riskyhomo/ayn_rand · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 169
"Why not?"
"But it’s your Dean!"
"Not any more, Mrs. Keating."
She thought, aghast, that he said it as if he were actually happy.
The Stanton Institute of Technology stood on a hill, its crenelated walls raised
as a crown over the city stretched below. It looked like a medieval fortress,
with a Gothic cathedral grafted to its belly. The fortress was eminently suited
to its purpose, with stout, brick walls, a few slits wide enough for sentries,
ramparts behind which defending archers could hide, and corner turrets from
which boiling oil could be poured upon the attacker--should such an emergency
arise in an institute of learning. The cathedral rose over it in lace splendor,
a fragile defense against two great enemies: light and air.
The Dean’s office looked like a chapel, a pool of dreamy twilight fed by one
tall window of stained glass. The twilight flowed in through the garments of
stiff saints, their arms contorted at the elbows. A red spot of light and a
purple one rested respectively upon two genuine gargoyles squatting at the
corners of a fireplace that had never been used. A green spot stood in the
center of a picture of the Parthenon, suspended over the fireplace.
When Roark entered the office, the outlines of the Dean’s figure swam dimly
behind his desk, which was carved like a confessional. He was a short, plumpish
11

gentleman whose spreading flesh was held in check by an indomitable dignity.
"Ah, yes, Roark," he smiled. "Do sit down, please."
Roark sat down. The Dean entwined his fingers on his stomach and waited for the
plea he expected. No plea came. The Dean cleared his throat.
"It will be unnecessary for me to express my regret at the unfortunate event of
this morning," he began, "since I take it for granted that you have always known
my sincere interest in your welfare."
"Quite unnecessary," said Roark.
The Dean looked at him dubiously, but continued:
"Needless to say, I did not vote against you. I abstained entirely. But you may
be glad to know that you had quite a determined little group of defenders at the
meeting. Small, but determined. Your professor of structural engineering acted
quite the crusader on your behalf. So did your professor of mathematics.
Unfortunately, those who felt it their duty to vote for your expulsion quite
outnumbered the others. Professor Peterkin, your critic of design, made an issue
of the matter. He went so far as to threaten us with his resignation unless you
were expelled. You must realize that you have given Professor Peterkin great
provocation."
"I do," said Roark.
"That, you see, was the trouble. I am speaking of your attitude towards the
subject of architectural design. You have never given it the attention it
deserves. And yet, you have been excellent in all the engineering sciences. Of
course, no one denies the importance of structural engineering to a future
architect, but why go to extremes? Why neglect what may be termed the artistic
and inspirational side of your profession and concentrate on all those dry,
technical, mathematical subjects? You intended to become an architect, not a
civil engineer."
"Isn’t this superfluous?" Roark asked. "It’s past. There’s no point in
discussing my choice of subjects now."
"I am endeavoring to be helpful, Roark. You must be fair about this. You cannot
say that you were not given many warnings before this happened."
"I was."
The Dean moved in his chair. Roark made him uncomfortable. Roark’s eyes were
fixed on him politely. The Dean thought, there’s nothing wrong with the way he’s
looking at me, in fact it’s quite correct, most properly attentive; only, it’s
as if I were not here.
"Every problem you were given," the Dean went on, "every project you had to
design--what did you do with it? Every one of them done in that--well, I cannot
call it a style--in that incredible manner of yours. It is contrary to every
principle we have tried to teach you, contrary to all established precedents and
traditions of Art. You may think you are what is called a modernist, but it
isn’t even that. It is...it is sheer insanity, if you don’t mind."
"I don’t mind."
"When you were given projects that left the choice of style up to you and you
12

turned in one of your wild stunts--well, frankly, your teachers passed you
because they did not know what to make of it. But, when you were given an
exercise in the historical styles, a Tudor chapel or a French opera house to
design--and you turned in something that looked like a lot of boxes piled
together without rhyme or reason--would you say it was an answer to an
assignment or plain insubordination?"
"It was insubordination," said Roark.
"We wanted to give you a chance--in view of your brilliant record in all other
subjects. But when you turn in this--" the Dean slammed his fist down on a sheet
spread before him--"this as a Renaissance villa for your final project of the
year--really, my boy, it was too much!"
The sheet bore a drawing--a house of glass and concrete. In the comer there was
a sharp, angular signature: Howard Roark.
"How do you expect us to pass you after this?"
"I don’t."
"You left us no choice in the matter. Naturally, you would feel bitterness
toward us at this moment, but..."
"I feel nothing of the kind," said Roark quietly. "I owe you an apology. I don’t
usually let things happen to me. I made a mistake this time. I shouldn’t have
waited for you to throw me out. I should have left long ago."
"Now, now, don’t get discouraged. This is not the right attitude to take.
Particularly in view of what I am going to tell you."
The Dean smiled and leaned forward confidentially, enjoying the overture to a
good deed.
"Here is the real purpose of our interview. I was anxious to let you know as
soon as possible. I did not wish to leave you disheartened. Oh, I did,
personally, take a chance with the President’s temper when I mentioned this to
him, but...Mind you, he did not commit himself, but...Here is how things stand:
now that you realize how serious it is, if you take a year off, to rest, to
think it over--shall we say to grow up?--there might be a chance of our taking
you back. Mind you, I cannot promise anything--this is strictly unofficial--it
would be most unusual, but in view of the circumstances and of your brilliant

"Why not?"

