The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand isn’t a book of conformity. I could say that it follows Howard Roark, but that’s a lie. There is no one main character, the main character is all of us: humanity. We see Roark’s fight against the true nature of mankind. We see Peter Keating’s battle of realization. We see Ellsworth Toohey’s smiling mouth, then his sharp axe. The Fountainhead doesn’t hide what we all know is inside of us, it merely questions whether or not that’s what we should be known for.
It isn’t the best written book, it isn’t an easy read, it didn’t change my life, but it made me explode. I loved it, but after reading it, I can’t know whether I’m saying that because I think it, or because I was taught to think it. Is Roark what we should strive to be, or what we should fight against? Is it better to think and be selfish, or conform and be caring?
It’s impossible to summarize, and it’s impossible to forget Howard Roark. He’s an architect, an artist; but is he a human or a god? The Fountainhead isn’t the best written book, it isn’t an easy read, but it’s what we should all strive to be: passionate without apology. It makes us grasp at shreds of truth, tickling them under our noses. It shows us, not only what humanity is, but also what it should be.