安 · 兰德著
In this respect, my attitude toward my writing is best expressed by a statement of Victor Hugo: "If a writer wrote merely for his time, I would have to break my pen and throw it away."
It is concerned-in the words of Aristotle-not with things as they are, but with things as they might be and ought to be.
A spirit, too, needs fuel.
He convinced me of why one cannot give up the world to those one despises.
My basic test for any story is: ’Would I want to meet these characters and observe these events in real life? Is this story an experience worth living through for its own sake? Is the pleasure of contemplating these characters an end in itself?'
Religious abstractions are the product of man's mind, not of supernatural revelation.
It is important here to remember that the only direct, introspective knowledge of man anyone possesses is of himself.
PART ONE Peter Keating
"Rules?" said Roark. "Here are my rules: what can be done with one substance must never be done with another. No two materials are alike. No two sites on earth are alike. No two buildings have the same purpose. The purpose, the site, the material determine the shape. Nothing can be reasonable or beautiful unless it's made by one central idea, and the idea sets every detail. A building is alive, like a man. Its integrity is to follow its own truth, its one single theme, and to serve its own single purpose. A man doesn't borrow pieces of his body. A building doesn't borrow hunks of its soul. Its maker gives it the soul and every wall, window and stairway to express it."
Co-operation is the key word to our modern world and to the profession of architecture in particular. Have you thought of your potential clients?
He's the one to live in the house you build. Your only purpose is to serve him. You must aspire to give the proper artistic expression to his wishes. Isn't that all one can say on the subject?
It's funny, thought Keating, he had not remembered that youthful ambition of his for years. It's funny that it should hurt him now-to remember.
Before lunchtime. Keating had made friends in the room, not any definite friends, but a vague soil spread and ready from which friendship would spring.
You'll learn, my boy, when you've been in the business longer, that the real work of an office is done beyond its walls.
The Columbian Exposition of Chicago opened in the year 1893.
The Rome of two thousand years ago rose on the shores of Lake Michigan, a Rome improved by pieces of France, Spain, Athens and every style that followed it. It was a "Dream City" of columns, triumphal arches, blue lagoons, crystal fountains and popcorn. Its architects competed on who could steal best, from the oldest source and from the most sources at once. It spread before the eyes of a new country every structural crime ever committed in all the old ones. It was white as a plague, and it spread as such.
People came, looked, were astounded, and carried away with them, to the cities of America, the seeds of what they had seen. The seeds sprouted into weeds; into shingled post offices with Doric porticos, brick mansions with iron pediments, lofts made of twelve Parthenon’s piled on top of one another. The weeds grew and choked everything else.
The men in the drafting rooms loved Peter Keating. He made them feel as if he had been there for a long time; he had always known how to become part of any place he entered; he came soft and bright as a sponge to be filled, unresisting, with the air and the mood of the place. His warm smile, his gay voice, the easy shrug of his shoulders seemed to say that nothing weighed too much within his soul and so he was not one to blame, to demand, to accuse anything.
Keating managed to be assigned, as frequently as possible, to do parts of the projects on which Davis worked. Soon they were going out to lunch together.
He was usually disliked, from the first sight of his face, anywhere he went. His face was closed like the door of a safety vault; things locked in safety vaults are valuable; men did not care to feel that.
You've got what they'll pay you for, and pay plenty, if you use it their way.
I wouldn't care, if you were an exhibitionist who's being different as a stunt, as a lark, just to attract attention to himself. It's a smart racket, to oppose the crowd and amuse it and collect admission to the side show. If you did that, I wouldn't worry. But it's not that. You love your work. God help you, you love it! And that's the curse.
Keating had had a long conversation with him, one dreary November afternoon, on the subject of old porcelain. It was Heyer's hobby; he owned a famous collection, passionately gathered. Keating displayed an earnest knowledge of the subject, though he had never heard of old porcelain till the night before, which he had spent at the public library.
Davis let him do most of his own work; only night work, at first, then parts of his daily assignments as well; secretly, at first, then openly. Davis had not wanted it to be known.
