The Talented Mr.Toohey and friends...

My days are getting longer, endless almost, since I'm currently not employed (hmph!). And so, in a bid to keep my sanity levels in check (quite a task) I have taken to re-reading old favorites, and have just gotten started on The Fountainhead.

I shan't insult your intelligence by attempting to introduce the classic or the woman behind it. Instead, I shall launch into what's been tickling my grey matter, as a consequence of my choosing to read it yet again.

Admission 1- the book scares me, both with it's brilliance and it's timeless prophetic quality. Not prophetic in the sense of '1984' but in the way it reflects a quality about the world that has just refused to change- not then, and certainly not now. It's the very same quality that the character Steve Mallory is so afraid of. And like him, I'm afraid of it as well. I see it everyday, in people I know, or thought I knew at one point of time. I wonder what's changed- I or the people around me. Sadly, I don't have an oracle to consult on this matter (no, there's no oracle in the book, it was just my own wishful thinking).

Admission 2- this book reminds me of the film, The Talented Mr.Ripley. I don't quite know why, maybe it's the persistent quality of pretense, no, misplaced identity, that both Peter Keating and Mr.Ripley possess. Even so, Mr.Ripley is more like a Roark turned psychopath-with-a-traumatic-childhood. The absolute single-mindedness with which he devotes himself to the task at hand is mind-boggling, before it turns obsessive and with fatal consequences. But his virtuosity at the piano, which no one acknowledges, cannot be attacked, or even questioned. Peter Keating, on the other hand, is far more pitiful, and far worse, even though he never kills anyone in his quest for acceptance.

Still, the master of pretense is undoubtedly the talented Mr. Toohey. Really, he is far scarier than the great Hannibal Lecter himself. It's one thing to eat a man's brain, it's quite another to eat his soul, and worse, to savor it so immensely. He is, by far, the most vile character I've ever come across in a novel or film. To turn a man's weakness against himself and to do it with flair, that has got to be the most potent form of evil genius ever bottled and sold.

And now for the good stuff...

Admission 3- this book makes me believe again. In what, you ask? In miracles, the kind that come after waiting patiently for many many years, while constantly working hard and holding one's head high and not allowing public opinion to influence one's decisions or patterns of thought, but miracles nevertheless. It makes me want to shrug off my mantle of cynicism, and give the world another chance, and yet another. Or maybe, it's just me giving myself another stab at daring to dream, freely and innocently.

And now for a laugh...

Admission 4- another favorite book of mine is, ahem, Bridget Jones' Diary. I love it, I really do, it is the only book I've ever read that has actually made me laugh out loud. And while I don't wish to identify with Madame Jones, I wonder what kind of classic we'd have on our hands if we plucked her out of her diary and plonked her smack in the middle of the Fountainhead, ranting and raving about fuckwittage and craving chocolate croissants. I mean, I am in awe of Dominique Francon, but Ayn Rand uses the adjective thin far too often for my liking. And that's what I love about Bridget- her clumsy, messy, yet adorable ways. Granted, she is a bit too concerned about her appearance, but we aren't all blessed with killer metabolic rates, and I'm sure Madame Francon put a lot of thought into her seemingly effortless graceful attire (mentioned in great detail throughout the novel), and Ayn Rand just probably forgot to mention it.

And now for the men, mmmm...

Admission 5- if a comparative study were to be made of leading men, it would be a close call between Mark Darcy and Howard Roark, as to MY personal choice of leading man. Everyone else is too goody-goody, or deliciously bad. But deliciously bad, even when it's as delicious as Jude Law( refer the Talented Mr.Ripley), is not for me, I think. Mr. Roark, now that's a real man, he can't quite be classified as good or bad, and he's definitely not ugly. Sadly, in the real world, men who are that individualistic, are just as often the cads, unlike Mr.Roark who manages to stay true to his lady, despite her frequent marriages to other men, her noble intentions notwithstanding. One does wonder if there are other little details that the author forgot to mention-an affair or two that Roark might've had, while waiting for Dominique to return to him. Of course, they would've been meaningless, and even so, I'd forgive him anything.

Mark Darcy is on my list purely on the basis of his geekiness. I love geeks. They are just too good to be true. And if they're even half as yummy as Colin Firth, well, only an idiot would pass that up.

That having been said, I do applaud the many little people who've contributed to the basic fabric of the novel. It couldn't have been easy being Katie, neice to Toohey, jilted by Keating in favor of the leading lady. I can't begin to imagine the trauma of having to deal with both those men on an intimate basis. And one mustn't forget Alvah Scarrat, a man misunderstood and underestimated in the presence of other towering personalities. Gail Wynand, deserves more than special mention, I think. A gentleman's gentleman is what he was, and probably dishy as hell as well. This fleeting mention does no justice to him and his turn-about in the novel whatsoever. I see shades of him reflected in Francesco (from Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged), another one of the author's almost-heroes, whom I happen to adore, and it really gets my goat as to what Madame Francon and Madame Taggart did to deserve such phenomenal men, and to have to pick and choose between them.

In closing, I apologize if I've left anyone out. There's only so much I can write about, and sadly, my attention span comes with an expiry time. And to those of you who haven't read any or all of the above-mentioned books, I do hope to have piqued your curiosity levels enough to run out and get your copy.