange trees and systematically destroyed each orange with a shot from a missile bearing a unique Paulo Coehlo quote, while simultaneously pleasuring myself with a fifteenth-century broomstick.
GSH: Good grief! Whatever would you do that for?
TATPO: To think I took you for someone who understood. But, let us not talk of this anymore, shall we, and pass me that piece of toast and that jar of marmalade, would you?
(Greedy toast-munching follows.)
GSH: (with his mouth full) what do you think of my marmalade?
TATPO: (also with his mouth full) I do not think of your marmalade.
All of this sounds horrendous, I know, but when you read the first few pages of the book that have been written in a similar vein, and realize that there are around 680 more to go, curiosity gets the better of you and you end up reading all of it. And, after you have done that and realized how you wasted away the greater part of a lifetime, there is nothing much left apart from rating it a nondescript 3 and quietly slipping away to your grave.
I think I like Catherine Hasley the best. I believe she realized very early on what a rotten propaganda-pushing gimmick it all was. Which is why, she quit the scene before the first quarter of the novel was up, and returned only for very brief episodes to express her contempt for the people she was burdened with.
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