The Fountainhead is the best book I have read in the last two years. It is also the only book I have read during the time. Although I do not subscribe to Ayn Rand's views in their entirety, I do believe she hit the nail on the head when she spoke of triviality being accorded a revered status, and that, in more ways than one, would hold for her book too.

That said, no one writes with the intent to impress. I am assuming, of course, that biographers and myspace members do not come under the umbrella of authors. Writing is the most selfish of all human indulgences - you do it simply because it makes you feel good. But when a piece of writing that can only be termed plain, and that in a zest of euphemistic zeal, pleases the creator enough to have it out there for the whole world to read then it does not augur well.

It, in fact, raises two pertinent questions.
1. Was the writer blinded enough by her sense of false vanity to not see how pedestrian her piece is?
2. Is the writer genuinely not good enough to come up with something better?

The latter can and should be glossed over. The former is unpardonable. It is even more unforgivable in the light that connoisseur-impersonators would read between those lines that do not even exist, thereby interpreting such writing to be a victory or a successful way of life. Successful way of life? That can only happen in the denial cocoon we all live in, which is not a bad thing. However, seeing things that do not subsist by itself calls for a visit to the shrink. Then he compounds it by his number seeking ways.

I don't believe I will ever get over this number seeking business, more so since I happen to be "male number seeker's" safety bet. It is degrading to be thought of as a second, which is alright. But how would he ever digest that he even lost his safety?

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Door Gagan Ki Chaaon Mein - Aa Chal Ke Tujhe