Search results for: “observe collective”

  • Observations Vol. 1 No. 1 by the Observe Collective Out Now

    Observations Vol. 1 No. 1 by the Observe Collective Out Now

    observations_cover

    (Cover Photo by Oguz Ozkan)

    We’ve always love the hard work that Observe Collective puts out. They understand that photography is not just shooting but also showing your work. Presenting your observations if you will.

    Which is why we’re happy to know that the Observe collective Magazine aptly named, Observations recently went up online.

    This issue isn’t a typical glossy magazine found in the stands with cover stories and feature articles. They had their members write about their personal relationship with photography. Some of them explore their fascination as to where the interest to photography came from like Danielle Houghton’s work or Ilya Shtutsa’s relationship with his mentor and how it is helping him tell visual stories in a deeper manner.

    It’s quite a long read at 148 pages but it is interesting and thoughtful. Thankfully, you can download a pdf version on their website.

    Once again, congratulations to Observe collective on their first issue and we are looking forward to what they have next!

    Follow Observe

    Enjoy

    -A.g.

  • The “Under Construction” Exhibit Report by the Observe Collective

    The “Under Construction” Exhibit Report by the Observe Collective

    (A.g.’s Note: We’re glad to have Observe Collective back on the blog again with some highlights of their recently held Under Construction exhibit in Germany. Check it out!)

    Observe Collective from Cut Production Germany on Vimeo.

    (more…)

  • Call for Entries: Observe Collective Street Photography Competition 2015

    Call for Entries: Observe Collective Street Photography Competition 2015

     

    Under Construction Announcement_Observe_7apr2015

    OBSERVE is holding their first group exhibit in opening on June 12, 2015 in the Städtische Galerie in Iserlohn, Germany, and will run through July 26, 2015.

    The exhibit will feature the works of the 13 members of the collective. Several members will be present in the opening as well.

    In line with the exhibit, OBSERVE will hold their first ever street photography competition with a total of over €1000 in prize money. The theme is “Under Construction”. The competition is open to all photographers of all ages worldwide.

    (more…)

  • Observe Collective Interview #5: Fadi Boukaram

    Observe Collective Interview #5: Fadi Boukaram

    Click to read more

    OBSERVE is an international photography collective focused primarily on the practice of candid street photography. This week’s feature is Fadi Boukaram, a street photographer currently based in Broumana, Lebanon.

    (more…)

  • Observe Collective Interview #4: David Horton

    Observe Collective Interview #4: David Horton

    Click to read more

    Eric’s Note: ​OBSERVE is an international photography collective focused primarily on the practice of candid street photography. This week’s feature is David Horton from Boston, Massachusetts. 

    David Horton: I’m a graphic designer by day, street photographer by accident. After art directing and observing some of the finest commercial photographers in the business for over a decade, I made the conscious decision to get behind the camera instead of the photographer. I discovered street photography. I am primarily interested in making emotional connections. I’m interested in telling stories and creating a narrative. I’m interested in capturing the mystery—the mystery of life and the beauty of people moving through the world.

    (more…)

  • Observe Collective Interview #3: Danielle Houghton

    Observe Collective Interview #3: Danielle Houghton

    Click to read more

    Eric’s Note: ​OBSERVE is a new international photography collective focused primarily on the practice of candid street photography. I have sent questionnaires to all 13 of the members, and will feature their responses and images on the blog for the next upcoming weeks. This week’s feature is Danielle Houghton, based in Dublin, Ireland.

    Danielle: Picking up a camera in my teens I found myself automatically taking pictures of strangers without really knowing why. After a long break, I now find myself doing the same but this time with a name and understanding of my folly. I like to appreciate the odd in the mundane and find that suburban life can be nicely quirky. In Dublin I often shoot by the coast, in parks or even from the car window. While visually pleasing settings are very important to me the real beauty of photography stems from the uniqueness of people and those moments that cannot be repeated.

    (more…)

  • Observe Collective Interview #2: Chris Farling

    Observe Collective Interview #2: Chris Farling

    Click to read more

    Eric’s Note: ​OBSERVE is a new international photography collective focused primarily on the practice of candid street photography. I have sent questionnaires to all 14 of the members, and will feature their responses and images on the blog for the next upcoming weeks.  

    Chris Farling: To me, street photography has more in common with other improvisational arts than it does with other types of photography. As such, it is as much about enjoying the process and working at it as it is about the final results, with near-misses sometimes being more interesting than their more polished counterparts. Ultimately, I see street photography—despite its occasional rude manners—as an honest way of actively living in the world.

    (more…)

  • Observe Collective Interview #1: Antonis Damolis

    Observe Collective Interview #1: Antonis Damolis

     Click to read more

    ​OBSERVE is a new international photography collective focused primarily on the practice of candid street photography. I have sent questionnaires to all 14 of the members, and will feature their responses and images on the blog for the next upcoming weeks. 

    Antonis Damolis: I was born in Crete, Greece, in 1980. I’m an orthodontist and I discovered photography in 2010 when I bought my first DSLR. I started shooting in the street because it was an accessible place. I’m amazed by the way my camera sees the world.

    (more…)

  • Italian Street Photography at the Forefront: An Interview with SPontanea collective (Italian Translation Available)

    Italian Street Photography at the Forefront: An Interview with SPontanea collective (Italian Translation Available)

     

    Photo by Carmelo Eramo
    Photo by Carmelo Eramo

    SPonatanea is a very active and organized street photography collective based out of Italy. In the interview, I talked to them about their formation, activities, and upcoming projects. This interview also has a full italian translation at the bottom! Check it out. (All photos are the respective ownership of the SPOontanea collective members.)

    A.g.: What is the motivation behind SPontanea? How was it formed?

    SPontanea: SPontanea was born in 2013. The idea was to found an Italian collective dedicated to Street Photography, capable of facing on equal terms the other existing international realities, hoping to become over time a quality reference point in Italy. The founding members were chosen on the basis of a reciprocal respect and appreciation – we already knew each other from the web – in order to bring together a wide range of styles and approaches, representing a solidly structured and well defined Italian photographic vision on Street Photography.

    (more…)

  • Video Interview with Hector Isaac from the Strata Collective

    Video Interview with Hector Isaac from the Strata Collective

    Earlier this year I met up with Hector Isaac, a street photographer originally from Cuba who moved and started shooting street photography in Miami, and now is based in LA. He is a part of the Strata collective.

    In the video Interview I talk with him about his start in street photography, about the Miami Street Photography Festival, and his thoughts about working in color!

    Hector recommends street photographers to check out the Observe Collective, and especially the work of Ilya Shtutsa (krysolove).

    Follow Hector

  • 22 Interview Questions with the “Street-Photographers” Collective

    22 Interview Questions with the “Street-Photographers” Collective

    Click to read more

    Eric’s Note: I am excited to share this interview with the “Street-photographers” collective. I sent them 22 interview questions, and the members shared their personal answers opinions below. See their superb images and insights on street photography below!

    (more…)

  • The Best Street Photographers to Follow

    The Best Street Photographers to Follow

    A list of my personal favorite street photographers, and photographers I recommend you to follow (in no particular order, just the list of photographers who pop into my head):

    (more…)

  • 105 Lessons I’ve Learned About Street Photography

    105 Lessons I’ve Learned About Street Photography

    Dear friend,

    To advertise my new book: “Ultimate Beginner’s Guide to Mastering Street Photography“, here is a list of practical and philosophical tips on street photography, which I hope can empower you to take your street photography to the next level:

    (more…)

  • Peter Zhang on Documenting the Changing Face of SOMA

    Peter Zhang / SOMA, 2016
    Peter Zhang / SOMA, 2016

    I met Peter Zhang at one of my SF street photography workshops, and was blown away by his up-close street photos (shot at 28mm with a Ricoh GR) of the changing neighborhood of SoMa (South of Mission in San Francisco). Check out how he got started, as well as his personal and vivid color street photographs:

    (more…)

  • Is Photography Being Eclipsed by New Media?

    Photography once reigned as the defining visual medium, but emerging trends suggest its role is changing.  On one hand, technological shifts – especially generative AI – have begun to replace many traditional photo tasks.  On the other, immersive technologies (AR/VR/3D) and cultural tastes (favoring “realness” and immediacy) are drawing attention away from static images.  Economically, the ubiquity of cameras and photo-overload have commodified photography, driving down prices and opportunities.  Critics even label much modern photography as formulaic.  Taken together, these factors lead some to argue that photography is being diminished or redefined, not necessarily “the future” of visual storytelling.  We examine these arguments – and then contrast them with defenses of photography’s enduring value – with examples and expert observations.

    Generative AI: The Rise of “Synthetic” Images

    A revolution in AI-driven image synthesis has dramatically altered the photography landscape.  Today’s tools (DALL·E, Midjourney, Stable Diffusion, etc.) can produce photorealistic images on demand without a camera.  Entire industry segments are feeling the impact.  For instance, corporate headshots and portraits – once steady income for photographers – are being undercut by AI services that “produce professional-looking portraits from minimal samples” at a fraction of the cost .  Where a photographer might charge $100–$200 per headshot (plus overhead), an AI subscription can generate hundreds of consistent-looking portraits for $29–$49 each .  Likewise, product and catalog photography is migrating to digital renderings.  Automated studios now allow a company to “deposit a product” and instantly generate perfect images against any backdrop in minutes  .  E-commerce firms report slashed costs and far faster turnaround by using CGI instead of real photos.  Even stock photography – once a semi-passive income source – is said to be “finished, completely… definitively finished” , because a designer can now type a phrase (“people in a modern office celebrating”) into an AI model and get dozens of unique, royalty-free images in seconds  .  As one analyst bluntly states, stock photographers who built passive income portfolios are “now competing against infinite free alternatives” .

    In short, many routine photographic tasks are being automated.  As Fstoppers writer Alex Cooke observes, “whole segments of the profession have quietly vanished through automation” .  Entry-level photo jobs like basic retouching, headshots, and generic catalog shoots are “on finite time” unless practitioners pivot  .  AI’s cost-efficiency means clients often prefer “good enough” synthetic images over expensive photoshoots .  Even complex scenes that used to need location crews can be AI-generated, removing the need for models, crews or studios .  The bottom line is stark: many photographers find that “photography as we’ve known it will be largely diminished” unless they adapt .

    Immersive Media: AR/VR and 3D Experiences

    Beyond AI, immersive visual technologies are changing what we expect from imagery.  Augmented Reality (AR), Virtual Reality (VR), and real-time 3D “walkthroughs” offer experiences that static photos cannot.  In VR, users explore fully rendered environments; in AR, digital objects blend with the real world .  This shift means narratives can be interactive and multi-sensory, not just flat snapshots.  For example, architectural walkthroughs or product demos now often use 3D renderings and VR tours so viewers can “move around” a scene.  As one UX design resource notes, immersive media “engages multiple senses” and lets users “alter the course of a narrative” in ways that traditional photos cannot .

    This trend redefines storytelling.  For instance, photojournalists and educators experiment with 360° and VR content to create a sense of presence – making the viewer feel “on the ground” at events – that a single photo cannot convey .  In commercial design and real estate, interactive 3D tours and AR apps are increasingly preferred over static gallery photos.  A careers blog observes that “we’re moving beyond the flat image,” as drones, 360° cameras, and AR/VR “allow for interactive visuals” that traditional photography can’t match .  In the gaming world, “virtual photography” (taking in-game screenshots) has become a recognized practice, further blurring lines between photography and digital rendering .  Taken together, these immersive formats suggest a future where images are part of dynamic experiences, not standalone artifacts.