Keating made it known, with an air of naive confidence which implied that he was only a tool, no more than Tim's pencil or T-square, that his help enhanced Tim's importance rather than diminished it and, therefore, he did not wish to conceal it.
At first, Davis relayed instructions to Keating; then the chief draftsman took the arrangement for granted and began coming to Keating with orders intended for Davis. Keating was always there, smiling, saying: "I'll do it; don't bother Tim with those little things, I'll take care of it."
By a unanimous decision of Francon, Heyer and the chief draftsman, Tim's table, position and salary were given to Peter Keating.
What you're doing-it's yours, not mine, I can only teach you to do it better. I can give you the means, but the aim-the aim's your own.
A long street stretched before him, its high banks, coming close together ahead, so narrow that he felt as if he could spread his arms, seize the spires and push them apart. He walked swiftly, the pavements as a springboard throwing his steps forward.
We could be true to history only in heeding her law, which demanded that we plant the roots of our art firmly in the reality of our own life.
Your life doesn't belong to you, Peter, if you're really aiming high.
It takes strength to deny yourself in order to win other people's respect.
PART TWO Ellsworth M. Toohey
I'll give it to you free of charge with my compliments: always be what people want you to be. Then you've got them where you want them. I'm giving it free because you'll never make use of it.
Have you ever thought about the style of a soul, Kiki?
The other one is that they know you're degrading yourself by needing them, you're coming down off a pinnacle- every loneliness is a pinnacle-and they're delighted to drag you down through their friendship.
Don't fool yourself, my dear. You're much worse than a bitch. You're a saint. Which shows why saints are dangerous and undesirable.
I can understand stupid malice. I can understand ignorant malice. I can't understand deliberate rottenness.
But if a man worked well, he needed nothing else to win his employer's benevolence: it was granted, not as a gift, but as a debt. It was granted, not as affection, but as recognition. It bred an immense feeling of self-respect within every man in that office.
Because you have certain standards of what is good, and they're your own, and you stand by them. I want a good hotel, and I have certain standards of what is good, and they're my own, and you're the one who can give me what I want.
Integrity is the ability to stand by an idea. That presupposes the ability to think. Thinking is something one doesn't borrow or pawn.
Don't worry. They're all against me. But I have one advantage: they don't know what they want. I do.
I came for a simple, selfish reason-the same reason that makes a man choose the cleanest food he can find. It's a law of survival, isn't it?— to seek the best. I didn't come for your sake. I came for mine.
The unrecognized genius-that's an old story. Have you ever thought of a much worse one-the genius recognized too well?
To say 'I love you’ one must know first how to say the ’I.’
I want you whole, as I am, as you'll remain in the battle you've chosen. A battle is never selfless.
You must learn not to be afraid of the world. Not to be held by it as you are now. Never to be hurt by it as you were in that courtroom.
You must find your own way. When you have, you'll come back to me. They won't destroy me, Dominique. And they won't destroy you. You'll win, because you've chosen the hardest way of fighting for your freedom from the world.
Part Three: GAIL WYNAND
He made his greatest effort and learned to keep silent, to keep the place others described as his place, to accept ineptitude as his master-and to wait. No one had ever heard him speak of what he felt. He felt many emotions toward his fellow men, but respect was not one of them.
He wanted to know what made these people different from those in his neighborhood. It was not the clothes, the carriages or the banks that caught his notice; it was the books. People in his neighborhood had clothes, horse wagons and money; degrees were inessential; but they did not read books. He decided to learn what was read by the people on Fifth Avenue.
"Men differ in their virtues, if any," said Gail Wynand, explaining his policy, "but they are alike in their vices."
The public asked for crime, scandal and sentiment. Gail Wynand provided it. He gave people what they wanted, plus a justification for indulging the tastes of which they had been ashamed.
"If you make people perform a noble duty, it bores them," said Wynand. "If you make them indulge themselves, it shames them. But combine the two-and you've got them."
