There's nothing idyllic about holidays. I learnt it some time ago, so during my exams I was not looking forward to an idyllic holiday, but rather a holiday in which I could have complete control of my time, which was what I was craving for.
To read books for hours on end without disturbance (except for messaging, which I don't mind). And to plan other stuff.
The book I'm reading is called The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Started reading it last year, or 2 years ago, but never progressed beyond that page, because that page bored me and also because I always had something else to do. So yesterday I started reading it again by choosing a more interesting section.
And when I discovered that there was an unexpected romance I decided that this was going to be an interesting book.
Except that the romance in this book is really unusual. And 'unusual' is where I will stop because if I go on you might accuse me of nasty things.
I can appreciate their romance but I don't get the sappy saccharine-sweet feeling I get when I read about other more typical romances.
But anyway the romance is not the highlight of the book.
Howard Roark is the highlight of the book. Here's why:
'That doesn't matter. You're a profoundly religious man, Mr Roark-- in your own way. I can see that in your buildings.
He wondered why Roark stared at him like that, without moving, for such a long time.
'That's true,' said Roark. It was almost a whisper.
......
'I wish to call it God. You may choose any other name. But what I want in that building is your spirit. Your spirit, Mr Roark. Give me the best of that-- and you will have done your job, as I shall have done mine. Do not worry about the meaning I wish conveyed. Let it be your spirit in the shape of a building-- and it will have that meaning, whether you know it or not.'
And so Roark agreed to build the Stoddard Temple of the Human Spirit.
Lovely page in the book. I decided to type it out to adorn my blog. (And yes, Roark is one half of the strange romance I was talking about. Unusual people have unusual romances.) And it is refreshing reading about unusual romances because it reveals yet another facet of human nature. The fluffy and romantic side of human nature is worn out.
The characters in stories are infinitely more interesting than real life, probably because all their emotions are compressed into those few pages. In reality, life is drawn-out and there are blank spaces of boredom, almost non-living. Roark had long drawn-out periods of non-living. The book merely mentioned it but behind them was the weight of boredom and non-living, which of course is not worth detailing day by day.
Here's another one, just because I like Roark, or the author makes me like Roark:
Roark gathered the drawings from the table, rolled them together and put them under his arm.
'It's sheer insanity!' Weidler moaned. 'I want you. We want your building. You need the commission. Do you have to be quite so fanatical and selfless about it?'
'What?' Roark asked incredulously.
'Fanatical and selfless.'
Roark smiled. He looked down at his drawings. His elbow moved a little, pressing them to his body. He said:
'That was the most selfish thing you've ever seen a man do.'
I feel like, or the author makes me feel like, we need more Roarks around.
Another respectable character is this Ellsworth Toohey, and here's why I remember him:
'... There's nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even though we're not always wise enough to unravel the knowledge. Have you ever thought about the style of a soul, Kiki?'
I think he's worth emulating. But my impression of him might change, because I'm only halfway through the book.
To be honest, I feel like a totally different person from who I was in semester 1 last year. Granted, I am in essence the same person, but parts of my personality have changed.
The conclusion I arrive at after I think about my life (in university thus far) is that I am a misfit. But I am not the only one. Everyone is a misfit. The only consensus people find is in chattering with random people. I'm not saying chatting is superficial and unworthy of time, because it is still very important-- it's the glue that holds crowds together.
And when we speak with our true friends, we find that we fall into place, even though we are a bunch of misfits.
When we speak with family, we know there is no room for any discussion of being misfits-- there is an inexplicable, unseverable bond somewhere between you, even though you might feel poles apart.
Yup, I'm a misfit. If you're reading my blog, you probably are a misfit too, because misfits are friends with misfits. Or if you are secretly stalking me from afar, you are one too, because you are stalking a misfit.
But there's nothing wrong with being a misfit. It is your voice that rises above the background noise that life makes, and keeps you standing with yourself. This voice is a rather tremulous one, but it is a voice nonetheless.
Life is good when I have the luxury of time to think and type all this crap out and feel good after that, and have the knowledge that somewhere out there, there's people bothering to read through all my crap.
:)) Thank you for reading this far. Maybe you would enjoy this:
