riskyhomo/ayn_rand · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 169
record, there might be a very good chance."
Roark smiled. It was not a happy smile, it was not a grateful one. It was a
simple, easy smile and it was amused.
"I don’t think you understood me," said Roark. "What made you suppose that I
want to come back?"
"Eh?"
"I won’t be back. I have nothing further to learn here."
"I don’t understand you," said the Dean stiffly.
"Is there any point in explaining? It’s of no interest to you any longer."
"You will kindly explain yourself."
13

"If you wish. I want to be an architect, not an archeologist. I see no purpose
in doing Renaissance villas. Why learn to design them, when I’ll never build
them?"
"My dear boy, the great style of the Renaissance is far from dead. Houses of
that style are being erected every day."
"They are. And they will be. But not by me."
"Come, come, now, this is childish."
"I came here to learn about building. When I was given a project, its only value
to me was to learn to solve it as I would solve I a real one in the future. I
did them the way I’ll build them. I’ve \| learned all I could learn here--in
the structural sciences of which you don’t approve. One more year of drawing
Italian post cards would give me nothing." ’
An hour ago the Dean had wished that this interview would proceed as calmly as
possible. Now he wished that Roark would display some emotion; it seemed
unnatural for him to be so quietly natural in the circumstances.
"Do you mean to tell me that you’re thinking seriously of building that way,
when and if you are an architect?"
"Yes."
"My dear fellow, who will let you?"
"That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?"
"Look here, this is serious. I am sorry that I haven’t had a long, earnest talk
with you much earlier...I know, I know, I know, don’t interrupt me, you’ve seen
a modernistic building or two, and it gave you ideas. But do you realize what a
passing fancy that whole so-called modern movement is? You must learn to
understand--and it has been proved by all authorities--that everything beautiful
in architecture has been done already. There is a treasure mine in every style
of the past. We can only choose from the great masters. Who are we to improve
upon them? We can only attempt, respectfully, to repeat."
"Why?" asked Howard Roark.
No, thought the Dean, no, he hasn’t said anything else; it’s a perfectly
innocent word; he’s not threatening me.
"But it’s self-evident!" said the Dean.
"Look," said Roark evenly, and pointed at the window. "Can you see the campus
and the town? Do you see how many men are walking and living down there? Well, I
don’t give a damn what any or all of them think about architecture--or about
anything else, for that matter. Why should I consider what their grandfathers
thought of it?"
"That is our sacred tradition."
"Why?"
"For heaven’s sake, can’t you stop being so naive about it?"
14

"But I don’t understand. Why do you want me to think that this is great
architecture?" He pointed to the picture of the Parthenon.
"That," said the Dean, "is the Parthenon."
"So it is."
"I haven’t the time to waste on silly questions."
"All right, then." Roark got up, he took a long ruler from the desk, he walked
to the picture. "Shall I tell you what’s rotten about it?"
"It’s the Parthenon!" said the Dean.
"Yes, God damn it, the Parthenon!"
The ruler struck the glass over the picture.
"Look," said Roark. "The famous flutings on the famous columns--what are they
there for? To hide the joints in wood--when columns were made of wood, only
these aren’t, they’re marble. The triglyphs, what are they? Wood. Wooden beams,
the way they had to be laid when people began to build wooden shacks. Your
Greeks took marble and they made copies of their wooden structures out of it,
because others had done it that way. Then your masters of the Renaissance came
along and made copies in plaster of copies in marble of copies in wood. Now here
we are, making copies in steel and concrete of copies in plaster of copies in
marble of copies in wood. Why?"
The Dean sat watching him curiously. Something puzzled him, not in the words,
but in Roark’s manner of saying them.
"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."
"But all the proper forms of expression have been discovered long ago."
"Expression--of what? The Parthenon did not serve the same purpose as its wooden
ancestor. An airline terminal does not serve the same purpose as the Parthenon.
Every form has its own meaning. Every man creates his meaning and form and goal.
Why is it so important--what others have done? Why does it become sacred by the
mere fact of not being your own? Why is anyone and everyone right--so long as
it’s not yourself? Why does the number of those others take the place of truth?
Why is truth made a mere matter of arithmetic--and only of addition at that? Why
is everything twisted out of all sense to fit everything else? There must be
some reason. I don’t know. I’ve never known it. I’d like to understand."
"For heaven’s sake," said the Dean. "Sit down....That’s better....Would you mind
very much putting that ruler down?...Thank you....Now listen to me. No one has
ever denied the importance of modern technique to an architect. We must learn to
adapt the beauty of the past to the needs of the present. The voice of the past
is the voice of the people. Nothing has ever been invented by one man in
architecture. The proper creative process is a slow, gradual, anonymous,

record, there might be a very good chance."

