I lied yesterday. I was wrong. There are women writers who have completely torn me apart, set fire to my mind and heart. How could I forget?
It has been ten years since I read The Fountainhead. I was fifteen. If memory serves, I was in the middle of a massive crush on someone I was convinced didn't like me at all, and I both loved him and hated him. I felt that way about this novel. It was completely different from anything else I was reading at the time, each word like a blade through my skin, and I could not stop reading, could not stop thinking about it. I was fifteen years old, and I wished for that ability to know myself absolutely, to be convinced absolutely that whatever I believed was right. I am not sure I know all that now, but I am closer to my goal than I was ten years ago. Such a long time, and yet the time has slipped by so quickly it seems that the years between have not even existed.
Lately I have been revisiting writers I read a decade ago and have not read since. It was time to come back to Rand. So. Here we go.
The words, the ideas, the thoughts that form in Roark's mind, come out of his mouth, are as electric as I remember, and I am in love all over again.