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The Fountainhead
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A critique by Subroto Mukerji

ISSUE:

The conventional view is that practical success and morality are

mutually exclusive. Does Ayn Rand accept this view in The
Fountainhead? Or does she reject it? Explain by reference to
characters and events from the novel. What, in essence, is the central
theme of the novel?
…………………………………………………………………………………………

RESPONSE:
Ayn Rand’s seminal book ‘The Fountainhead’ says it all in the title, if
one stops to think it through. ‘What is the fountainhead of meaningful
human endeavour?’ it seems to be asking. And what is meant by
fulfilment? How does one identify the source of this internal conflict
and dissatisfaction, and how does one go about nurturing the
compelling need for self-expression? What are the prerequisites for
making peace with one’s inner being, an entity unique unto itself that
cries out desperately for a chance to fulfil itself? Why do so many
people grope their way through life but never find anything that gives
it real meaning?

The Fountainhead has long been a source of inspiration for people from
very different walks of life, whether they are academicians, blue collar
workers or industrial magnates, howsoever talented or untalented they
consider themselves to be. It provokes answers even as it inspires one
to surpass oneself. For if the book is anything, it is a blueprint for living
a rich and fulfilling life, a life that gives one the greatest satisfaction—
that of having done what one was born to do.

And it is only when one does what one was born to do (for we are all
gifted in some way or the other to perform our very own unique acts of
creation) can one feel sure that one’s life has not been in vain. This is
the highest morality. In fact, this is one of the teachings to be found in
the Bhagawad Gita. Any other way of living is simply a compromise:
and compromises are nothing but a betrayal of oneself―wasted
potential. To realize one’s potential, then, one has to first know what
was promised…and to whom.

The answer, of course, is that everyone is unique, born with an

inherent potential. The highest duty one can perform is to manifest it.
For this, all one needs to do is to identify one’s uniqueness, strive to
hold on to it and bring it to fullest fruition. That is the promise…made
to one’s own self! It is a promise to live a moral life, i.e., be true to
oneself. Only one thing ensures that one’s promise never materialises:
compromise. For compromise means a half-hearted attempt at
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achieving one’s life goal, and halfway measures only go halfway and
get only half marks.

In other words, it’s got to be all or nothing, the whole hog…the Full
Monty, as it were. The Full Nine Yards. Nothing less will do. And yet it is
so easy. Once one realizes that we are all unique, all we have to do is
to identify that uniqueness and give it free rein. One realises that half-
kept promises, halfway measures, half truths and all halves that ever
were, are only going to take one halfway, that one would end up being
only half alive. Hence the other alternative—all the way or nothing—is
the only way to go: the only game in town. Anything else is a mockery
of life. A life of compromise is not a life lived. It is a living death. It is a
Faustus-like pact with the Devil.

Another thing the book proposes is that success in life can be

accurately gauged by using the yardstick of self-fulfilment. Everything
else—things conventionally but erroneously selected as reliable
measures: money, property, awards, citations, public adulation, high
office and the trappings of power—is an inadequate way of gauging
true success. These are only by-products, not the essence. Only by
following the call of one’s heart, can one live. We all know, deep within
ourselves, what we were meant to do with our lives. If we do it, we are
fulfilled. It is the deepest satisfaction of all. Nothing—none of the
conventional badges of success—can deliver as much.

The promise to live a moral life, true to oneself…that is the promise we

must make to ourselves if we would really live… “And this above all: to
thine own self be true; and it must follow, as the night the day, thou
can’st not then be false to any man,” says Polonius to his son Laertes
in Shakespeare's Hamlet.

The Fountainhead illustrates this truth through the lives of ‘failed’

architect Henry Cameron and his pupil, Howard Roark. Cameron, an
unsung genius far ahead of his time, has never achieved fame and
fortune—the Dana Building he designed is both his anthem and his
obituary as it goes to ruin, unoccupied and ridiculed. But Roark
worships his mentor with unabashed intensity.

Cameron is Roark’s role model. This prototype Roark seeks to be

avenged through his star pupil's success. Yet he advises Roark to
abandon his idealism and settle for a life of conformity and
conventionality so as to avoid ending up like him. Roark, of course,
fiercely rejects this suggestion and, figuratively ‘putting Satan behind
him,’ assures his guru that if he ends up like him, he shall consider
himself blessed. For Roark has decided—aided by Reason—that he
wants to live by being an architect true to himself, or not be an
architect at all. And when, early in the book, he is out of work, he
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becomes a construction worker, a jackhammer jockey, but keeps his

faith in himself alive all through the ordeal.

It is the faith of one who lives for himself, a creator who stands alone,
needs none to bully, serve or sacrifice for. He is a law unto himself, self
contained and self sustaining, a force of nature, beautiful and
terrifying. People feel negated in his presence because he is so much
himself that he does not need to draw sustenance from others. He is
not a parasite; he is the exact opposite: a giver—one who, by the very
act of living, makes life possible for others. Such men are rare and
worth their weight in gold but they usually get lost in the shuffle, for it
a world that breeds and applauds mediocrity, one that lauds the
innovator reluctantly, grudgingly. The one who takes the road less
travelled does sometimes get his due, but first he must learn to go
hungry and keep his faith in himself alive even as he does menial work
to keep body and soul together. Not only must he learn to survive
mockery and the ostracism of lesser men (for mediocrity detests
genius), he must learn another trade in order to bide his time...to
survive.

