riskyhomo/ayn_rand · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 169
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; waiting for the drill, the dynamite
and my voice; waiting to be split, ripped, pounded, reborn; waiting for the
shape my hands will give them.
Then he shook his head, because he remembered that morning and that there were
7

many things to be done. He stepped to the edge, raised his arms, and dived down
into the sky below.
He cut straight across the lake to the shore ahead. He reached the rocks where
he had left his clothes. He looked regretfully about him. For three years, ever
since he had lived in Stanton, he had come here for his only relaxation, to
swim, to rest, to think, to be alone and alive, whenever he could find one hour
to spare, which had not been often. In his new freedom the first thing he had
wanted to do was to come here, because he knew that he was coming for the last
time. That morning he had been expelled from the Architectural School of the
Stanton Institute of Technology. He pulled his clothes on: old denim trousers,
sandals, a shirt with short sleeves and most of its buttons missing. He swung
down a narrow trail among the boulders, to a path running through a green slope,
to the road below.
He walked swiftly, with a loose, lazy expertness of motion. He walked down the
long road, in the sun. Far ahead Stanton lay sprawled on the coast of
Massachusetts, a little town as a setting for the gem of its existence--the
great institute rising on a hill beyond.
The township of Stanton began with a dump. A gray mound of refuse rose in the
grass. It smoked faintly. Tin cans glittered in the sun. The road led past the
first houses to a church. The church was a Gothic monument of shingles painted
pigeon blue. It had stout wooden buttresses supporting nothing. It had
stained-glass windows with heavy traceries of imitation stone. It opened the way
into long streets edged by tight, exhibitionist lawns. Behind the lawns stood
wooden piles tortured out of all shape: twisted into gables, turrets, dormers;
bulging with porches; crushed under huge, sloping roofs. White curtains floated
at the windows. A garbage can stood at a side door, flowing over. An old
Pekinese sat upon a cushion on a door step, its mouth drooling. A line of
diapers fluttered in the wind between the columns of a porch.
People turned to look at Howard Roark as he passed. Some remained staring after
him with sudden resentment. They could give no reason for it: it was an instinct
his presence awakened in most people. Howard Roark saw no one. For him, the
streets were empty. He could have walked there naked without concern. He crossed
the heart of Stanton, a broad green edged by shop windows. The windows displayed
new placards announcing:
WELCOME TO THE CLASS OF ’22! GOOD LUCK, CLASS OF ’22! The Class of ’22 of
the Stanton Institute of Technology was holding its commencement exercises that
afternoon.
Roark swung into a side street, where at the end of a long row, on a knoll over
a green ravine, stood the house of Mrs. Keating. He had boarded at that house
for three years.
Mrs. Keating was out on the porch. She was feeding a couple of canaries in a
cage suspended over the railing. Her pudgy little hand stopped in mid-air when
she saw him. She watched him with curiosity. She tried to pull her mouth into a
proper expression of sympathy; she succeeded only in betraying that the process
was an effort.
He was crossing the porch without noticing her. She stopped him.
"Mr. Roark!"
"Yes?"
8

"Mr. Roark, I’m so sorry about--" she hesitated demurely, "--about what happened
this morning."
"What?" he asked.
"Your being expelled from the Institute. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I only
want you to know that I feel for you."
He stood looking at her. She knew that he did not see her. No, she thought, it
was not that exactly. He always looked straight at people and his damnable eyes
never missed a thing, it was only that he made people feel as if they did not
exist. He just stood looking. He would not answer.
"But what I say," she continued, "is that if one suffers in this world, it’s on
account of error. Of course, you’ll have to give up the architect profession
now, won’t you? But then a young man can always earn a decent living clerking or

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; waiting for the drill, the dynamite

and my voice; waiting to be split, ripped, pounded, reborn; waiting for the

shape my hands will give them.

Then he shook his head, because he remembered that morning and that there were

7

many things to be done. He stepped to the edge, raised his arms, and dived down

into the sky below.

He cut straight across the lake to the shore ahead. He reached the rocks where

he had left his clothes. He looked regretfully about him. For three years, ever

since he had lived in Stanton, he had come here for his only relaxation, to

swim, to rest, to think, to be alone and alive, whenever he could find one hour

to spare, which had not been often. In his new freedom the first thing he had

wanted to do was to come here, because he knew that he was coming for the last

time. That morning he had been expelled from the Architectural School of the

Stanton Institute of Technology. He pulled his clothes on: old denim trousers,

sandals, a shirt with short sleeves and most of its buttons missing. He swung

down a narrow trail among the boulders, to a path running through a green slope,

to the road below.

He walked swiftly, with a loose, lazy expertness of motion. He walked down the

long road, in the sun. Far ahead Stanton lay sprawled on the coast of

Massachusetts, a little town as a setting for the gem of its existence--the

great institute rising on a hill beyond.

The township of Stanton began with a dump. A gray mound of refuse rose in the

grass. It smoked faintly. Tin cans glittered in the sun. The road led past the

first houses to a church. The church was a Gothic monument of shingles painted

pigeon blue. It had stout wooden buttresses supporting nothing. It had

stained-glass windows with heavy traceries of imitation stone. It opened the way

into long streets edged by tight, exhibitionist lawns. Behind the lawns stood

wooden piles tortured out of all shape: twisted into gables, turrets, dormers;

bulging with porches; crushed under huge, sloping roofs. White curtains floated

at the windows. A garbage can stood at a side door, flowing over. An old

Pekinese sat upon a cushion on a door step, its mouth drooling. A line of

diapers fluttered in the wind between the columns of a porch.

People turned to look at Howard Roark as he passed. Some remained staring after

him with sudden resentment. They could give no reason for it: it was an instinct

his presence awakened in most people. Howard Roark saw no one. For him, the

streets were empty. He could have walked there naked without concern. He crossed

the heart of Stanton, a broad green edged by shop windows. The windows displayed

new placards announcing:

WELCOME TO THE CLASS OF ’22! GOOD LUCK, CLASS OF ’22! The Class of ’22 of

the Stanton Institute of Technology was holding its commencement exercises that

afternoon.

Roark swung into a side street, where at the end of a long row, on a knoll over

a green ravine, stood the house of Mrs. Keating. He had boarded at that house

for three years.

Mrs. Keating was out on the porch. She was feeding a couple of canaries in a

cage suspended over the railing. Her pudgy little hand stopped in mid-air when

she saw him. She watched him with curiosity. She tried to pull her mouth into a

proper expression of sympathy; she succeeded only in betraying that the process

was an effort.

He was crossing the porch without noticing her. She stopped him.

"Mr. Roark!"

"Yes?"

8

"Mr. Roark, I’m so sorry about--" she hesitated demurely, "--about what happened

this morning."

"What?" he asked.

"Your being expelled from the Institute. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I only

want you to know that I feel for you."

He stood looking at her. She knew that he did not see her. No, she thought, it

was not that exactly. He always looked straight at people and his damnable eyes

never missed a thing, it was only that he made people feel as if they did not

exist. He just stood looking. He would not answer.

"But what I say," she continued, "is that if one suffers in this world, it’s on

account of error. Of course, you’ll have to give up the architect profession

now, won’t you? But then a young man can always earn a decent living clerking or