    Cultural Shifts: Authenticity, Presence, and Immediacy

    Meanwhile, cultural attitudes toward images have evolved.  Many viewers now value authenticity and immediacy over polished perfection.  The rise of platforms like TikTok and BeReal highlights this.  Gen Z in particular is said to be “chasing something different: authenticity” .  After witnessing heavily filtered content, younger users welcome candid, “unfiltered” posts that look real, even if technically imperfect.  The BeReal app (posting raw simultaneous front/back camera shots once a day) exemplifies a backlash against overly staged photos .

    This quest for “realness” undermines the allure of idealized photography.  If authenticity is king, AI-generated “too perfect” images may feel hollow.  Scholars note that the traditional indexical bond between a photograph and reality is weakening.  In the digital age, the “givenness” or presence that a camera image once guaranteed is no longer assumed .  In practice, people now ask: can we trust what’s in a photo?  Deepfakes and hyper-realistic CGI make even ordinary scenes suspect.  Thus, a cultural emphasis on presence and trust favors either raw capture (like live video or VR) or the photographer’s personal viewpoint over generic images.

    At the same time, social media saturation has changed how people consume photography.  As one critic notes, the “number of images disseminated to the world has absolutely exploded” with smartphones and Instagram .  This glut has shifted priorities.  Users (and even photographers) often focus on quantity and viral impact: “likes and follower counts reign supreme”, encouraging one-size-fits-all “Instagrammable” shots .  The result is a kind of homogenization – the same backlit beach shot or teal-and-orange filter recycled endlessly – which some argue diminishes creativity .  In this landscape, a hand-crafted photo must compete with a torrent of simpler images.  Many observers lament that smartphone-era culture “commodifies the craft and diminishes the artistry” of photography .

    Economic Pressures: Commodification and Oversupply

    Economically, photography today faces fierce pressure.  The craft has been commodified: billions of snapshots flood the internet, and many photographers now compete in a race to the bottom on price.  As Fstoppers writes, “photographers working years to develop a sound style” suddenly feel forced to mimic trending aesthetics just to get noticed .  Client expectations have changed – many assume they can get adequate images for free or very cheap.  The influx of amateur smartphone shooters creates a surplus of available photos and drives down fees.  This has led to an expectation that basic photography (portraits, product shots, event photos, etc.) should be inexpensive or on-demand.

    Surveys reflect this squeeze.  For example, Zenfolio’s 2025 industry report found that “seven in ten photographers reported increased business costs, while product prices did not follow suit, reducing profits.” .  Photographers also report having to diversify wildly (smartphone shooting, drone work, video) just to survive  .  Even as the number of self-employed photographers has crept up, many are working harder for less return.  A glut of hobbyists willing to work at cut-rate rates means professionals often battle “expectations for free or heavily discounted work,” further eroding livelihoods .

    AI compounds these economics by threatening entire revenue streams.  As one expert notes, if a photographer’s work can be described in a formula (e.g. “shoot corporate team portraits in the office”), then AI can undercut it with mass production and lower cost  .  In fact, a recent Fstoppers analysis warns that 80% of income coming from basic e-commerce product photos or stock imagery is “on finite time” – photographers should already be planning their exit strategy  .  Supply-and-demand economics thus create a shrinking niche for conventional photography: the more generic and high-volume the work, the more it is squeezed out by cheaper alternatives.

    Artistic Critiques: Are Photos Formulaic or Derivative?

    Some critics go further, arguing that much contemporary photography is artistically stale.  Trend-chasing and filter apps mean that many images follow pre-set recipes (“portraits with perfect backlighting, couples holding hands walking away from the camera,” etc.), and true innovation can seem rare.  In social feeds, repetitiveness becomes apparent: a commentator notes that chasing popularity on Instagram often leads to “reinforcing the popularity of that trend,” with snap-your-fingers presets replacing creative exploration .  The ease of digital tools also means that technical “perfection” (noise-free, sharp, saturated) is no longer special.

    Moreover, philosophers argue that digital and AI processes have eroded the unique status of the photograph as “an indexical imprint of reality.”  In the past, a photograph’s power lay partly in reflecting actual light from a real scene.  But as one theorist notes, today the “reality of photography is no longer dependent on the alleged indexicality” of camera capture – instead photography has become a continual “actualization of the virtual” .  In simpler terms, in an era of CGI and AI, a “photograph” can be entirely computer-generated and still look real, so the classical idea of the photo as evidence of reality is weakened.  This philosophical shift feeds artistic critique: if images are so easily generated, what makes a real photo special?  Critics ask whether photography has lost some of its authenticity and edge, becoming just one repeating style among many digital image types.

    Shifting Industries and Creative Movements

    Several industries illustrate the move away from pure photography.  Fashion advertising is a cautionary example: AI-generated models and outfits now threaten to replace whole photoshoots.  One analysis explains that basic catalog images can be completely AI-generated at costs 25–50× cheaper than a traditional shoot  .  In such cases, “the entire production ecosystem collapses” – no need for models, makeup artists, or crews .  Similarly, architecture and real estate have seen a surge in 3D renderings and virtual tours.  Ikea famously replaced over 75% of its catalog photos with CGI scenes years ago , a shift driven by cost and flexibility.  And professional photographers report seeing clients opt for AR/VR “experiences” (like virtual home tours or interactive brand demonstrations) instead of static photo albums.

    Even creative movements signal a turn from traditional photography.  For example, some commercial designers and artists are embracing “virtual photography” – capturing images entirely within video games or simulations – as a new art form .  In social media, the aesthetic of “analogue vs digital” sometimes valorizes film and point-and-shoot snaps as a rebellion against the slick digital norm .  Collectively, these shifts suggest that many visual storytellers are exploring beyond the camera.

    Nonetheless, defenses of photography’s relevance persist.  Advocates point out that real, unrepeatable moments still demand real cameras.  Weddings, family gatherings, athletic feats, wildlife encounters and social movements are examples where a human photographer’s presence captures nuances an algorithm cannot replicate .  As one photographer argues, even if AI could produce a corporate portrait, people who “truly loved taking headshots” would keep doing it out of passion .  In architecture, professionals note that renderings “can’t be infused with a true sense of place”; no digital mock-up can replace the documentary power of photographing an actual building on site .  In journalism and documentary work, the need for verifiable proof (“truth, verification, and witnessing actual events” ) keeps real photography vital.

    Surveys also show resilience.  The 2025 Zenfolio report finds many photographers embracing new technology rather than abandoning the craft.  Over half of pros now use AI tools in post-production (e.g. for sky selection or background removal), not to replace their art but to speed up routine edits .  Likewise, hybrid workflows (mixing real photos with 3D elements) are growing.  Full-time photographic careers have even edged upward in recent years , suggesting the medium adapts rather than vanishes.  The photographers who “survive” the upheaval, experts predict, will be those who carve out niches where human creativity, judgment, and presence still matter   – for example, high-end editorial portraiture, documentary series, or bespoke fine art.  In short, defenders say the medium is not dead but evolving: photography now coexists with VR tours, CGI, and AI, finding its place in a richer multimedia landscape.

    Conclusion

    In summary, numerous arguments suggest photography’s centrality is being challenged.  Generative AI is automating many photo tasks  .  Immersive media offer alternative ways to communicate visually  .  Culturally, audiences often prize authenticity and immediacy over polished images  .  Economically, ubiquity of imaging and expectations of free content have commodified the field  .  Even the art of photography is criticized as formulaic in today’s environment.  Yet many still champion photography’s unique strengths – its ability to document reality, capture emotion, and preserve memory.  As one commentator puts it, the question may no longer be if AI and new media will transform photography, but whether photographers will adapt to remain relevant  .  The debate continues, but for now photography seems less like a dying art and more like a medium at a crossroads – constantly being redefined by the very technologies and cultures that challenge it.

    Sources: Authoritative commentary and industry reports were cited throughout        . These include recent analyses from professional photographers and scholars on AI, AR/VR, social media trends, and market surveys relevant to the subject. Each source is linked in context for verification.

  • Strategic Plan for the United States to Accumulate 4 Million Bitcoin

    Executive Summary

    The United States is embarking on a bold, 15-year strategic initiative to accumulate 4 million Bitcoin (BTC) as a national asset. This visionary plan spans short-term (1–3 years) foundational actions, mid-term (4–7 years) expansion, and long-term (8–15 years) consolidation. It mobilizes all sectors – federal and state governments, private corporations, financial institutions, the tech industry, and individual citizens – in a coordinated effort. The strategy is funded through innovative, budget-neutral mechanisms (leveraging existing reserves, redirected budgets, public-private investment, and blockchain-related revenues) and emphasizes ethical, legal acquisition methods (mining, market investment, ETFs, voluntary pooling, and international partnerships). Strategic objectives include enhancing economic resilience, diversifying national reserves, cementing blockchain technology leadership, and strengthening national security. This plan anticipates and addresses challenges such as market impact, global competition, regulatory frameworks, and environmental sustainability. The following report details a roadmap for this initiative, with clear milestones, roles for each stakeholder, and an inspirational vision of American leadership in the digital asset era.

    Introduction: A New Frontier in National Economic Strategy

    Bitcoin, often dubbed “digital gold,” has matured from a niche experiment into a credible strategic asset on the global stage . With its permanently capped supply of 21 million BTC, Bitcoin’s scarcity and security present a unique opportunity for nations that move early to incorporate it into their reserves . Just as the U.S. historically accumulated gold and foreign currency reserves, the time has come to thoughtfully manage national ownership of digital assets for prosperity .

    Other countries and forward-looking leaders have begun to recognize Bitcoin’s potential. The United States itself holds a significant amount of Bitcoin from forfeitures, but until recently had no comprehensive strategy to leverage these holdings . A turning point came with high-level proposals and actions in 2024–2025, including calls for a U.S. Strategic Bitcoin Reserve and legislation to acquire substantial BTC for the Treasury . These moves signaled that Bitcoin is entering the halls of U.S. fiscal policy as a long-term store of value and hedge against inflation .

    Why 4 million Bitcoin? This ambitious target – roughly 20% of Bitcoin’s eventual supply – would position America as the world’s largest Bitcoin holder, securing a dominant stake in the digital asset that could shape the future of finance. Holding such a reserve over decades is envisioned to strengthen the dollar’s resilience, hedge against economic volatility, and even help address the national debt by capitalizing on Bitcoin’s historical growth trajectory . While bold, this goal is in line with America’s tradition of thinking big and leading in new frontiers, from the space race to the internet revolution.

    Core Values and Principles: This strategy aligns with U.S. values of innovation, free enterprise, and individual liberty. It relies on voluntary, market-driven participation rather than coercion – there will be no forced appropriation of private Bitcoin holdings. Instead, the government will incentivize and inspire collective action. Transparency, rule of law, and respect for property rights will be upheld at every step. By embracing Bitcoin within a legal and ethical framework, the U.S. will demonstrate how democratic societies can innovate responsibly in the blockchain era.

    The following sections lay out the strategic objectives guiding this plan, the stakeholders involved and their roles, a phased roadmap across short, mid, and long-term horizons, funding sources and mechanisms, and considerations to mitigate risks. This comprehensive approach ensures that by 15 years from now, the United States will have not only accumulated 4 million BTC, but also solidified its position as the global leader in the digital asset economy – fostering prosperity, security, and technological leadership for generations to come.

    Strategic Objectives

    1. Economic Resilience and Inflation Hedge

    Build a more resilient economy by holding Bitcoin as a hedge against inflation and macroeconomic uncertainty. Bitcoin’s provable scarcity makes it akin to a digital commodity that cannot be inflated at will . By allocating a portion of national reserves to BTC, the U.S. can protect wealth against currency debasement and reduce reliance on any single foreign creditor or currency. Over time, Bitcoin’s long-term appreciation (historically averaging ~55% annually ) offers the potential to strengthen the national balance sheet and even help pay down public debt as its value grows . This financial buffer would enhance stability during economic downturns or crises, providing a store of value that is uncorrelated to traditional markets and immune to foreign political influence .