In an imperfect world where genius and raw, inborn talent often loses
out in the struggle to survive and dies unknown and unsung, Roark is
portrayed as the messiah, the ultimate avenger, although the privilege
of destroying Ellsworth Toohey—who is nothing but an anti-Roark, as
necessary and as undramatic as a backdrop—is reserved for Gail
Wynand (perhaps to give him some satisfaction in his moment of
defeat as his newspaper, The Banner, shuts down). Henry Cameron is
the prototype Roark, then, while Gail Wynand is the failed Roark.

Both look up to Howard Roark, for both know he will vindicate and
avenge them. Cameron: because Roark will realize his unfinished
destiny for him, and Wynand: because Roark will achieve the
completion – the culmination – that he, Wynand, turned away from,
abandoning his innate capacity for greatness, lured by lucre even after
he had dipped his hands in the springs that flowed from the
Fountainhead of the Self.

This was the ultimate betrayal...the betrayal of the self. Wynand never
forgives himself for it, and willingly pays the price for letting himself
down. His wealth is just so much garbage for him now, for he has sold
his soul to the Devil and has nowhere to go.

To plead that ethical conduct—whatever be the local interpretation—is

inconducive to material success is to presume that all successful
people have been unethical in their conduct. Such a position is
patently untenable. The reason is simple: if only ‘unethical’ people
were able to succeed in life, and—in a Darwinian extension thereof—
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were the sole survivors of such a system, then in course of time,

society itself would collapse under the weight of suspicion, doubt and
the collective outcome of actions judged as ‘unethical’, being seen to
be inimical in both content and scope to the larger objectives of social
organisation. Since there are many failed states around us today, it
compels us to conclude that what survives is, ipso facto, ethical.

In the final analysis, Howard Roark is but a symbol of the indomitable

quality that lies dormant within every human being—individuality,
which is the ultimate form of ethical behaviour. This is the force that
fuels originality and the desire to soar high above the plain of the
ordinary, the commonplace, the dull. Being oneself, being true to
oneself, forces one to stand out from the crowd and brings life
priorities into focus. It enables life to be lived at the highest level: on a
creative plane where the propellant is the intellect, guided by intuitive
processes and driven by the Self. It is the only truth necessary to
understand morality.

Peter Keating and Ellsworth Monkton

Toohey
A review of their inherent similarities and contrasts,
and the fundamental motivations that drive them

Peter Keating is a first class graduate from ‘The Stanton University of

Architecture’, a man well known for his ‘selflessness’, for whom
complaisance is the only virtue of life. The conservative Architectural
Guild of America—he is their star product—refers to him as ‘the future
of architecture’. As a child, Keating showed rich promise as a painter,
but he later chose to crush his talent and pursue architecture in the
belief that it offered greater rewards by way of the empowerment,
wealth and influence—things he craved for.

Conforming to societal norms comes easily to Peter Keating, that

pathetic would-be Roark. He quickly learns that mediocrity is a
comfortable place to be. He shies away pusillanimously from the road
less traveled, the rocky path of the creative artist that is paved with
public denigration, summary rejection and financial ruin. Jettisoning
creativity in opting for the safer but infinitely dissatisfying route of
compromise, Keating rationalises that it is eminently practical and
sensible to abandon the fierce independence of the innovator if it
means a ‘wasted’ life, a life full of nothing but (as he sees it) sacrifice,
unrecognized toil, confrontation and relentless humiliation.
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He tries to convince himself that his decision to opt for money, power
and fame has been the right one…but in the dark night of his soul, the
ghost of his throttled talent mocks him at every turn. Try as he might,
he grapples unsuccessfully with the growing conviction that he has
made a horrible mistake in abandoning his true calling, and that he has
traded fulfilment for the tainted life of the pliant conformist. In doing
so, he has betrayed himself… and like all who do so, he suffers the
tortures of the damned. Consumed by shame and guilt, he shies away
from the truth: he is an incompetent architect kowtowing to a society
that fosters mediocre men like himself.

There is not a single building he can claim as being of his own design,
for he has shamelessly plagiarized the works of the Masters who went
before him. He has not lived his own life, but someone else’s. The
Bhagawad Gita says that it is better to die in one’s own dharma than to
flourish in another’s. Keating, unfortunately, appears not to have
encountered the timeless wisdom contained in these stirring words. He
is lauded for ‘designing’ a building that is nothing but a mishmash of
the designs of others. It is therefore inevitable that his biggest triumph
is his biggest failure. Having strangled his creativity, smothered his
conscience and sold his soul, Faustus-like, to the Devil, Keating finally
comes face to face with himself: and realizes that he no longer exists.
All that is left standing is the well-dressed corpse of what was once a
man, an empty shell of what was once a human being capable of
independent thought and original action.

