Ayn Rand的《The Fountainhead》一直是我喜欢的一本小说。它描述了一个“高大全”顶天立地的英雄人物建筑师Howard Roark挑战传统，以一个人的力量与集体主义、妥协派作斗争。Rand 借此表述了她的objectivism的哲学观点。全书闪烁理想主义的光泽。

这个Roark非常像尼采心目中的超人。

其中的爱情理论和逻辑也是独出心裁，最后Roark为他的情人Dominique在connecticuts的郊外建了一座小别墅，是Dominique的丈夫媒体大亨Wynard请他建的。这座别墅非常sexy，如Wynard说的那样：

I don’t know a house could be designed for a woman, like a dress. You can’t see yourself here as I do, you can’t see how completely this house is yours. Every angle, every part of every room is a setting for you. It’s scaled to your height, to your body. Even the texture of the walls goes with the texture of your skin in an odd way. This is what I want. The city can’t touch you here. I’ve always felt that the city would take you away from me.

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The Wynard house stood on the hill above them. The earth spread out in terraced fields and rose gradually to make the elevation of the hill. The house was a shape of horizontal rectangles rising toward a slashing vertical projection; a group of diminishing setbacks, each a separate room; its size and form making the successive steps in a series of interlocking floor lines. It was as slowly, shaping the next steps by a sustained touch, then had stopped, had continued in separate movements, each shorter, brusquer, and had ended, torn off, remaining somewhere in the sky. So that it seemed as if the slow rhythm of the rising fields had been picked up, stressed, accelerated and broken into the staccato chords of the finale.

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The lake spread behind them, a flat sheet darkening at the edges, as if the distant trees were moving in to enclose it for the evening. The sun cut a glittering band across the water. D looked up at the house and thought that she would like to stand there at a window and look down and see this one white figure stretched on a deserted shore, his hand on the ground, spent, emptied, at the foot of that hill.

She accepted the house, the touch of the stair railings under her hand, the walls that enclosed the air she breathed. She accepted the light switches she pressed in the evening, and the light firm wires he had laid out through the walls; the water that ran when she turned a tap, from conduits he had planned; the warmth of an open fire on august evenings, before a fireplace built stone by stone from his drawing. She thought: every moment, every need of my existence…she thought: why not? It’s the same with my body-lungs, blood vessels, nerves, brain--under the same control. She felt one with the house.

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