    2. Digital Reserve Diversification

    Complement traditional reserves (such as gold and foreign currencies) with digital reserves. Establishing a Bitcoin reserve diversifies the nation’s holdings into a 21st-century asset class . Just as gold bolsters confidence in a country’s financial footing, Bitcoin – with its decentralized, transparent network – can serve as a trust anchor in an increasingly digital global economy. A U.S. Strategic Bitcoin Reserve would be a portfolio diversifier and innovation signal , reducing dependence on dollar-centric systems while positioning the nation for a future where digital assets play a key role in global finance . This diversification is pragmatic: it hedges against potential weakness in other reserves and embraces the evolving monetary landscape.

    3. Technological Leadership and Innovation

    Assert American leadership in blockchain technology and the emerging digital economy. A national effort to accumulate Bitcoin goes hand-in-hand with promoting innovation in the underlying technologies – from cybersecurity and cryptography to financial technology. By actively engaging with Bitcoin, the U.S. signals that it is the best place to develop and deploy blockchain innovations, attracting talent and investment. Strategic Bitcoin accumulation is a “statement of alignment with a digitally native economic future,” providing a blueprint that encourages private sector adoption and innovation . This objective includes fostering a robust domestic cryptocurrency industry, supporting research in energy-efficient mining and scalability, and setting global standards for blockchain use. Ultimately, it’s about ensuring the next generation of tech companies and protocols are made in America, securing our role as the global hub of blockchain development.

    4. National Security and Geopolitical Influence

    Enhance national security by preventing strategic adversaries from dominating the crypto realm and by leveraging Bitcoin as a geopolitical asset. In the 21st century, economic security is national security. If Bitcoin and other digital assets become integral to the world financial system, the U.S. must not fall behind. A substantial BTC reserve gives America greater influence over the future of decentralized finance, much as our gold reserves bolstered our clout in the 20th century. It also acts as a neutral reserve asset that could reinforce alliances (for example, through coordinated accumulation or exchange agreements with allies) and provide options in sanction regimes or international aid (using BTC for humanitarian payments where traditional systems fail). By leading in Bitcoin ownership, the U.S. can help set global norms (for transparency, anti-money-laundering, cyber defense) and ensure that open societies, not authoritarian regimes, shape the rules of digital finance. As Senator Cynthia Lummis noted, Bitcoin’s strategic importance for the country is such that some call it “manifest destiny for the United States” – a new frontier to secure for the nation’s freedom and prosperity.

    These objectives are interlocking and mutually reinforcing. Economic strength supports security; technological leadership fuels economic growth; reserve diversification aids resilience; and all enhance America’s standing in the world. With the “why” established, we now turn to the “how” – the stakeholders and strategies that will deliver on these objectives.

    Key Stakeholders and Their Roles

    Achieving a goal as ambitious as accumulating 4 million BTC requires a “whole-of-America” approach, engaging public and private sectors as well as individual citizens. Each stakeholder group has unique strengths to contribute:

    StakeholderRole in the National Bitcoin Strategy
    Federal GovernmentLeadership & Coordination: Set national strategy and policy (e.g., through executive actions and legislation). Establish the Strategic Bitcoin Reserve as a custodian for government-held BTC . Redirect existing assets (forfeited BTC, gold reserves, etc.) into accumulation . Ensure regulatory clarity to foster innovation and protect investors. Fund R&D in energy-efficient mining and blockchain security. Integrate Bitcoin into economic planning (Treasury, Federal Reserve cooperation) as a long-term reserve asset.
    State GovernmentsLocal Innovation & Investment: Pilot state-level Bitcoin reserves and crypto-friendly policies. For example, Texas’s new law created a state Bitcoin reserve fund for long-term investment . Other states like Arizona and New Hampshire have also authorized state crypto reserves . States can leverage local resources – inexpensive energy for mining, tech hubs for startups – to support the national goal. They may also accept tax payments in crypto or create sandbox regulations to attract blockchain businesses. Healthy competition among states will drive creative approaches, all contributing to the national accumulation indirectly.
    Private CorporationsTreasury Investment & Innovation: Companies are encouraged to hold Bitcoin in corporate treasuries as a hedge and growth asset, following pioneers like MicroStrategy and Tesla. Normalization of Bitcoin as a corporate asset will significantly boost national holdings . Industry consortia might form to share best practices for corporate Bitcoin custody and investment. Energy firms can partner with miners to utilize excess power, while tech firms develop new Bitcoin applications (payments, security, financial services) that grow the ecosystem. Corporate America’s financial might and innovative spirit are crucial for scaling Bitcoin accumulation.
    Financial InstitutionsInfrastructure & Capital Mobilization: Banks, asset managers, and financial firms integrate Bitcoin into the mainstream financial system. This includes offering exchange-traded funds (ETFs) and other regulated investment vehicles that make it easy for pensions, endowments, and individuals to invest . By providing custody, insurance, and compliance frameworks, institutions enable large-scale investment in BTC with confidence. Some institutions may allocate a portion of their own reserves to Bitcoin, and pension funds or insurance companies could follow suit under prudent guidelines, adding enormous buying power to the national effort.
    Tech SectorR&D and Sustainability: The tech community – from Silicon Valley giants to startups – drives innovation to support this plan. This means developing better blockchain infrastructure (e.g., scaling solutions like Lightning Network), improving wallet security and usability, and pioneering green mining technologies. U.S. chipmakers and data center firms can lead in designing next-gen ASIC miners and energy-efficient computing for Bitcoin. Renewable energy and grid companies can collaborate with tech firms to ensure mining is sustainable and even beneficial to grid stability (for instance, miners buying surplus renewable power to boost profitability of green energy projects ). The tech sector’s role is to make Bitcoin technology faster, safer, and more eco-friendly, aligning digital progress with American environmental values.
    Individual CitizensGrassroots Adoption & Support: Americans at large play perhaps the most important role – by learning about and responsibly using Bitcoin, they democratize the ownership of this asset. Citizens are encouraged to save and invest in Bitcoin as part of their personal finance (much like buying savings bonds or contributing to retirement accounts). Grassroots initiatives could include community Bitcoin education programs, voluntary pooling or crowdfunding of BTC for local development, and participating in public-private investment opportunities. When millions of Americans hold even small amounts of BTC, it not only boosts the national total, but also builds a constituency that understands and values digital assets. Public enthusiasm and patriotic pride in America’s crypto leadership will be key to sustaining this long-term project.

    All these actors will coordinate under a shared vision. A National Digital Assets Task Force can be established to ensure communication and synergy between federal agencies, state governments, industry leaders, and community representatives. Regular summits and progress reports will keep everyone aligned. The message is clear: every American can be part of this endeavor, and everyone stands to benefit from the innovation, wealth creation, and security enhancements it will bring.

    Strategic Roadmap by Timeframe

    The journey to 4 million Bitcoin is mapped out in three phases – short-term, mid-term, and long-term – each with specific initiatives and milestones. This phased approach ensures steady progress while allowing assessment and course-correction at each stage. Importantly, actions are designed to minimize market disruption (accumulating gradually and via multiple avenues) and remain flexible to technological and economic developments.

    Short-Term (1–3 Years): Laying the Foundation

    Goals (1–3 years): Establish the legal, institutional, and infrastructural groundwork for large-scale Bitcoin accumulation. Kickstart the reserve with existing assets, enact supportive policies, and galvanize private sector involvement – all while raising public awareness. Early moves are budget-neutral or low-cost, relying on reallocated resources and voluntary participation to avoid burdening taxpayers.

    • Federal Actions: The federal government leads with bold but careful first steps. A Presidential Executive Order (or action) formally establishes a Strategic Bitcoin Reserve under the U.S. Treasury , consolidating all BTC the government already holds (e.g. from law enforcement seizures). This reserve is placed under strong custodial controls and transparency requirements, so the public knows these assets are held for the nation’s benefit . Crucially, policy directs that these holdings not be sold but retained long-term as strategic assets .
      Alongside, Congress pushes forward legislation like the proposed BITCOIN Act (Boosting Innovation, Technology, and Competitiveness through Optimized Investment Nationwide) . This bill authorizes the Treasury to acquire Bitcoin over coming years using funding sources that require no new taxes – for example, Federal Reserve dividends/remittances and revalued gold reserves . In practical terms, the Treasury can revalue the U.S. gold stock (updating outdated book values) and capture the gain to purchase Bitcoin without printing new money . Similarly, any annual profits remitted by the Federal Reserve (which normally go to general funds) could be earmarked for Bitcoin acquisition. These measures keep the strategy budget-neutral, as Senator Lummis and others have emphasized .
      Regulatory agencies are mobilized to clear roadblocks: The SEC and CFTC coordinate to approve robust Bitcoin ETF products and clarify that digital assets like Bitcoin are commodities, not securities – removing ambiguity that hindered institutional investment. Banking regulators provide guidance so banks can custody crypto and count it in certain reserve calculations, under sensible risk management rules. The message from Washington is one of embrace and enable: encouraging innovation while policing fraud and illicit use. The short-term also involves the Treasury and Commerce Department studying legal frameworks for digital asset management and storage , ensuring that as the reserve grows, it’s managed prudently and securely.
    • State Government Initiatives: On the state level, the pioneering actions of places like Texas become a model. Texas established a Bitcoin Reserve Fund with an initial $10 million allocation in 2025 – a largely symbolic but important first step. In the next 1–3 years, we expect several states to launch their own pilot crypto reserve programs, allocating a small percentage of budget surplus or rainy-day funds into Bitcoin. States such as Wyoming (already a blockchain trailblazer), Florida, or others rich in energy resources might join Texas, Arizona, and New Hampshire in this club of “Crypto-Forward States” .
      Additionally, states encourage Bitcoin mining and blockchain businesses to set up shop. For example, providing tax incentives or cheap leases for mining farms in areas with energy abundance (wind in the Midwest, natural gas in Texas and Pennsylvania, hydro in the Northwest). Some states may experiment with accepting Bitcoin for state services or taxes, immediately converting to BTC reserves or to dollars as needed. The aim is to integrate Bitcoin gradually into state financial operations. Education initiatives at state universities (funded by grants) will focus on blockchain tech, ensuring a skilled workforce. By the end of year 3, we envision a nationwide network of pro-blockchain states, all contributing a patchwork of BTC holdings (perhaps a few thousand BTC collectively) and, more importantly, creating an environment where Bitcoin-related activities flourish.
    • Private Sector (Corporations and Financial Institutions): In the foundational stage, the government uses moral suasion and incentives to get the private sector on board. High-profile summits are held with Fortune 500 CEOs, urging them to consider holding a small allocation of their corporate treasury in Bitcoin as a long-term reserve asset (just as companies hold cash or gold). Success stories like MicroStrategy – which converted a large portion of its corporate treasury into Bitcoin – are highlighted to illustrate potential gains and strategic rationale . To support this, accounting standards are updated (the Financial Accounting Standards Board can move to allow fair-value accounting for crypto assets, so companies aren’t penalized on their balance sheets for holding BTC). The federal government could also offer tax breaks on capital gains for corporations that hold Bitcoin for a minimum period (e.g., 5+ years), reinforcing a long-term mindset and reducing fears of short-term volatility.
      Major financial institutions, for their part, roll out the red carpet for Bitcoin investment. By year 1 or 2, we anticipate at least one spot Bitcoin ETF approved in the U.S., allowing retail and institutional investors to buy BTC conveniently in brokerage accounts . Fidelity, BlackRock, and other asset managers, who have already signaled interest in Bitcoin funds, will aggressively market these as part of diversified portfolios. Banks like JPMorgan and Bank of America, which have already dipped into crypto services, expand offerings: custody solutions for high-net-worth individuals, Bitcoin savings accounts, and Bitcoin-backed loans for businesses. The presence of regulated, insured custodians addresses security concerns and makes large institutions comfortable to invest.
      In parallel, public-private investment vehicles are created. For example, a “U.S. Digital Reserve Fund” could be launched where government seed funding (say $1 billion) is matched by private investment to purchase Bitcoin and hold it for the long term. Such a fund could operate like a sovereign wealth fund for digital assets, managed by professionals with oversight from both government and private investors – aligning interests and sharing expertise. By the end of the short-term phase, the private sector’s Bitcoin holdings (corporate treasuries, ETFs on behalf of clients, etc.) should be on a clear uptrend, adding tens of thousands of BTC into American hands.
    • Tech Sector and Mining: The first 3 years focus on ramping up Bitcoin mining capacity in the U.S. as a direct acquisition mechanism. With roughly 900 new BTC mined per day globally (pre-2024 halving, then ~450/day after 2024), mining is a source of “fresh” bitcoins that does not push up market price in the way large open-market buys would. The United States is already a global leader in mining – North America (led by the U.S.) accounts for a large share of the global mining industry – thanks to abundant land, energy and a stable rule of law. This advantage will be expanded. The Department of Energy (DOE) and private energy companies collaborate to launch renewable-powered mining farms. We will see more projects like retired coal plants converted to solar or natural gas facilities powering mining rigs, with agreements that miners can shut off during peak grid demand (to stabilize the grid) and run during off-peak times . Such symbiosis can even incentivize more renewable energy projects by providing a buyer for excess power that would otherwise be wasted .
      Innovation in mining tech is spurred by grants and competitions. For instance, the government might fund R&D for advanced ASIC chips and cooling systems, possibly through DARPA or the National Science Foundation, emphasizing energy efficiency and low-carbon footprint. American tech giants could enter the mining hardware space – for example, Intel announced energy-efficient mining chips in 2022; further advancements could be commercialized at scale. The goal is twofold: increase the U.S. share of global hash power (ensuring a steady inflow of mined BTC to U.S. entities) and do so sustainably. By year 3, we aim for the majority of U.S. mining to be from sustainable sources or waste energy. A recent Cambridge study already found that over 52% of Bitcoin mining’s energy worldwide comes from sustainable sources (including 9.8% nuclear and 42.6% renewables) , a figure that has been rising rapidly. U.S. initiatives can push this even higher, making American Bitcoin some of the “greenest” Bitcoin – in line with our climate goals.
    • Individual Citizens: In the foundational phase, a major push is made to educate and involve the public. The government, together with nonprofit organizations and industry, will launch a “Digital Asset Literacy” campaign, akin to financial literacy programs. This will demystify Bitcoin, promote safe practices (like using reputable exchanges or wallets, understanding volatility), and highlight the long-term benefits of holding a small amount as savings. Inspiration and inclusion are key: Americans should feel they are part of a historic mission – much like buying war bonds in the 1940s or participating in Victory Gardens, but for the digital age.
      One idea is to introduce “Bitcoin Savings Bonds” or patriotic crypto bonds. While the U.S. Treasury cannot take citizens’ Bitcoin, it can offer bonds or Treasury certificates whose proceeds are explicitly used to buy BTC for the national reserve. These bonds would pay a modest interest and perhaps a bonus indexed to Bitcoin’s price over a number of years, giving citizens a safe, government-backed way to indirectly be part of Bitcoin’s growth. It’s a voluntary program: those who wish to support the initiative and invest in America’s future can participate with as little as, say, $50 – lowering the barrier for ordinary Americans. This not only funds reserve purchases but also broadens public buy-in.
      Additionally, policies might exempt small Bitcoin holdings from capital gains tax after a certain holding period (for example, no tax on gains for holdings under $1000 if held 5+ years), to encourage long-term saving in Bitcoin. Employers could be encouraged (but not required) to offer salary or 401(k) options in Bitcoin for employees who are interested, following the example of some city mayors who opted to take paychecks in BTC as a show of confidence . By the end of this phase, millions of Americans should have had exposure to Bitcoin, either directly or via ETFs/retirement accounts, firmly integrating Bitcoin into the fabric of American investment culture.