Ellsworth Monkton Toohey is a far more complex character. Apparently

unassailable in his niche as the arbiter of aesthetic achievement, he
has cunningly positioned himself as the torchbearer of true art and
architectural excellence. But though he has woven around himself the
aura of the infallible aesthete, the embodiment of inspired erudition,
he is actually a diehard misanthrope with a grudge against humanity.
Saddled by a deep sense of inferiority, ridden by his desire for revenge
on a world that has given him nothing by way of either form or talent,
he cowers behind a facade of pseudo-scholarship.

His aim is to avenge himself…by doing everything in his considerable

power to encourage and support mediocrity, which is his way of
ensuring that original thought and creative genius—things placed
beyond the pale of his own inborn mediocrity—are muzzled and
suppressed. Nothing is more unsettling for the herd than genius, for
genius contemptuously negates them by demolishing their safe but
boring social constructions, dismantling their inherited value systems
and annihilating their fragile egos.

Bolstered by his brand image as a champion of democratic traditions

and a man who sides with the masses, sanctimoniously proclaiming
that ‘Vox Populi Vox Dei’ ’ is the ultimate mantra behind his
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(motivated) pronouncements, his scathing media attacks on all who

are bold enough to avoid the beaten path are enough to demolish their
careers. He is well aware that nothing destroys better than derision.

Compared to Peter Keating’s relatively innocent yearning for approval,

fame and wealth, Ellsworth Toohey emerges as an almost demoniac
figure of calculated, conspiratorial conformity, a malformed psyche
masquerading as a crusader whose life mission is to unmask the
poseur and the charlatan. Cleverly concealing his loathing for the
wealthy and the powerful whom he courts assiduously—and in whom
he finds ready collaborators (for plutocrats fear original thought as
nothing else)—he harnesses their influence to promote his secret plan.
Cynically sure that those whom he exploits are too stupid to see that
he is actually working against their best interests, he proceeds with
complete disregard for any standards of morality or ethics to realize
his unholy agenda—the utter destruction of original, iconoclastic
creativity.

On the surface, Keating and Toohey are birds of a feather. But putting
them in the same cage would be akin to pitting a sparrow against a
hawk. Keating is a gentler soul, an invertebrate, inchoate human
trapped in perpetual adolescence, hungrily seeking his teacher’s
approbation and pining for her pat on the head. He sees society—his
penultimate teacher in the harsh school of Life—as one who will pet
him only if he is a good boy, if he does what he is told, if he conforms.
In order to emulate those he admires – men of wealth, position, power
and influence, in his search for constant approval and approbation –
Peter Keating ignores his childhood talent as a painter and
determinedly plunges into the deep waters of architecture.

Peter Keating’s motivations are pure primal-level Maslow: security and

acceptance are his drivers. Uncomplicated, puerile and ingenuous, he
makes a decision he lives to rue: betrayal of his Self for the sake of the
mirage of financial and societal security. He fails to perceive that these
are but by-products of human actualization, and in failing to achieve
this most important feature of human existence, he fails as a human
being. By ignoring the voice of his conscience and trashing his
potential, Peter Keating finally grasps what his final teacher in the
school of life—his own Self—is trying to teach him…that he is the
sculptor of his own destiny. In falling, however, Keating comes to terms
with his defeat and acknowledges his error.

On the other hand Toohey, the anti-Roark, is a tough nut to crack.

Cynical, disingenuous, scheming, ferociously unprincipled, canny,
resourceful and ruthlessly destructive, he emerges as a formidable
opponent of creative genius. Ironically, this is his sole claim to his own
dubious genius: a grotesque, malevolent genius implementing a
unique and utterly diabolical strategy to annihilate genuine, inborn
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originality and talent. That he succeeds to the extent he does is a

telling commentary on society, and the countless Peter Keatings that it
continues to nurture.

…&…Dominique Francon
This extraordinary woman, the female counterfoil of Roark, is beautiful,
rich, headstrong, and scathingly critical of her father's boring
mediocrity that personifies the state of architecture as it obtains then.
Her powerful personality is so like Roark's that sparks fly between
them. Yet it is for this very reason why she fails to align herself with a
world that rejects individuality and genius. Paradoxically, and in
perverse reaction to a world that is sufficiently unprincipled to reject
Howard Roark, she joins it, little realizing that her ultimate act of
depravity—her reconciliation with the world of sycophantic plagiarists
—will turn out to Roark's advantage.

As the perfect foil for Roark's unshakeable integrity, Dominique's

shocking moral 'betrayal' is a literary device to further highlight
Roark's implacable refusal to compromise. As it so happens, her
'treachery' fires Roark's determination to take the fight to the finish. In
a strange way, Dominique's desertion allies itself with Roark as he
wades through the debris of his actions. In the end, when Roark wins
through, she unites with her soul mate and alter ego in marriage—
mere ritualistic paraphernalia for a spiritual union that had preceded
the violent physical consummation that had already taken place
following their first clash in a quarry.

 

© Subroto Mukerji