Favourite dialogues from The Fountainhead - Part 2

"The causes of illusions are not pretty to discover. They’re either vicious or tragic."


"It’s simple enough to fight any enemy, so long as he’s there to be fought. But when he isn’t..."


"It’s so much easier to pass judgment on a man than on an idea."


"What’s the most horrible experience you can imagine? To me--it’s being left, unarmed, in a sealed cell with a drooling beast of prey or a maniac who’s had some disease that’s eaten his brain out. You’d have nothing then but your voice--your voice and your thought. You’d scream to that creature why it should not touch you, you’d have the most eloquent words, the unanswerable words, you’d become the vessel of the absolute truth. And you’d see living eyes watching you and you’d know that the thing can’t hear you, that it can’t be reached, not reached, not in any way, yet it’s breathing and moving there before you with a purpose of its own. That’s horror. Well, that’s what’s hanging over the world,
prowling somewhere through mankind, that same thing, something closed, mindless, utterly wanton, but something with an aim and a cunning of its own. I don’t think I’m a coward, but I’m afraid of it. And that’s all I know--only that it exists. I don’t know its purpose, I don’t know its nature."


"I don’t believe it matters to me--that they’re going to destroy it. Maybe it hurts so much that I don’t even know I’m hurt. But I don’t think so. If you want to carry
it for my sake, don’t carry more than I do. I’m not capable of suffering completely. I never have. It goes only down to a certain point and then it stops. As long as there is that untouched point, it’s not really pain. You mustn’t look like that."
"Where does it stop?"
"Where I can think of nothing and feel nothing except that I designed that temple. I built it. Nothing else can seem very important."


"You’ll say it doesn’t make sense? Of course it doesn’t. That’s why it works. Reason can be fought with reason. How are you going to fight the unreasonable? The trouble with you, my dear, and with most people, is that you don’t have sufficient respect for the senseless."


"When you see a man casting pearls without getting even a pork chop in return--it is not against the swine that you feel indignation. It is against the man who valued his pearls so little that he was willing to fling them into the muck and to let them become the occasion for a whole concert of grunting, transcribed by the court stenographer."


"I love you, Dominique. As selfishly as the fact that I exist. As selfishly as my lungs breathe air. I breathe for my own necessity, for the fuel of my body, for my survival. I’ve given you, not my sacrifice or my pity, but my ego and my naked need. This is the only way you can wish to be loved. This is the only way I can want you to love me. If you married me now, I would become your whole existence. But I would not want you then. You would not want yourself--and so you would not love me long. To say ’I love you’ one must know first how to say the ’I.’ The kind of surrender I could have from you now would give me nothing but an empty hulk. If I demanded it, I’d destroy you. That’s why I won’t stop you. I’ll let you go to your husband. I don’t know how I’ll live through tonight, but I will. I want you whole, as I am, as you’ll remain in the battle you’ve chosen. A battle is never selfless."


"Shut up, Steve. I’m not doing it for you. At a time like this I owe myself a few luxuries. So I’m simply buying the most valuable thing that can be bought--your time. I’m competing with a whole country--and that’s quite a luxury, isn’t it? They want you to do baby plaques and I don’t, and I like having my way against theirs."


"What does it look like to you? Like a senseless mess? Like a chance collection of driftwood? Like an imbecile chaos? But is it, Mr. Roark? Do you see no method? You who know the language of structure and the meaning of form. Do you see no purpose here?"
"I see none in discussing it."
"Mr. Roark, we’re alone here. Why don’t you tell me what you think of me? In any words you wish. No one will hear us."
"But I don’t think of you."


"I think he’s a man worth kissing the backside of."
"For Christ’s sake, Dominique!"
"I’m sorry. That’s bad English and bad manners. It’s wrong, of course. Well, let’s see: Vincent Knowlton is a man whom it’s pleasant to know. Old families deserve a great deal of consideration, and we must have tolerance for the opinions of others, because tolerance is the greatest virtue, therefore it would be unfair to force your views on Vincent Knowlton, and if you just let him believe what he pleases, he will be glad to help you too, because he’s a very human person."
"Now, that’s sensible. I think tolerance is very important, because...You said exactly the same thing as before."


"It’s said that the worst thing one can do to a man is to kill his self-respect. But that’s not true. Self-respect is something that can’t be killed. The worst thing is to kill a man’s pretense at it."


"You wouldn’t sell yourself for Roark? Though, of course, you don’t like to hear that name pronounced."
"Howard Roark," she said evenly.


"Most people go to very to very great lengths in order to convince themselves of their self-respect."
"Yes."
"And, of course, a quest for self-respect is proof of its lack."
"Yes."
"Do you see the meaning of a quest for self-contempt?"
"That I lack it?"
"And that you’ll never achieve it."


"It’s startling to see the same elements used in two compositions with opposite themes. Everything about you in that statue is the theme of exaltation. But your own theme is suffering."
"Suffering? I’m not conscious of having shown that."
"You haven’t. That’s what I meant. No happy person can be quite so impervious to pain."


"One can’t love man without hating most of the creatures who pretend to bear his name. It’s one or the other. One doesn’t love God and sacrilege impartially. Except when one doesn’t know that sacrilege has been committed. Because one doesn’t know God."


"You let me see the cleanest person I’ve ever seen."
"Isn’t that ridiculous, after the way we met?"
"Dominique, I’ve spent my life pulling the strings of the world. I’ve seen all of it. Do you think I could believe any purity--unless it came to me twisted in some such dreadful shape as the one you chose?"


"Why do you find such a marriage unsuitable?"
"Well...well, it’s not...Damn it, you know it’s not right!"
"I know it. Do you?"
"Look, she’s a dangerous kind of woman."
"She is. That’s your minor premise. Your major premise, however, is: he’s a dangerous kind of man."


The background she had wished was set so perfectly that it became its own caricature, not a specific society wedding, but an impersonal prototype of lavish, exquisite vulgarity. He had understood her wish and obeyed scrupulously; he had refused himself the relief of exaggeration, he had not staged the event crudely, but made it beautiful in the exact manner Gail Wynand, the publisher, would have chosen had he wished to be married in public. But Gail Wynand did not wish to be married in public.