    Milestones for Phase 1:

    • Creation of the U.S. Strategic Bitcoin Reserve office and initial seeding with government-held BTC (targeting at least 50,000+ BTC from forfeitures and small market buys).
    • Passage of supportive legislation (e.g., BITCOIN Act) or inclusion of Bitcoin reserve funding in budget processes, ensuring no new taxes are levied for these efforts .
    • At least 5-10 states initiating state Bitcoin funds or mining projects, signaling broad state-level engagement .
    • Approval of a U.S. spot Bitcoin ETF and rollout of crypto custody by major banks, leading to an influx of institutional and retail investment (with a goal of adding hundreds of thousands of new U.S. Bitcoin investors).
    • Significant expansion of U.S. mining capacity with a focus on sustainable energy – aim for U.S. entities to consistently account for a large share of new BTC mined (with >50% sustainable energy mix for U.S. mining ).
    • Launch of at least one public-private Bitcoin investment fund and a patriotic savings bond program, raising public participation and funding for further BTC purchases.
    • National sentiment shift: by year 3, Bitcoin is increasingly seen not as a fringe speculation, but as a mainstream strategic asset – with government officials, CEOs, and news outlets discussing it in the context of national interest and future prosperity.

    With the foundation laid and early momentum achieved, the stage is set to accelerate into the mid-term phase.

    Mid-Term (4–7 Years): Scaling Up and Integration

    Goals (4–7 years): Rapidly scale the accumulation efforts while integrating Bitcoin more deeply into U.S. economic structures. In this phase, the aim is to go from hundreds of thousands of BTC to millions of BTC under American ownership. The federal government, having proven the concept and established trust in phase 1, can expand its holdings more aggressively (market conditions permitting), and the private sector’s involvement becomes self-sustaining. This phase will likely coincide with greater global attention – both cooperation and competition – which the U.S. must navigate wisely.

