sometimes you read a book and all previous sense and experience is ripped from you. what i do cannot be called writing; it may be the basest form of recalling your own feelings onto paper; it is certainly not…writing…a novel, such as The Fountainhead. i could go on for days telling about this book and i am only halfway through, but to tell for days is meaningless. i can only say that through the central character of this story, who exhibits no emotion and who does not bend himself to society, is someone who redefines all sense of self, who is not a “martyr” – Dominique said that saying that would give more credit to his enemies, which it shouldn’t do… who is someone who is a heroic figure, without having heroic qualities. all i can say is i was not interested in architecture before this book; i am now; i was not interested in the intricacies of things happening to a stoic man; i am and forever will be now.
my song these days:
Meanwhile, I’d been wasting time, though in a better way than most, with this Great Gastby online game. My English teacher tried to forward it to those deities of the English department, and, like a martyr, had it contain a virus or something or the other.
I spent some while beating it…