The Fountainhead Book

This book is the equivalent of a drunk, eloquent asshole talking to you all night at a bar. You know you should just leave and you could never explain later why you didn't, but you just sit there listening to the guy ramble on. It's all bullshit, and his arguments defending, say, his low-key but all-consuming misogyny aren't that good and don't even really make sense, but just for a second you find yourself thinking, "Huh, the man might have a point..." before you catch yourself and realize that no, he is just an asshole. You feel dirty and bad afterwards, realizing how close you came to the abyss, but there was that one second where, for some reason, his selfish, arrogant stances, which have hardened into granite truth for him, bluntly force you into a momentary empathy with his ideas--ironically, the one thing he will never, no matter how many shots of Jameson you buy him, give you. The only real difference between the drunk at the bar and The Fountainhead is that the drunk probably wouldn't go so far as claiming, when relating an account of rape, that the woman wanted it, even craved it. Ayn Rand goes there while remaining perfectly true to her Objectivism bullshit. At least the drunk might buy you a drink. Ayn Rand would probably object to it on philosophical grounds.