    • Federal Actions: By year 4 or 5, the U.S. Treasury – via the Strategic Bitcoin Reserve mechanism – begins systematic accumulation of Bitcoin. Depending on market liquidity, a target rate could be set (for example, acquiring 200,000 BTC per year for 5 years, as one proposal outlined ). These purchases will be executed with minimal market disruption: through OTC (over-the-counter) trades, strategic buys during market dips, and possibly through algorithmic “smoothing” that buys small amounts continuously to avoid spikes. The Treasury can also use Bitcoin price weakness to its advantage – similar to how the Strategic Petroleum Reserve buys oil when prices are low.
      Funding for these purchases continues to emphasize budget neutrality. By now, the earlier gold revaluation and Fed remittance strategies may have created a pool of dollars earmarked for Bitcoin (potentially tens of billions of dollars over several years). If Bitcoin’s price has risen, the Reserve’s existing holdings will have appreciated; leveraging that, the Treasury might issue Bitcoin-backed bonds or use the appreciated BTC as collateral to borrow funds for further purchase – effectively bootstrapping the reserve without new taxpayer funds. Additionally, savings from other budget areas could be redirected – for instance, if defense spending is streamlined by efficiencies or if there are leftover funds from winding down certain programs, those could be reallocated to the digital reserve as a forward-looking investment in national strength.
      By mid-term, it’s plausible that Bitcoin will be recognized as a formal reserve asset internationally, perhaps discussed in forums like the G20 or IMF (if not officially by central banks yet, at least as part of sovereign wealth strategies). The U.S. should lead in creating a cooperative environment: for example, coordinating with allies (Europe, Japan, others) on fair guidelines so that allied nations accumulating Bitcoin doesn’t turn into a zero-sum race but rather a collective strengthening (while still staying ahead of adversaries). Diplomatic channels might be used to share best practices for custody and to ensure no single hostile actor corners too much of the supply.
      Importantly, the Federal Reserve may start to acknowledge Bitcoin in its policy orbit. While the Fed might not add BTC to its own balance sheet in this period, it could work with the Treasury to treat the Strategic Bitcoin Reserve as a complementary reserve much like Special Drawing Rights (SDRs) or gold. The Fed can also study the financial stability implications of large Bitcoin reserves, ensuring any risks (like price volatility) are mitigated, perhaps by adjusting capital requirements if banks hold too much unhedged crypto, etc. The overarching federal stance in mid-term is one of normalization and integration: Bitcoin is now a fixture in government financial strategy, with regular reports to Congress on the reserve’s status and its role in the broader debt and reserve management.
    • State Governments: By years 4–7, what was initially symbolic state participation grows into substantive programs. States that saw success or positive publicity in phase 1 may increase their allocations – for instance, a state that put $5 million could raise it to $50+ million, especially if their initial investment has grown in value. Resource-rich states might embark on state-run mining enterprises: envision state public utilities or partnerships launching mining farms, where a portion of the BTC mined goes into state coffers to fund public services (education, infrastructure). This could be particularly appealing to states with struggling rural economies – mining operations can create jobs in areas with cheap land and power.
      Additionally, some states may begin to integrate Bitcoin into pension or investment funds in a prudent manner. For example, a large state pension fund might allocate a small percentage (~1-2%) of assets to Bitcoin or Bitcoin ETFs, recognizing the asset’s long-term appreciation potential and diversifying the retirement portfolio for teachers or state employees. This would significantly boost U.S. holdings (state pension funds collectively manage trillions of dollars, so even a tiny slice is huge). However, this would be done cautiously, likely after seeing a few more years of market maturation to satisfy fiduciary duties.
      On the legislative front, more states will pass crypto-friendly laws: establishing legal clarity for smart contracts, allowing corporations to hold crypto assets under state law, perhaps enabling state-chartered crypto banks (following Wyoming’s lead). By mid-term, we might even see a compact among pro-Bitcoin states – an “Interstate Blockchain Coalition” – to share strategies and maybe negotiate as a bloc for federal support or consistency in regulations. States will remain the “laboratories of democracy,” trying diverse approaches (e.g., one state might issue a Bitcoin-denominated municipal bond, another might give tax credits to crypto startups, etc.). These experiments all contribute to the national accumulation indirectly by fostering an ecosystem where more BTC flows into U.S. hands and stays here.
    • Private Corporations: The mid-term phase is when corporate adoption of Bitcoin could snowball. By year 5 or 6, if Bitcoin’s trajectory remains positive, holding a percentage of reserves in BTC might become a norm for forward-thinking companies. We might see a “Second Wave” of corporate BTC treasuries: beyond tech firms, mainstream companies in industries like retail, manufacturing, and pharmaceuticals taking the plunge. For example, an S&P 500 consumer goods company might put 2% of its $10 billion treasury into BTC as an inflation hedge – a conservative move individually, but across many firms this substantially raises national holdings.
      The federal government can encourage this with subtle measures: publishing guidelines for corporate officers on fiduciary considerations of digital assets, perhaps even suggesting that under certain conditions it is prudent to have diversified reserves (which could implicitly endorse some BTC exposure). The legal safe harbor might be provided so boards feel safe from shareholder lawsuits if they hold a small Bitcoin position responsibly. High-profile endorsements will help too – by this time, we may have prominent billionaire CEOs or investors (the likes of Elon Musk, Michael Saylor have already, but others could join) vocally supporting Bitcoin as a key asset. Their leadership can influence peers.
      In the tech sector, specifically, we expect deeper integration of Bitcoin into products and services. Major payment platforms and fintech apps will fully incorporate Bitcoin: think Paypal, CashApp, Visa/Mastercard networks all seamlessly handling BTC transactions. Apple, Google, or other giants might enable secure Bitcoin wallet features in phones or offer crypto rewards to customers – making the user experience frictionless. This drives individual adoption (increasing the count of BTC held by Americans) and signals corporate belief in Bitcoin’s value.
      Furthermore, entirely new business models will emerge. For example, as Bitcoin and Lightning Network usage grow, companies might earn BTC through microtransactions (content platforms, IoT devices paying each other in satoshis, etc.). U.S. startups at the forefront of “Web3” and decentralized finance might create services where Bitcoin is locked or collateralized, indirectly bringing more BTC under U.S. influence even if the protocols are global. The private sector’s creativity will be an engine in this phase – we can anticipate services that monetize small BTC holdings (like earning yield through decentralized lending) which could attract even more people to hold some BTC rather than letting it sit idle.
    • Financial Institutions: By the mid-term, Wall Street and the crypto world are fully intertwined. Multiple Bitcoin and crypto ETFs, including perhaps a government-endorsed one that directly contributes to national reserves, are in the market. Institutional custodians (like Fidelity Digital Assets, Coinbase Custody, etc.) by now could be holding and managing millions of BTC for clients worldwide, with a large share belonging to U.S. investors. The U.S. financial sector may even develop new instruments: for instance, Bitcoin-backed government bonds. One concept is that the Treasury could issue bonds that pay interest in Bitcoin or are redeemable in Bitcoin at maturity – effectively blending traditional finance with crypto. This would attract crypto-native capital to finance U.S. debt while increasing the Treasury’s BTC holdings.
      Another avenue: stablecoins and digital dollars. By this time, the U.S. might have a regulated stablecoin or Central Bank Digital Currency (CBDC). While separate from Bitcoin, a vibrant stablecoin ecosystem (especially one regulated under acts like the proposed GENIUS Act for stablecoins ) would complement Bitcoin by bringing more blockchain infrastructure under U.S. oversight. Banks could use stablecoins for settlement and hold Bitcoin as part of reserves to back some digital liabilities, in a modern version of the gold standard (except Bitcoin standard, perhaps informally). This interplay is complex, but the key is U.S. banks and financial firms treat Bitcoin as a legitimate asset class by mid-term – including offering Bitcoin-denominated accounts or loans to clients.
      We may also see U.S. financial institutions facilitating international Bitcoin flows: acting as intermediaries when other nations or large entities want to buy or sell Bitcoin. This not only earns fees for U.S. firms but ensures that big liquidity flows pass through U.S.-regulated channels, giving some visibility and influence. By providing deep, reliable markets, U.S. exchanges and banks could attract foreign holders to trade or even custody their BTC in the U.S. for safety – effectively increasing the share of global BTC under U.S. custodianship even if not all “owned” by Americans. This soft power through financial plumbing should not be underestimated.
    • Technology & Sustainability: In years 4–7, U.S. technological leadership in the Bitcoin space should be evident. The country fosters a robust ecosystem of Bitcoin software developers, hardware manufacturers, and energy technologists. Possibly, a U.S. company or consortium will implement large-scale Bitcoin layer-2 solutions (like an enhanced Lightning Network infrastructure) that make transacting in BTC instantaneous and nearly free, further boosting adoption. The government can assist by adopting Bitcoin or Lightning for certain uses, e.g., foreign aid disbursements via Bitcoin for transparency, or defense contractors being paid via blockchain for speed (as pilots).
      On mining, by this stage, U.S. mining operations may have expanded to cutting-edge realms. There could be mining farms co-located with solar farms in deserts, using batteries to smooth power; off-grid mining using flare gas mitigation (which not only yields BTC but reduces pollution from flaring – a win-win for environment ); and even experimental projects like ocean thermal mining or satellite-based mining if feasible (private space companies might look at using excess power in space or remote locations for mining – speculative, but not impossible in a 7-year timeframe). The environmental sustainability of Bitcoin will continue improving: the Cambridge study already noted the decline of coal to only ~8.9% of mining energy and rise of gas and renewables . By supporting these trends (perhaps implementing a carbon credit program for green miners, or a voluntary certification), the U.S. ensures that scaling up Bitcoin does not conflict with climate goals. In fact, Bitcoin can drive investment into renewables by providing a flexible demand source.
      Another tech aspect is security: as national holdings grow, securing them against theft or cyberattack is paramount. The mid-term will see advanced custody solutions, like multi-signature vaults distributed across different agencies or even geographies (to guard against a single point of failure). The U.S. might employ its cybersecurity experts (NSA, CISA) to audit and harden Bitcoin storage solutions. Additionally, planning for post-quantum cryptography should start now – ensuring that if quantum computers threaten Bitcoin’s cryptographic algorithms in the future, the U.S. will be ready to upgrade keys and support the network through any transitions. All this technical groundwork in mid-term guarantees that when the U.S. holds a massive Bitcoin trove, it remains secure and resilient.
    • Individual Citizens: By the midpoint of the plan, the presence of Bitcoin in everyday American life could be commonplace. Many citizens might hold a portion of their savings in BTC, either directly or through funds. The government’s open support and the normalization by institutions likely means public trust in Bitcoin has grown (contrast to early skepticism). We will continue public education, focusing now on inclusive prosperity – making sure all demographics have access to the tools and knowledge to benefit from Bitcoin’s rise, not just the early adopters or wealthy. Libraries, community colleges, and online programs could offer free courses on crypto basics, sponsored by public-private partnerships.
      There could also be an element of gamification or community drives: for example, a national challenge to get “Bitcoin in every home” – maybe through an airdrop or matching program for small purchases. While direct government giveaways of Bitcoin might not happen (to avoid picking winners and due to budget), partnerships with fintech companies could see promotional BTC given to new users of wallets, etc., subsidized by marketing budgets rather than taxes.
      Meanwhile, the concept of voluntary pooling for national goals could take shape in charitable or investment forms. Perhaps a nonprofit “America Bitcoin Trust” is created, where private donors can gift BTC to the nation (some patriotic millionaires might do so for legacy, just as people donate art to national museums). The donated BTC could be held in the Strategic Reserve with recognition given to donors. Alternatively, community Bitcoin funds might form – for instance, a city’s residents pooling funds to invest in Bitcoin and later use gains to improve local infrastructure. If such stories emerge (imagine a town that paid for a new park or school from Bitcoin investments), they will further cement Bitcoin’s positive image domestically.

    Milestones for Phase 2:

    • U.S. Strategic Bitcoin Reserve surpasses 1 million BTC (cumulatively) by around year 5–6 , thanks to systematic purchases and appreciation. This would be a symbolic achievement (around 5% of total supply, depending on how much is lost/unmined).
    • Passage of refined regulations: e.g., a clear tax regime for crypto, possibly lower capital gains tax rates for long-term Bitcoin holding to encourage retention, and updated securities laws to accommodate tokenized assets and Bitcoin products (while ensuring consumer protection).
    • At least half of U.S. states (25+) have enacted some form of crypto-friendly legislation or investment program. A few key states have significant Bitcoin reserves (hundreds or thousands of BTC) and/or run successful mining operations funding public projects.
    • Corporate adoption: Aim for 50+ major corporations holding Bitcoin on their balance sheets, and many more small and medium businesses accepting or using BTC in operations. The notion of Bitcoin as a standard reserve asset for companies becomes uncontroversial.
    • Financial integration: Bitcoin ETFs and funds could collectively hold millions of BTC on behalf of U.S. investors. U.S. exchanges remain dominant in trading volume. Possibly, a U.S.-based exchange-traded product might be among the world’s largest holders of Bitcoin.
    • Technological strides: U.S. share of global hash rate remains strong or grows (targeting perhaps >50% of global hash rate if environmentally sustainable, ensuring network influence). Sustainability metrics for U.S. mining improve (e.g., >70% renewable/nuclear energy usage in U.S. mining operations).
    • Global cooperation: The U.S. leads an international dialogue on crypto reserves. Ideally, a coalition of democracies holding Bitcoin emerges, counter-balancing any accumulations by less friendly actors. The U.S. could have formal or informal agreements with allies about mutual support in crypto markets during crises.
    • Public sentiment: By year 7, Bitcoin may be seen similarly to how the internet was by the early 2000s – an inevitable part of life and progress. Skepticism remains in some quarters, but broad understanding exists. Importantly, Americans feel ownership of this success: much like national pride in the moon landing, there’s pride that the U.S. embraced Bitcoin innovation and didn’t try to stifle it.

    At the end of the mid-term phase, the U.S. should be well on its way to the 4 million BTC goal, possibly around halfway there, and the foundations of a crypto-powered economy fully laid. The final phase will focus on securing the gains and leveraging them for enduring advantage.

    Long-Term (8–15 Years): Leadership, Preservation, and Prosperity

    Goals (8–15 years): By this phase, the United States envisions reaching the 4 million BTC target and solidifying the permanence of Bitcoin in its national asset mix. The focus shifts from aggressive accumulation to sustainable management and utilization of the reserve as needed for the national interest (without ever undermining Bitcoin’s ecosystem). America’s leadership in the blockchain space should be unquestioned by year 15, and the strategic Bitcoin reserve serves as a foundation for economic strength, much like gold did in previous eras. This period also involves adapting to any new developments (technological, geopolitical) that could affect our Bitcoin strategy.