Roark smiled. It was not a happy smile, it was not a grateful one. It was a

simple, easy smile and it was amused.

"I don’t think you understood me," said Roark. "What made you suppose that I

want to come back?"

"Eh?"

"I won’t be back. I have nothing further to learn here."

"I don’t understand you," said the Dean stiffly.

"Is there any point in explaining? It’s of no interest to you any longer."

"You will kindly explain yourself."

13

"If you wish. I want to be an architect, not an archeologist. I see no purpose

in doing Renaissance villas. Why learn to design them, when I’ll never build

them?"

"My dear boy, the great style of the Renaissance is far from dead. Houses of

that style are being erected every day."

"They are. And they will be. But not by me."

"Come, come, now, this is childish."

"I came here to learn about building. When I was given a project, its only value

to me was to learn to solve it as I would solve I a real one in the future. I

did them the way I’ll build them. I’ve | learned all I could learn here--in

the structural sciences of which you don’t approve. One more year of drawing

Italian post cards would give me nothing." ’

An hour ago the Dean had wished that this interview would proceed as calmly as

possible. Now he wished that Roark would display some emotion; it seemed

unnatural for him to be so quietly natural in the circumstances.

"Do you mean to tell me that you’re thinking seriously of building that way,

when and if you are an architect?"

"Yes."

"My dear fellow, who will let you?"

"That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?"

"Look here, this is serious. I am sorry that I haven’t had a long, earnest talk

with you much earlier...I know, I know, I know, don’t interrupt me, you’ve seen

a modernistic building or two, and it gave you ideas. But do you realize what a

passing fancy that whole so-called modern movement is? You must learn to

understand--and it has been proved by all authorities--that everything beautiful

in architecture has been done already. There is a treasure mine in every style

of the past. We can only choose from the great masters. Who are we to improve

upon them? We can only attempt, respectfully, to repeat."

"Why?" asked Howard Roark.

No, thought the Dean, no, he hasn’t said anything else; it’s a perfectly

innocent word; he’s not threatening me.

"But it’s self-evident!" said the Dean.

"Look," said Roark evenly, and pointed at the window. "Can you see the campus

and the town? Do you see how many men are walking and living down there? Well, I

don’t give a damn what any or all of them think about architecture--or about

anything else, for that matter. Why should I consider what their grandfathers

thought of it?"

"That is our sacred tradition."

"Why?"

"For heaven’s sake, can’t you stop being so naive about it?"

14

"But I don’t understand. Why do you want me to think that this is great

architecture?" He pointed to the picture of the Parthenon.

"That," said the Dean, "is the Parthenon."

"So it is."

"I haven’t the time to waste on silly questions."

"All right, then." Roark got up, he took a long ruler from the desk, he walked

to the picture. "Shall I tell you what’s rotten about it?"

"It’s the Parthenon!" said the Dean.

"Yes, God damn it, the Parthenon!"

The ruler struck the glass over the picture.

"Look," said Roark. "The famous flutings on the famous columns--what are they

there for? To hide the joints in wood--when columns were made of wood, only

these aren’t, they’re marble. The triglyphs, what are they? Wood. Wooden beams,

the way they had to be laid when people began to build wooden shacks. Your

Greeks took marble and they made copies of their wooden structures out of it,

because others had done it that way. Then your masters of the Renaissance came

along and made copies in plaster of copies in marble of copies in wood. Now here

we are, making copies in steel and concrete of copies in plaster of copies in

marble of copies in wood. Why?"

The Dean sat watching him curiously. Something puzzled him, not in the words,

but in Roark’s manner of saying them.

"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."

"But all the proper forms of expression have been discovered long ago."

"Expression--of what? The Parthenon did not serve the same purpose as its wooden

ancestor. An airline terminal does not serve the same purpose as the Parthenon.

Every form has its own meaning. Every man creates his meaning and form and goal.

Why is it so important--what others have done? Why does it become sacred by the

mere fact of not being your own? Why is anyone and everyone right--so long as

it’s not yourself? Why does the number of those others take the place of truth?

Why is truth made a mere matter of arithmetic--and only of addition at that? Why

is everything twisted out of all sense to fit everything else? There must be

some reason. I don’t know. I’ve never known it. I’d like to understand."

"For heaven’s sake," said the Dean. "Sit down....That’s better....Would you mind

very much putting that ruler down?...Thank you....Now listen to me. No one has

ever denied the importance of modern technique to an architect. We must learn to

adapt the beauty of the past to the needs of the present. The voice of the past

is the voice of the people. Nothing has ever been invented by one man in

architecture. The proper creative process is a slow, gradual, anonymous,