The effort he demanded of his employees was hard to perform; the effort he demanded of himself was hard to believe. He drove them like an army; he drove himself like a slave.
"You can't escape human depravity, kid," he said gently. "The boss you work for may have ideals, but he has to beg money and take orders from many contemptible people. I have no ideals-but I don't beg. Take your choice. There’s no other."
He kept the details of his life secret by making it glaringly public as a whole.
He derived no pleasure from personal publicity; it was merely a matter of policy to which he submitted.
But you have to flatter people whom you despise in order to impress other people who despise you.
She rose, stood before him, and the taut erectness of her body was a sign of life, the life he had missed and begged for, a positive quality of purpose, but the quality of a judge.
Self-respect is something that can't be killed. The worst thing is to kill a man's pretense at it.
No happy person can be quite so impervious to pain.
That love is reverence, and worship, and glory, and the upward glance. Not a bandage for dirty sores. But they don't know it. Those who speak of love most promiscuously are the ones who've never felt it.
You know how people long to be eternal. But they die with every day that passes. When you meet them, they're not what you met last. In any given hour, they kill some part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict--and they call it growth. At the end there's nothing left, nothing unreversed or unbetrayed; as if there had never been an entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out on an unformed mass. How do they expect a permanence which they have never held for a single moment? But Howard-one can imagine him existing forever.
There was no goal to this journey, only the journey itself.
Relaxation was attractive only in those for whom it was an unnatural state; then even limpness acquired purpose.
PART FOUR Howard Roark
第四部分 霍华德 · 洛克
We live in our minds, and existence is the attempt to bring that life into physical reality, to state it in gesture and form. For the man who understands this, a house he owns is a statement of his life.
This is the age of time-saving devices. If you want something to grow, you don't nurture each seed separately. You just spread a certain fertilizer. Nature will do the rest. I believe you think I'm the only one responsible. But I'm not. Goodness, no. I'm just one figure out of many, one lever in a very vast movement. Very vast and very ancient.
To sell your soul is the easiest thing in the world. That's what everybody does every hour of his life. If I asked you to keep your soul- would you understand why that's much harder?
He didn't want to be great, but to be thought great.
A truly selfish man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn't need it.
It's so easy to run to others. It's so hard to stand on one's own record.
It's simple to seek substitutes for competence-such easy substitutes: love, charm, kindness, charity. But there is no substitute for competence.
I think the only cardinal evil on earth is that of placing your prime concern within other men.
Man cannot survive except through his mind. He comes on earth unarmed. His brain is his only weapon.
But all learning is only the exchange of material. No man can give another the capacity to think. Yet that capacity is our only means of survival.
The creator's concern is the conquest of nature. The parasite's concern is the conquest of men.
The basic need of the creator is independence. The reasoning mind cannot work under any form of compulsion. It cannot be curbed, sacrificed or subordinated to any consideration whatsoever. It demands total independence in function and in motive. To a creator, all relations with men are secondary.
The basic need of the second-hander is to secure his ties with men in order to be fed. He places relations first. He declares that man exists in order to serve others. He preaches altruism.
Degrees of ability vary, but the basic principle remains the same: the degree of a man's independence, initiative and personal love for his work determines his talent as a worker and his worth as a man. Independence is the only gauge of human virtue and value. What a man is and makes of himself; not what he has or hasn't done for others. There is no substitute for personal dignity. There is no standard of personal dignity except independence.
The city beyond the glass walls seemed lustrous, the air washed by the first cold of October.
"If you consider the behavior of the world at present and the disaster toward which it is moving you might find the undertaking preposterous. The age of the skyscraper is gone. This is the age of the housing project. Which is always a prelude to the age of the cave. But you are not afraid of a gesture against the whole world. This will be the last skyscraper ever built in New York. It is proper that it should be so. The last achievement of man on earth before mankind destroys itself."
"Mankind will never destroy itself, Mr. Wynand. Nor should it think of itself as destroyed. Not so long as it does things such as this."
"As the Wynand Building."