But, more than Roark's cognizant self-righteous attitude, I really like his design aesthetics. Like me, he's a minimalist. He eschews gaudy baubles and stone adornments for the sleek lines and natural strength of steel. At first he is condemned by the commie-loving masses for his sensibilities, but he triumphs (of course) in the end, standing atop his Wynward skyscraper, his ginger-locks wafting in the wind. He created the fictional version of this:
I've always loved a good skyscraper, but after reading The Fountainhead for the first time in 1998, my love for overbearing, sun-blocking, nature-crushing, sky-high structures only multiplied. However, ironically, I find myself now living in a city adorned not with steel towers, but with granite chodes, save for Washington's outstanding, er, monument.
*sad sigh* (Way to be, law.)
O! How I do miss a good skyline! But, truth be told, despite my love of skyscrapers, I've never lived long-term in a city with a truly magnificent skyline. New York City and I crossed paths for just five months. Chicago and I lasted just shy of 90 days. I suppose Boston and I worked out OK, for two years, but its soaring girder-and-steel structures pale in comparison to the aforementioned two. My longest effort to live in one city occurred in Moscow. But my three years there left me surrounded by very un-Roarkian structures:
Sure it's pretty from afar, but up close and personal, you learn it's all smoke and mirrors. (However, word on the ulitsa, is that my dear Moskva is becoming more Roark-friendly as I type. Spasibo, Comrade Putin!)
So alas, I've been forced to satisfy my skyscraper cravings through short-term trysts, including a 24-hour trip back up to New York, a three-day jaunt to San Francisco and a lovely weekend visit to Minneapolis. But mainly, I get my fix through sheer imagination.