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Victor Hugo: If a writer wrote merely for his time, I would have to break my pen and throw it away. Romanticism: conceptual school of art. I do not mean to imply that I knew, when I wrote it, that The Fountainhead would remain in print for twenty-five years. I did not think of any specific time period. I knew only that it was a book that ought to live.
It did. I mention it here for the sake of any other writer of my kind who might have to face the same battle—as a reminder of the fact that it can be done. I want it real. I want to know that there is someone, somewhere, who wants it, too. Or else what is the use of seeing it, and working, and burning oneself for an impossible vision? A spirit, too, needs fuel. It can run dry. He gave me, in the hours of my own days, the reality of that sense of life, which created The Fountainhead—and he helped me to maintain it over a long span of years when there was nothing around us but a gray desert of people and events that evoked nothing but contempt and revulsion.
The essence of the bond between us is the fact that neither of us has ever wanted or been tempted to settle for anything less than the world presented in The Fountainhead. We never will.
I did not feel discouragement very often, and when I did, it did not last longer than overnight. He convinced me of why one cannot give up the world to those one despises.