    • Federal Actions: If the earlier phases are successful, by year 8–10 the U.S. Treasury will have accumulated on the order of 1–2+ million BTC or more (in its own reserves plus indirectly via funds), with additional millions held across the private sector and citizenry. Continuing the trajectory, the 4 million BTC mark could be hit by year 15 or earlier, depending on market availability and price (note: as Bitcoin’s price likely increases significantly over a decade, acquiring each additional BTC could become very expensive – which is why front-loading some accumulation in earlier phases is wise).
      At this stage, the government’s role is to prudently manage and protect the national Bitcoin trove. Policies will likely state that the strategic reserve is a permanent holding – selling is off the table except under extraordinary circumstances (analogous to how Fort Knox gold isn’t casually sold). This instills global confidence that the U.S. is treating Bitcoin as a long-term store of value. However, leveraging the reserve for national benefit is possible without selling: for instance, the government could borrow against its Bitcoin in a crisis rather than sell it, or use it in swap agreements with other nations in tightly controlled exchanges.
      The federal government also monitors and mitigates any systemic risks. By year 10+, Bitcoin could be a multi-trillion-dollar asset; a sharp swing in its value might have economy-wide impacts if everyone is exposed. The Fed, Treasury, and financial regulators would develop tools akin to today’s stress tests – ensuring banks or funds aren’t over-leveraged on Bitcoin, and the economy can weather volatility. If Bitcoin’s volatility dampens as it matures (which is possible if it becomes as broadly held as gold), it might be less of an issue . In any case, integrating Bitcoin into the fabric of macroeconomic policy will be an ongoing task. We might see, for example, the Fed including crypto market analysis in its reports, or even using blockchain data as economic indicators.
      The U.S. could also consider establishing a formal sovereign wealth fund for digital assets if not already done – an entity that manages part of the reserve and possibly invests in related technologies or yield opportunities in a controlled manner. For instance, a fraction of the national BTC could be deployed in ultra-secure lending platforms to earn interest, which is then turned back to public coffers. Any such activity would be cautious to avoid losing the principal, but given Bitcoin’s programmability, there could be novel ways to put holdings to work without selling them (like the concept of “Lightning channel pools” to earn transaction fees while helping the network – technical but feasible).
      Geopolitically, by year 15 Bitcoin might feature in international agreements. The U.S. may leverage its leadership to promote global stability in crypto markets. Perhaps treaties or accords ensure nations don’t use state-owned Bitcoin to manipulate markets maliciously. If adversaries have acquired BTC, the U.S. holding a larger amount acts as a deterrent to any attempts to destabilize the crypto economy (similar to nuclear deterrence logic, though economic). The U.S. can also use some Bitcoin diplomatically: for example, extending aid in BTC to allies under sanction (imagine bypassing certain financial blockades to provide relief, which Bitcoin can enable) – thereby using our reserve in support of freedom and humanitarian values.
    • State Governments: In the long run, states that invested early in Bitcoin might find themselves with significantly strengthened finances. For example, if a state’s $10 million pilot reserve became $100 million or more after a decade of Bitcoin’s growth, that’s a windfall that can bolster pension funds, infrastructure budgets, or allow tax relief. Success stories will prompt even late-adopting states to join in. By year 15, it’s conceivable that every state has some form of digital asset holdings or involvement, even if symbolic. State governments also integrate blockchain tech more fully: perhaps using Bitcoin or other blockchains for transparent budgeting and expenditures (citizens could monitor where funds go in real-time on a blockchain ledger). Some states might launch state-backed stablecoins or use tokens for local governance.
      Importantly, the interstate collaboration could lead to harmonized regulations – making it easy to use Bitcoin across state lines (no patchwork of contradictory laws). States will also continue to be incubators for technology: their universities producing blockchain experts and their local policies trialing innovations (like DAO-based governance for some public functions, or digital ID systems, etc.).
      States rich in natural resources could by now have integrated Bitcoin mining into their energy grid management fully. For instance, Texas might have formal programs where during energy surplus, state-sponsored miners soak up the excess, and during shortages, miners shut down to free capacity – creating an efficient market that also yields Bitcoin for the state. Environmental agencies at the state level will have established guidelines making sure mining operations meet emissions or land use standards, proving that the environment and Bitcoin growth can coexist.
    • Private Sector: In the long-term horizon, we anticipate Bitcoin and blockchain to be as common in business as internet technology is today. Corporations might not even discuss holding Bitcoin as something unusual – it could be just another line item in financial reports, akin to foreign currency holdings. Many companies could be partially or wholly transacting in crypto, especially if global trade starts seeing Bitcoin or stablecoins as common settlement media.
      The combined holdings of U.S. publicly traded companies could easily reach into the millions of BTC if trends continue. For perspective, companies like MicroStrategy acquired over 150,000 BTC by 2023; extrapolate to dozens of companies and the number soars. Moreover, new American millionaires and billionaires created by the crypto boom would invest in the U.S. economy, start new ventures, or endow philanthropies – a virtuous cycle of wealth creation feeding innovation and social benefit.
      The tech giants of 15 years from now might be those who mastered blockchain. It’s possible that by then, some of today’s big players (Google, Amazon, etc.) have deeply integrated blockchain for cloud services, or new giants have arisen specifically from crypto (maybe a future “Crypto Amazon” that operates a decentralized marketplace). The U.S. private sector’s agility and creativity ensure that the nation continuously capitalizes on blockchain innovations, from AI-integrated smart contracts to perhaps even biotech or supply chain systems running on blockchains. All of this reinforces the value of the national Bitcoin reserve by maintaining the relevance and utility of the Bitcoin ecosystem.
      Private financial institutions by year 15 would have gone through and refined at least one Bitcoin market cycle (since historically Bitcoin has booms and corrections). They will have risk management perfected for this asset class. Bitcoin might even be used in cross-border interbank settlements if it proves efficient (somewhat replacing a portion of what is done via SWIFT or forex exchanges, especially between allied countries who trust Bitcoin’s neutrality). U.S. banks could be the global clearinghouses for crypto transactions, extending America’s financial dominance into the crypto age.
    • National Security & Defense: A unique aspect by this time might be the direct consideration of Bitcoin in national defense planning. For example, the Department of Defense might hold some Bitcoin to potentially fund operations outside of normal channels in emergencies (since BTC can be moved globally quickly). Cyber defense units will actively protect not just government crypto but also watch for attempts to attack the Bitcoin network itself (51% attacks, etc.), since it would be considered critical infrastructure. The U.S. could even contribute to Bitcoin network security by running government-operated full nodes around the world and maybe mining in secure locations (ensuring that no hostile entity can easily dominate mining).
      There’s also the realm of intelligence: understanding who else holds significant BTC and their intentions becomes strategic. The transparency of Bitcoin (every transaction is visible on-chain) paradoxically can aid law enforcement and intelligence in tracking illicit finance more easily than cash. So by 15 years, the U.S. may have turned what some saw as a tool for criminals into a powerful tool against criminals, through advanced blockchain analytics. This further underpins why holding and controlling a good share of Bitcoin supply is beneficial – it gives the U.S. both visibility and leverage in the new digital financial order.
    • Individual Citizens: In the long run, the American people stand to reap the benefits of this strategic shift. By year 15, if Bitcoin’s global success continues, many early individual adopters could find their modest holdings grown substantially, contributing to increased household wealth. More broadly, the national reserve’s gains could be used to strengthen the economy that citizens live in – possibly reducing the tax burden or funding social programs from the proceeds of Bitcoin investments rather than from debt. For instance, there could be a future where a portion of Medicare or Social Security is sustained by returns from the national digital asset portfolio – truly converting digital innovation into social dividends.
      Culturally, the stigma or uncertainty around Bitcoin will likely diminish. Young Americans in 2040 (those born in the 2020s) will have never known a world without cryptocurrency. They might find it completely natural that their country took this path, just as earlier generations took the dominance in internet and tech for granted. We foresee a population that is financially savvy and tech-forward, comfortable using digital wallets as easily as credit cards. The inspirational aspect cannot be overstated: seeing America lead in a new domain will instill confidence and optimism. The narrative will be that the U.S. didn’t fear the future – we faced it and shaped it.
      Citizens will also benefit from thousands of new companies and jobs created in the blockchain sector – from software developers to legal experts to energy technicians maintaining mining farms. This industry’s growth keeps America economically competitive and provides high-paying jobs, many in rural or economically challenged areas (since mining can be located anywhere with power, it’s more geographically flexible than many industries).

    Milestones for Phase 3:

    • The United States (government + private sector + citizens) achieves aggregate holdings of ~4,000,000 BTC, representing a significant share of circulating Bitcoin. This includes, ideally, at least 1–1.5 million BTC in the Strategic Reserve alone (the rest distributed among corporations, financial institutions, and individual holders).
    • Bitcoin is formally acknowledged in national financial statements and reports. For example, annual Treasury reports list the BTC reserve alongside gold holdings. The Federal Reserve perhaps incorporates digital assets in its flow of funds accounting.
    • The U.S. leads an international agreement or framework on digital asset reserves, promoting responsible state behavior with crypto (preventing market manipulation, ensuring transparency of state holdings to build trust, etc.).
    • Technological resilience: By year 15, Bitcoin’s infrastructure is even more robust – U.S. has contributed to implementing quantum-resistant solutions if needed, and the network has proven secure against threats. U.S. research labs and companies may have pioneered these next-gen security measures.
    • Environmental goal: Bitcoin mining is no longer seen as an environmental villain. Through U.S. innovation and leadership, the global Bitcoin mining industry might approach carbon-neutrality. Perhaps 90%+ sustainable energy use is achieved, with mining being an integral part of balancing and funding renewable grids (a success story of turning a challenge into an opportunity).
    • Economic impact: If Bitcoin’s value has grown as expected, the U.S. may use some of the value appreciation to dramatically improve its fiscal position. There could be scenarios by 15 years where the national debt is reduced not by austerity, but by the windfall from early Bitcoin investments – a truly remarkable outcome that earlier seemed far-fetched . Even if not fully eliminating debt, the interest from Bitcoin-backed funds or strategic sales at opportune moments (very limited) could fund critical projects (infrastructure, space exploration, etc.) without burdening taxpayers.
    • By the end of this period, Bitcoin (and perhaps select other digital assets) would be firmly embedded in the U.S. economic and strategic paradigm. Future policymakers will treat it as a given component of reserves, much like foreign currency reserves or gold. The initial controversies will have faded, replaced by a bipartisan consensus that America did the right thing by embracing innovation. The country stands as the undisputed leader in the global digital economy, much to the benefit of its citizens.

    Funding Sources and Mechanisms

    A variety of funding sources and mechanisms are employed across these phases to finance Bitcoin accumulation in a sustainable, ethical manner. Below is a summary of key funding approaches, emphasizing creativity and public-private collaboration:

    Funding Source / MechanismDescription & RationaleExample / Status
    Existing Government ReservesRedeploy value from current assets to Bitcoin. This includes revaluing underutilized assets (like gold) or using foreign currency reserves strategically. Because U.S. gold is carried at a historic fixed price, an update to market value yields a significant accounting gain, which can be converted into BTC without new debt .Ex: Revalue gold certificates (from $42/oz to market $2000/oz) and use the windfall ($500 billion potential) to buy Bitcoin . Treasury already studying optimal legal channels for such transfers .
    Redirected Federal BudgetsIdentify federal programs or funds that can be reduced, optimized, or concluded, and redirect a portion of those savings to Bitcoin acquisition. Also allocate a small % of annual budget specifically as an investment in the Strategic Bitcoin Reserve, framing it as intergenerational asset investment. Keep allocations modest to avoid crowding out current needs, and emphasize long-term return.Ex: A 1% efficiency saving across a $1 trillion budget section (e.g., discretionary spending) yields $10B/year for BTC. Also, if defense tech advances allow cost cuts, a portion of the “peace dividend” could fund digital reserves – aligning future security investment.
    Tax Revenues and FeesWithout creating new taxes, leverage incremental revenues from the crypto sector itself. As the industry grows, tax receipts from crypto capital gains, corporate profits of blockchain companies, and sales tax from crypto-related commerce will rise. Earmark a fraction of these new revenues for reinvestment into Bitcoin. Additionally, consider small transactional fees: e.g., a minuscule excise fee on large crypto transactions or exchange activities, funneled to the reserve. The key is any fee should be low enough not to stifle innovation (pennies per $100, potentially).Ex: Suppose crypto-related economic growth yields an extra $5B in federal tax receipts annually; direct 20% of that ($1B) to BTC purchases. Some countries fund sovereign wealth funds from natural resource taxes – here, the “digital resource” of blockchain innovation can analogously fund a reserve.
    Public-Private Investment VehiclesCreate investment funds or vehicles where government seed capital attracts larger private co-investment to buy Bitcoin. This spreads risk and engages market expertise. The government can act as a minority partner or guarantor, nudging private capital to join national goals. Such funds could also invest in Bitcoin infrastructure (mining facilities, blockchain startups) with a portion of profits accruing in BTC.Ex: A National Bitcoin Trust is formed with $10B from Treasury and $30B from pension funds, tech companies, and allied sovereign funds, collectively targeting to acquire e.g. 200,000 BTC over several years. The fund’s structure ensures professional management and that the government’s share of BTC cannot be sold without consensus, reinforcing long-term holding.
    Blockchain-Related RevenuesThis innovative category involves the government directly earning Bitcoin through blockchain participation. Two main avenues: (1) Mining revenues – government or public-private mining operations produce BTC at near cost. (2) Staking / Node incentives – although Bitcoin doesn’t have staking, if the U.S. engages with other networks (like Ethereum post-merge, if relevant to strategy) any earned crypto could be converted to BTC. Another idea is leveraging U.S. technological prowess to capture transaction fees: running Lightning Network nodes or other service nodes that earn small BTC fees, scaled nationally.Ex: A federal renewable mining initiative deploys mining rigs at hydro plants; it mines, say, 5,000 BTC a year, which are sent to the Reserve. Additionally, the U.S. Postal Service could run Bitcoin Lightning nodes in its offices (hypothetical scenario) earning fees that accumulate to a national wallet – symbolically letting everyday transactions feed the reserve. These approaches also improve network decentralization.
    Voluntary Citizen ContributionsMechanisms for Americans to voluntarily contribute to the national Bitcoin accumulation. This taps into patriotic sentiment and the appeal of being part of a big mission. Options include special savings bonds (where individuals’ money is used by government to buy BTC, and they get a guaranteed return plus a Bitcoin-pegged bonus), charitable donations to government-held funds (with recognition or minor tax benefits), or crowdsourced initiatives where communities invest together for local/national benefit. While contributions won’t cover the bulk of 4 million BTC, they promote public ownership of the effort and can still raise significant amounts.Ex: The Treasury issues “Freedom Bitcoin Bonds,” $500 minimum, 10-year maturity. The money raised buys BTC for the Reserve. At maturity, holders get back their $500 plus interest, and a bonus that is a percentage of the BTC price increase (if any). Alternatively, a “Donate Bitcoin to America” program could see philanthropic gifts – imagine a tech billionaire donating 10,000 BTC to the national reserve as a legacy project, which is not inconceivable in a culture that celebrates such contributions.