"But it’s your Dean!"

"Not any more, Mrs. Keating."

She thought, aghast, that he said it as if he were actually happy.

The Stanton Institute of Technology stood on a hill, its crenelated walls raised

as a crown over the city stretched below. It looked like a medieval fortress,

with a Gothic cathedral grafted to its belly. The fortress was eminently suited

to its purpose, with stout, brick walls, a few slits wide enough for sentries,

ramparts behind which defending archers could hide, and corner turrets from

which boiling oil could be poured upon the attacker--should such an emergency

arise in an institute of learning. The cathedral rose over it in lace splendor,

a fragile defense against two great enemies: light and air.

The Dean’s office looked like a chapel, a pool of dreamy twilight fed by one

tall window of stained glass. The twilight flowed in through the garments of

stiff saints, their arms contorted at the elbows. A red spot of light and a

purple one rested respectively upon two genuine gargoyles squatting at the

corners of a fireplace that had never been used. A green spot stood in the

center of a picture of the Parthenon, suspended over the fireplace.

When Roark entered the office, the outlines of the Dean’s figure swam dimly

behind his desk, which was carved like a confessional. He was a short, plumpish

11

gentleman whose spreading flesh was held in check by an indomitable dignity.

"Ah, yes, Roark," he smiled. "Do sit down, please."

Roark sat down. The Dean entwined his fingers on his stomach and waited for the

plea he expected. No plea came. The Dean cleared his throat.

"It will be unnecessary for me to express my regret at the unfortunate event of

this morning," he began, "since I take it for granted that you have always known

my sincere interest in your welfare."

"Quite unnecessary," said Roark.

The Dean looked at him dubiously, but continued:

"Needless to say, I did not vote against you. I abstained entirely. But you may

be glad to know that you had quite a determined little group of defenders at the

meeting. Small, but determined. Your professor of structural engineering acted

quite the crusader on your behalf. So did your professor of mathematics.

Unfortunately, those who felt it their duty to vote for your expulsion quite

outnumbered the others. Professor Peterkin, your critic of design, made an issue

of the matter. He went so far as to threaten us with his resignation unless you

were expelled. You must realize that you have given Professor Peterkin great

provocation."

"I do," said Roark.

"That, you see, was the trouble. I am speaking of your attitude towards the

subject of architectural design. You have never given it the attention it

deserves. And yet, you have been excellent in all the engineering sciences. Of

course, no one denies the importance of structural engineering to a future

architect, but why go to extremes? Why neglect what may be termed the artistic

and inspirational side of your profession and concentrate on all those dry,

technical, mathematical subjects? You intended to become an architect, not a

civil engineer."

"Isn’t this superfluous?" Roark asked. "It’s past. There’s no point in

discussing my choice of subjects now."

"I am endeavoring to be helpful, Roark. You must be fair about this. You cannot

say that you were not given many warnings before this happened."

"I was."

The Dean moved in his chair. Roark made him uncomfortable. Roark’s eyes were

fixed on him politely. The Dean thought, there’s nothing wrong with the way he’s

looking at me, in fact it’s quite correct, most properly attentive; only, it’s

as if I were not here.

"Every problem you were given," the Dean went on, "every project you had to

design--what did you do with it? Every one of them done in that--well, I cannot

call it a style--in that incredible manner of yours. It is contrary to every

principle we have tried to teach you, contrary to all established precedents and

traditions of Art. You may think you are what is called a modernist, but it

isn’t even that. It is...it is sheer insanity, if you don’t mind."

"I don’t mind."

"When you were given projects that left the choice of style up to you and you

12

turned in one of your wild stunts--well, frankly, your teachers passed you

because they did not know what to make of it. But, when you were given an

exercise in the historical styles, a Tudor chapel or a French opera house to

design--and you turned in something that looked like a lot of boxes piled

together without rhyme or reason--would you say it was an answer to an

assignment or plain insubordination?"

"It was insubordination," said Roark.

"We wanted to give you a chance--in view of your brilliant record in all other

subjects. But when you turn in this--" the Dean slammed his fist down on a sheet

spread before him--"this as a Renaissance villa for your final project of the

year--really, my boy, it was too much!"

The sheet bore a drawing--a house of glass and concrete. In the comer there was

a sharp, angular signature: Howard Roark.

"How do you expect us to pass you after this?"

"I don’t."

"You left us no choice in the matter. Naturally, you would feel bitterness

toward us at this moment, but..."

"I feel nothing of the kind," said Roark quietly. "I owe you an apology. I don’t

usually let things happen to me. I made a mistake this time. I shouldn’t have

waited for you to throw me out. I should have left long ago."

"Now, now, don’t get discouraged. This is not the right attitude to take.

Particularly in view of what I am going to tell you."

The Dean smiled and leaned forward confidentially, enjoying the overture to a

good deed.

"Here is the real purpose of our interview. I was anxious to let you know as

soon as possible. I did not wish to leave you disheartened. Oh, I did,

personally, take a chance with the President’s temper when I mentioned this to

him, but...Mind you, he did not commit himself, but...Here is how things stand:

now that you realize how serious it is, if you take a year off, to rest, to

think it over--shall we say to grow up?--there might be a chance of our taking

you back. Mind you, I cannot promise anything--this is strictly unofficial--it

would be most unusual, but in view of the circumstances and of your brilliant