The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

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I have to admit, I was a bit dubious before I started reading The Fountainhead. I heard about it from my mom who devours Jodi Picoult novels and these 900 page Queen Elizabeth books with more vigor than she would a classic. She kept pushing me to read Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand’s most famous novel), and I kept shrugging her off (pun not intended). 

My best friend in college started reading Atlas Shrugged. I respect his literary tastes, at least more than my mom’s (until now). He’s more of a non-fiction guy, a genre I have no interest in whatsoever, but he read and liked The Picture of Dorian Gray, so he was in my good graces. So finally, when I needed a book for a plane ride, I caved and bought the tiniest font version of The Fountainhead. (Just for the record, I finished The Fountainhead before he finished Atlas Shrugged. Atlas Shrugged is longer, but still he had a six month long head-start). 

By Page two I had already fallen in love with the protagonist and vowed not to put the book down until I was finished. Ayn Rand created a masterpiece with that book, every character vivid and real. I knew the book was pushing a philosophy, so I expected the story to be forced, but I was proven completely wrong. 

Although the objectivist philosophy is present, it is the characters and the plot that drive the book. The Fountainhead is a work of genius. You were right mom. 

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