    All these funding sources share a common theme: they are ethical, transparent, and largely voluntary/market-driven. The plan pointedly avoids any coercive measures like forced confiscation or heavy new taxation that would contradict the values of a free economy. By tapping into existing value, future growth, and willing participation, the U.S. can accumulate Bitcoin in a way that strengthens rather than burdens the nation.

    It’s worth noting that as Bitcoin’s price potentially grows, the dollar cost of reaching 4 million BTC will increase. Thus, early funding (short-term) gets more “bang for buck” in BTC terms, while later on the focus might shift to maximizing value of holdings rather than chasing a numeric BTC total at any cost. Flexibility in funding strategy will be maintained – if Bitcoin’s market is overheated, the U.S. can pause buys and rely more on mining or wait for corrections, for example.

    Ethical, Legal, and Security Considerations

    A plan of this magnitude raises important ethical and legal considerations, which are addressed proactively to ensure the initiative upholds American values and the rule of law:

    • Legal Framework: The accumulation strategy operates within existing U.S. law and seeks new legislation only where necessary. The BITCOIN Act and related executive actions provide the legal basis for Treasury to hold and manage crypto assets . All acquisitions of Bitcoin by the government will be done through lawful means – purchases on open markets, partnerships, or mining – with full accounting. No private holdings will be taken or nationalized; this is a voluntary wealth-building exercise, not an expropriation. As new laws are passed (e.g., clarifying tax treatment, allowing state investments, etc.), they will be debated democratically and made transparent. The judiciary would maintain oversight as needed, and any disputes (such as regulatory turf battles between agencies) will be resolved through established legal processes. Essentially, we treat Bitcoin like any strategic asset, subject to checks and balances.
    • Ethical Acquisition: The plan emphasizes ethical means of acquiring Bitcoin. This means no market manipulation, no exploitation of other nations, and no compromising on principles. For instance, if the U.S. enters bilateral agreements involving Bitcoin, it will be in the spirit of mutual benefit – say, helping a developing country build a renewable mining industry so they earn income in BTC, while the U.S. might get a portion of that BTC or a stake in the operation. Such arrangements can be win-win and transparent, avoiding any neo-colonial overtones. Domestically, if voluntary citizen programs are launched, they will come with clear disclosures of risks (since Bitcoin can be volatile) and entirely optional participation. The government’s role is to facilitate and maybe match contributions, not pressure anyone to convert their savings.
    • Market Impact and Fairness: A critical ethical aspect is ensuring the U.S.’s large-scale buying doesn’t unduly distort the market to the detriment of others. The phased, multi-channel approach is our solution: by spreading accumulation over many years and relying partly on mining (new supply) and organic private uptake, we mitigate sudden price spikes. Large purchases will be done discreetly via OTC with cooperation from major exchanges to prevent front-running or flash crashes. If despite precautions U.S. actions seem to be driving up price too fast, the strategy can adjust (pause buys and focus on mining for a period, for example). We want a stable growth in Bitcoin adoption, not a bubble. Fairness extends globally – smaller countries or investors should not feel locked out by U.S. dominance. In fact, U.S. leadership can bring stability that benefits all Bitcoin holders (government participation tends to legitimize and stabilize ). The U.S. could also assist allies to start their own modest reserves, as long as it doesn’t jeopardize our goals, fostering a collaborative atmosphere.
    • Transparency and Accountability: The management of the Strategic Bitcoin Reserve and any related funds will be highly transparent. Regular reports to Congress and the public will detail how much BTC is held, how it was acquired (while perhaps keeping exact timing/trade details confidential to protect strategy), and how it’s stored. An auditable public-facing ledger might be maintained for certain portions of holdings, so citizens can actually observe transactions on the blockchain to the extent possible . This level of transparency would far exceed that of many traditional reserves and could build trust (imagine being able to verify the nation’s Bitcoin holdings 24/7 on-chain – a powerful tool against corruption or mismanagement). Oversight bodies, including a possible advisory board of public, private, and academic experts, will keep the execution ethical and on track.
    • Security Measures: The ethical imperative to protect what has been entrusted (taxpayer funds, citizens’ contributions, etc.) means top-tier security is non-negotiable. The U.S. will employ state-of-the-art cybersecurity for all Bitcoin custody. This likely involves multi-signature wallets requiring sign-off from multiple agencies (e.g., Treasury, Federal Reserve, and an independent trustee) to move any funds, reducing single-point insider threats. Cold storage (offline wallets) will be used for the bulk of holdings, with physical vaults and layered defenses similar to gold storage but updated for digital assets. Disaster recovery plans will be in place: multiple backups of keys (sharded perhaps) in secure locations across the country. The government can also leverage the National Security Agency’s expertise in cryptography to safeguard keys against any advanced threats. As mentioned, planning for quantum computing threats will begin well in advance – maybe even sponsoring development of quantum-resistant encryption that could be adopted by the Bitcoin community if needed, thereby protecting everyone’s BTC, not just ours (which underscores a value: contributing to the global good while securing ourselves).
    • Preventing Abuse and Illicit Activity: Another ethical facet is ensuring that our push for Bitcoin leadership doesn’t inadvertently shield bad actors. On the contrary, the U.S. can use its position to strengthen anti-money laundering (AML) and anti-crime efforts in crypto. With regulatory clarity and cooperation from exchanges, law enforcement will more effectively track and clamp down on illicit use of crypto (which is already a small fraction of activity, but still important). The government’s stance will be zero-tolerance for using cryptocurrency for terrorism, child exploitation, or sanctions evasion. We will continue international partnerships to share intelligence on crypto crimes. By being in the arena rather than outside, the U.S. will actually have more influence to make Bitcoin’s network a safer place (for instance, discouraging rogue states from hacking exchanges or stealing crypto, since that would directly conflict with U.S. interests once we’re a big stakeholder). We will seek to “ring-fence” illicit actors – using blockchain’s transparency to isolate stolen or crime-tainted coins, working with miners and exchanges globally to not process those (this could be controversial in purist terms, but a level of transaction monitoring will likely become standard as sovereign adoption grows). All these efforts aim to ensure that growing the crypto economy doesn’t mean tolerating crypto-crime; rather, we integrate it into the rule of law.
    • Environmental Stewardship: Ethically, we also owe it to future generations to implement this strategy in an environmentally conscious way. As detailed earlier, the U.S. is prioritizing sustainable mining – turning Bitcoin’s energy consumption into a driver for renewable energy expansion and innovation. We acknowledge the concerns and will continue transparently publishing data on the energy mix and efficiency improvements (like the Cambridge study showing trends ). If certain mining operations are found to be excessively polluting or harming local environments, state and federal regulators will step in to enforce standards (just as they would with any data center or industry). We believe that by harnessing American ingenuity, Bitcoin’s footprint can be mitigated significantly, perhaps making it a largely clean industry by the end of the 15-year period. This balances the economic and strategic benefits with our responsibility to combat climate change – showing the world that the U.S. can innovate while upholding environmental values.

    In summary, the ethical and legal framework surrounding this strategy is robust: voluntary, transparent, lawful, and responsible. The plan is designed to amplify the best of American capitalism and democracy – using open markets and free choice to achieve a national goal – while putting checks in place to curb excesses or missteps. This strategic journey will be one carried out in the public eye, inviting input and scrutiny, which will only strengthen its execution.

    Conclusion: A Future-Focused Vision for American Prosperity

    Fifteen years from now, Americans will look back on this initiative as a pivotal chapter in our nation’s economic story – the moment we seized the opportunity of a digital frontier and made it our own. By accumulating 4 million bitcoins, the United States positions itself not only to benefit from the growth of a revolutionary asset but also to steer that revolution in accordance with our values of freedom, transparency, and innovation.

    This comprehensive plan harnesses the collective power of federal resolve, state creativity, private sector dynamism, and individual enthusiasm. It is inspirational and optimistic by design: it says that America’s best days are not behind us, but ahead on a new horizon of blockchain technology and digital finance. Just as past generations rallied to ambitious national endeavors – building the transcontinental railroad, landing on the moon, inventing the internet – we too rally to make the U.S. the guiding light in the crypto era.

    By pursuing this strategy, the U.S. will enjoy a more resilient and diversified economy, new waves of tech entrepreneurship, and a strengthened geopolitical hand. We will have shown that embracing change, rather than fearing it, is the surest path to long-term prosperity and security. The strategic Bitcoin reserve, once a novel idea, will become a cornerstone of national strength – a digital complement to Fort Knox, symbolizing American ingenuity in the 21st century.

    There will undoubtedly be challenges along the way: market fluctuations, technical hurdles, perhaps political debates. But as laid out, we have plans to navigate these – cautiously, transparently, and boldly when needed. The involvement of all stakeholders means this vision does not belong to one party or administration, but to all Americans. It can and should unite us in common purpose, much like great infrastructure or exploration projects of the past.

    In conclusion, this strategic plan is more than an economic play – it’s a statement to the world that America remains the land of forward-looking visionaries, unafraid to invest in the future. It invites every citizen, entrepreneur, and public servant to be a part of forging a new legacy. Together, we are not just accumulating coins; we are building a foundation of economic freedom, technological leadership, and national renewal that will support the American Dream for generations to come.

    Let us proceed with confidence, creativity, and unity on this path. The digital frontier is ours to lead – and in doing so, we will secure the blessings of prosperity and security for ourselves and our posterity, in the true spirit of the United States of America.

    Sources:

    • White House Executive Order – Establishment of the Strategic Bitcoin Reserve (Mar 6, 2025) 
    • BITCOIN Act proposal – Sen. Cynthia Lummis (Apr 2025) 
    • State-Level Adoption – Texas Bitcoin Reserve Act (2025) 
    • Chainalysis Analysis – Bitcoin Strategic Reserves (May 2025) 
    • Cambridge Centre for Alternative Finance – Bitcoin Mining Sustainable Energy Study (Apr 2025) 
    • The Defiant – Summary of Lummis Proposal (2024) 
    • StateScoop – Commentary on U.S. leadership vision in crypto 
    • Additional insights from industry experts and public statements .
  • 100 Lessons From the Masters of Street Photography

    by Eric Kim

    Dedication

    To Cindy,

    You never stopped believing in me, and you have helped me fulfill my personal maximum in my life.

    I love you now and forever.

    Berkeley, Dec 9, 2015.

