Since last week, I have been reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. And I learned quite a lot from it.
There’s something about Roark that doesn’t leave you. He’s not merely a character, he’s a quiet standard, humming in the background of thought. Not a blueprint to copy, but a kind of stillness to measure yourself against.
He isn’t right because he wins. He’s right because he doesn’t flinch. That’s what stays with me.
It’s not the haircut or the stare or the myth of genius. It’s the absence of noise inside him. That internal alignment, undisturbed by praise, untouched by scorn (criticism, disrespect), what I keep circling back to.
Find out what is it that you can do even without money. That’s the trick.
Can I do something in just love? Can I allow that love to become my life?
– Acharya Prashant
What would it take to live like that?
Independence
Roark doesn’t rebel. He doesn’t conform either. He simply starts from within. That’s rare. Most of us are echoes, of family, of culture, of enemies. Roark is origin.
Roark (to Dean): “I have, let’s say, sixty years to live. Most of that time will be spent working. I’ve chosen the work I want to do. If I find no joy in it, then I’m only condemning myself to sixty years of torture. And I can find joy only if I do my work in the best way possible to me.”
“The more dependent you are, the more afraid you will be. The key to fearlessness is independence. The key to fearlessness is freedom.”
– Acharya Prashant
I wonder what that kind of independence feels like, not in words, but in the existence (experience). Probably like still water. No need to explain, no itch to be understood.
Integrity
Not in the moral sense. In the structural one. Roark’s thoughts, choices, and actions are aligned with the right center. Nothing borrowed, nothing inserted to appease. He doesn’t need to patch his soul after each compromise; because there aren’t any.
Dean: “My dear boy, who will let you?”
Roark: “That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?”
That kind of wholeness isn’t loud. It doesn’t campaign. It simply stays there, silently.
Silence
Roark rarely argues. He never persuades. He acts. That says more than speeches.
But I don’t think of you.
This comes after Toohey asks Roark, “Why don’t you tell me what you think of me?” and Roark’s calm, final response is simply that. It’s one of the most powerful lines in the novel because it’s not hatred, not contempt, not even indifference for show. It’s complete disinterest. True freedom I guess.
Whatsoever exists within or around you at the cost of your freedom is called a cage.
– Acharya Prashant
In a world wired for reaction, there’s something almost violent about his quiet. Not cold, just sufficient. I think real clarity doesn’t explain itself. It builds inside of you.
Non-resentment
This might be the hardest one to grasp. Roark doesn’t hate the world. He just walks past it. No tantrum, no cynicism. Just a refusal to join what he doesn’t believe in.
It’s tempting to mistake that for arrogance. But maybe it’s just a cleaner form of love, one that doesn’t demand the world change first.
If your self-worth depends on anything, life will play with it like a puppet on strings.
True freedom begins when you stop measuring yourself by external yardsticks.
– Acharya Prashant
Joy in the Work
Roark works for the thing itself. Not for credit. Not for legacy. Just for the shape, the form, the right line.
It comes up when he disigns the Cortland Housing Project for Peter Keeting. Just for the joy; not for name, not for fame, not even for the money.
That kind of joy is rare. It doesn’t multiply followers. It doesn’t trend. But it lasts.
It makes me think: what would I still do if no one saw?
Reading Roark doesn’t lead to declarations or definitions. It leads to a silence that stays with you, a kind of shift that doesn’t announce itself, but fixes something beneath the surface.
It’s not about becoming like him. It’s about noticing what he leaves behind in you. The pull away from noise, from the looping urge to prove, explain, or be understood.
Roark doesn’t give answers. He refines the question. Not “What should I do?” but “What will I no longer fake?”
Maybe that’s all it takes, or all it gives: a subtle turning inward. The slow, patient forming of a spine.
#Unself
Last updated: May 18, 2025