Author: Rand Ayn
Brand: Penguin Random House
- New American Library
- You can gift it to your friend
- Compact for travelling
Package Dimensions: 45x172x331
Number Of Pages: 720
Release Date: 01-09-1996
Details: Product Description
About The Book
Howard Roark, the protagonist of the story is an architect and a firm opposer of collectivism. It is his firm belief than only an individual’s vision can be effective in producing genuine art. Mediocrity in art may get rampant if interference by committees and councils is allowed. The Fountainhead is his journey against tradition and his fight against the system.
Peter Keating, Howard’s arch rival has beliefs that are the opposite of Howard.’s There are also others that stand in Howard’s way. Dominique Francon, the heroine of the story is shown to emerge as a strong, independent woman as the story develops.
Through much of the book the author has expressed her strong personal views against collectivism through the protagonist. It is a journey of a single person against an entire tradition and system to break free. Will Howard survive the war or will be forced to accept the system? The Fountainhead was published by Signet in the year 1996 and is available in paperback.
The Fountainhead was adapted into a film by Warner Brothers.
About the Author
About the Author: An epitome of versatility, Ayn Rand was a screenwriter, playwright, philosopher, political activist and bestselling author. She is best known for her two best-selling novels, The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. Ayn Rand was an ardent supporter of rational and ethical egoism and rejected ethical altruism. She developed her own philosophical system named Objectivism. Ayn was also a supporter of the popular laissez-faire capitalism concept for protection of individual human rights. She died in the year 1982.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Howard Roark laughed. He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays.
The lake below was only a thin steel ring that cut the rocks in half. The rocks went on into the depth, unchanged. They began and ended in the sky. So that the world seemed suspended in space, an island floating on nothing, anchored to the feet of the man on the cliff.
His body leaned back against the sky. It was a body of long straight lines and angles, each curve broken into planes. He stood, rigid, his hands hanging at his sides, palms out. He felt his shoulder blades drawn tight together, the curve of his neck, and the weight of the blood in his hands. He felt the wind behind him, in the hollow of his spine. The wind waved his hair against the sky. His hair was neither blond nor red, but the exact color of ripe orange rind.
He laughed at the thing which had happened to him that morning and at the things which now lay ahead.
He knew that the days ahead would be difficult. There were questions to be faced and a plan of action to be prepared. He knew that he should think about it. He knew also that he would not think, because everything was clear to him already, because the plan had been set long ago, and because he wanted to laugh.
He tried to consider it. But he forgot. He was looking at the granite.
He did not laugh as his eyes stopped in awareness of the earth around him. His face was like a law of nature—a thing one could not question, alter or implore. It had high cheekbones over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the mouth of an executioner or a saint.
He looked at the granite. To be cut, he thought, and made into walls. He looked at a tree. To be split and made into rafters. He looked at a streak of rust on the stone and thought of iron ore under the ground. To be melted and to emerge as girders against the sky.
These rocks, he thought, are here for me; waitin