So I picked up that copy of Rand's The Fountainhead I requested from the library a week ago. Reading the description in the inner flap, I found these gems:
"It is chiefly the story of Howard Roark, Architect—a man whose sole aim in life was to build, and to build not in the tradition of the past but only in the tradition of Howard Roark. He knew he was right with the same certainty that he knew he had two hands with which to create. No one could convince him otherwise. In fact, it did not bother him that people tried to. No opinion except his own either disturbed or influenced him. Perhaps that is why he was hated—because he needed no one, depended on no one, wanted no one, and to the people who live on the borrowed vision of others such a man is a challenge and a danger."
"Ellsworth Toohey, champion of the downtrodden, was one of the few people who understood Roark and was smart enough to know why he wanted Roark destroyed. Ellsworth Toohey's characterization in The Fountainhead is a beautifully achieved picture of the inherent viciousness in apparently benign humanitarianism."
Fuck this shit. I'll watch the movie instead. 114 minutes of such psychopathic nonsense will surely be grieving, but it's preferable to the 114 days I'll need to wade through this doorstop.