    Table of contents

    • Fulfill your personal maximum
    • Get closer
    • Shoot 25% more than you think you should
    • Shoot from the gut
    • The “.7 Meter Challenge”
    • “Marinate” your photos
    • Don’t shoot from the hip
    • Influence the scene
    • Don’t crop
    • Focus on the edges
    • Emotionally detach yourself from your photos
    • Create context in your frame
    • Provoke your subjects
    • “Can you do that again for me?”
    • Don’t be a slave to your camera
    • Cure yourself of “G.A.S.”
    • Embrace “beginner’s mind”
    • Shoot how you feel
    • Limitations are freedom
    • Document your own life
    • Shoot with a “stream-of-consciousness”
    • Shoot what it feels like
    • Embrace failure
    • Don’t be afraid to click the shutter
    • Add “something more” to the frame
    • Master your body language
    • Tell convincing lies
    • Kill your master
    • Contradict a “rule”
    • Follow your curiosity
    • Don’t explain your photos
    • “Open” vs “closed” photos
    • Kill your ego
    • Shoot what you love
    • Don’t hesitate
    • Don’t try to be someone else
    • Don’t repeat yourself
    • Ask for permission
    • Try to get rejected
    • Don’t stop your projects too soon
    • Take shitty photos
    • Chase the light
    • Channel your personal emotions
    • “All photographs are accurate, none of them is truth”
    • Disturb your viewer
    • Disregard technical settings
    • Embrace “P” mode
    • Enjoy the process
    • Single photos can’t tell stories
    • Don’t worry about marketing your work
    • Subtract from the frame
    • Make yourself vulnerable
    • Forever be an “amateur”
    • Stay hungry, stay foolish
    • Don’t force it
    • Don’t take easy photos
    • Shoot what you’re afraid of
    • Print your photos
    • Don’t be “suckered by the exotic”
    • Shoot in boring places
    • Don’t take bad photos
    • Make specific photos
    • Compose intuitively
    • Don’t have a “project”
    • Improve 1% everyday
    • Take 1 photo everyday
    • Make something extraordinary from the ordinary
    • Don’t see your photos as “art”
    • Constantly question yourself
    • Feel emotions in color
    • Never leave home without your camera
    • Make a book
    • Juxtapose
    • Pave your own path
    • What do you want from your photography?
    • Don’t constantly switch your equipment
    • Learn where to stand
    • Expect to be disappointed
    • More megapixels, more problems
    • Experiment with film
    • Kill your babies
    • Don’t look at your photos immediately
    • Don’t shoot for others
    • Photograph your own backyard
    • Make images that stand on their own
    • What counts is the result
    • Abstract reality
    • Capture your own personal “decisive moments”
    • Rules will set you free
    • Experiment
    • Fuck fame
    • Think long-term
    • Create a relationship with your subjects
    • Don’t bore your viewer
    • Embrace your day job
    • Count your blessings
    • Don’t become married to your beliefs
    • You’re only as good as your last photo
    • Unlearn

    1. Fulfill your personal maximum

    “What has interested me in taking photographs is the maximum — the maximum that exists in a situation and the maximum I can produce from it.” – Josef Koudelka

    For the last ten years, I have tried to seek my own personal voice, style, and path in photography. This journey has led me through life in so many incredible ways. I have learned so many valuable lessons in photography (and life) which has transformed me as a human being.

    My particular interest has been in street photography; capturing moments of everyday life in public settings. I have always been drawn to my fellow human beings, and street photography has helped me become a more empathetic human being.

    Ultimately, photography is photography. I used to feel that I should only shoot “street photography,” but I have discovered in my path that it doesn’t matter what you shoot. What matters is how shooting makes you feel. What matters is whether photography pushes you outside of your comfort zone, and whether you are able to achieve your personal maximum.

    I feel the purpose of my life is to produce knowledge, and to distill information and lessons I’ve learned about photography to the masses. I am certainly not a “master” myself; just a humble student dedicated to a life-long pursuit of learning. Everything I share in this book is a distillation of the lessons I’ve learned from the masters of photography.

    Don’t take everything in this book as “truth.” Rather, see the masters of photography as your personal guides. Take these lessons with a pinch of salt; pick and choose which lessons resonate with you, and throw away the rest.

    Ultimately to find your own personal vision and style in photography, you just need to know yourself as a human being. “Know thyself” is the greatest wisdom given to us by the ancient philosophers.

    Find yourself through the book, and discover the photographer you are. Love, Eric (@ Blue Bottle on Broadway, Oakland, Tuesday 3:46pm, Nov 10, 2015)

    2. Get Closer

    “If your photographs aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough.” – Robert Capa

    One of the common mistakes that many beginning street photographers make is this: they don’t get close enough.

    We have many fears and provide a lot of excuses for not getting close enough in our street photography. We are worried about pissing people off, we are worried about making other people feel uncomfortable, and we are worried that strangers might call the cops on us (or even worse, physically assault us).

    Realize that this is all in your head. By getting closer to a stranger, you won’t die. In-fact, I have learned that in photography (and life), with physical proximity comes emotional proximity.

    It isn’t enough to use a telephoto or zoom lens to get “close” to your subject. By using a telephoto lens, you compress your image, and visually your photo feels less intimate. It feels like you are more of a voyeur looking in; rather than you being an active participant of the scene.

    In street photography I generally recommend using a 35mm lens (full-frame equivalent) for most photographers (Alex Webb, Constantine Manos, and Anders Petersen shoot with this focal length). The human eye sees the world in around a 40mm field-of-view, and I find that shooting with a 35mm lens gives you enough wiggle-room around the edges of the frame.

    A 50mm is fine too (Henri Cartier-Bresson was famous for using it for nearly his entire life), but in today’s crowded world, I find it to be a bit too tight. A 28mm is fantastic too (William Klein, Bruce Gilden, and Garry Winogrand have used this focal length), but realize that you have to be close enough with this lens to fill the frame.

    As a rule-of-thumb, I try to shoot with a 35mm at least two-arm-lengths away (or closer). 2 arm-lengths is 1.2 meters (around 4 feet). Therefore I always have my camera pre-focused to 1.2 meters, set at f/8, ISO 1600, and I simply go out to find moments to shoot.

    3. Shoot 25% more than you think you should

    If you see an amazing character once in your life, realize that you will never see them ever again. So live life without regrets and make the photograph.

    For this photo, I saw this amazing woman in the streets of NYC and said to her, “Oh my God miss, you are the most incredible-looking woman I have seen all day. Do you mind if I made a few photographs of you?” She was quite humbled and said, “Of course!”

    I got very close with her with a Ricoh GR digital camera, and shot on 28mm with the Macro mode in “P” (program) mode with ISO 400. To fill the frame with her face, I shot this photograph at around .3 meters (about 1 foot away). I took many photographs, shooting some with flash, some without. I asked her to look up, and to look down at me.

    On the 19th frame, she started bursting out laughing and said, “You’re taking so many photos, you’re crazy!” and started laughing. On that frame, I captured the “decisive moment.”
    After capturing the moment, I still wasn’t 100% sure whether I got an interesting photograph or not, so I kept clicking, around 10 more frames.

    As a general rule-of-thumb, when I think I’ve got the photograph, I try to take 25% more photographs (because you never know if you might catch an even more interesting photograph after-the-fact).

    Later she told me she was 82 years old. The reason the photograph is meaningful to me is because there are too many photos of death, destruction, and misery in the world.
    It is one of the very few “happy” photos I’ve shot. Inspired by this image, I hope to make more photographs like this to spread positivity and love in the world.

    4. Shoot from the gut

    “My photography is not ‘brain photography’. I put my brain under the pillow when I shoot. I shoot with my heart and with my stomach.” – Anders Petersen

    Anders Petersen is one of the most influential contemporary master photographers. He shoots with a simple point-and-shoot film camera (Contax T3) and shoots soulful black and white images which he refers to as “personal documentary.” He makes himself and the people he meets as his main subjects, and he shoots from the heart.

    A photograph without emotion is dead. The problem that a lot of photographers make is that they try to become too analytical with their photography. They are too preoccupied with composition, framing, form, nice light, and they forget the most important thing of making a memorable image: creating an image that has heart, soul, and passion.

    When you’re out shooting, try not too be too analytical. Shoot from your intuition and your guts. If you find anything even remotely interesting, don’t self-censor yourself.

    Don’t let your brain tell you: “Don’t take that shot, it is boring, and nobody will find it interesting.” Take the photograph anyways, because you can always edit it out (remove it) later.

    But when is it time to become analytical?

    “It is more after when I am shooting when I am looking at my contact sheets, and then I try to analyze and put things together.” – Anders Petersen

    Shoot from your gut when you’re out on the streets, but use your brain when you’re at home and editing (selecting) your shots. Analyze your images after-the-fact as a post-mortem, and learn how to “kill your babies” (weak photos that you are emotionally attached to, but you know aren’t great photos).

    Separate the shooting and editing sides of your photography. They use different parts of your brains, and if you try to do both of them at the same time, you will fail.

    As a practical tip, turn off your LCD screen when shooting, and refrain from looking at your images immediately after you’ve shot them (they call this “chimping”). Why? It kills your shooting “flow.”

    Furthermore, let your shots “marinate” by not looking at them until a week after you have made your images.

    5. The “.7 Meter Challenge”

    To truly get comfortable getting closer to your subjects, try this assignment from my friend Satoki Nagata: For an entire month, only take photos of your subjects from .7 meters (1-arm-length).

    For this assignment, switch your camera to manual-focusing mode, and tape the focusing mechanism of your lens to that distance. By setting yourself this “creative constraint,” you will learn how to better engage your subjects and get them comfortable with you shooting at such a close distance.

    Start off by asking for permission, then once you feel more courageous, start shooting candidly.

    6. “Marinate” your photos

    I shoot both film and digital, but one of the biggest advantages of shooting film is that you’re forced not to look at your photos immediately after you’ve shot it.

    With film, I generally don’t get my film processed until 6 months-1 year after I’ve shot it. This helps me truly help disconnect myself emotionally from my shots, which allows me to look at my photos more objectively.

    With digital I find it a lot harder to let my shots “marinate,” as I am prone to “chimping” (looking at your LCD screen immediately after you’ve taken photographs).

    For this photograph, I saw this woman juxtaposed against this billboard behind her in London. I got close to her, and took two photos: both with a flash. One of them she was looking away, and one she was looking directly at me.

    At first I didn’t think that it was an interesting shot, but then I let the shot “marinate”— and the longer I sat on the image, the more I ended up liking it. I also ended up showing the photograph to a couple of my close friends, who all agreed that it was a strong image. For some shots, the longer you let your shots “marinate,” the more you like them.

    For others, the longer you let your shots “marinate,” the less you like them. Imagine oil and water in a bottle. You shake the bottle hard, and they are both mixed.

    The longer you wait, the oil will soon rise to the top (your good photos), while the water will sink to the bottom (your weak photos).

    7. Don’t shoot from the hip

    “I never shoot without using the viewfinder.” – Garry Winogrand

    Another common mistake that aspiring street photographers make is that they try to overcome their fear of shooting street photography by shooting from the hip (photographing with your camera at waist-level and not looking through the viewfinder).
    Personally when I started shooting street photography, I was dependent on “shooting from the hip” (2010). I was too scared to bring my camera’s viewfinder up to my eye, because I was afraid of getting “caught” of taking candid photos of strangers.

    Garry Winogrand was one of the most prolific street photographers in history. He shot with a Leica M4, 28mm lens, and was known for creating layered, edgy, and head-on shots. If you go on YouTube, you can see how close he is to his subjects when shooting, and he always quickly looks through his viewfinder while shooting. This allowed him to frame properly, and capture the moments he found interesting.

    “[Don’t shoot from the hip], you’ll lose control over your framing.” – Garry Winogrand

    In my experience, I found that shooting from the hip was a huge crutch. The more I shot from the hip, the less confident I was as a street photographer. Not only that, but as Garry Winogrand said, I lost control over my framing. My shots would be poorly framed, skewed, and any shot that I got that looked half-decent was because of luck.

    As a street photographer, you aren’t doing anything wrong. You are trying to make images that people can empathize with. If it weren’t for street photographers, historians would have no idea what people did in public spaces in the past. All of the iconic street photography done by Henri Cartier-Bresson, Helen Levitt, Robert Doisenau, and Vivian Maier wouldn’t exist.

    Be confident. Have faith in yourself. By not shooting from the hip, you’re signaling to the world that you’re not doing anything wrong. Also by using your viewfinder (or LCD screen), you can have better control over your framing and composition.
    What do you do when you’re shooting street photography and you get “caught in the act?”

    My suggestion: Look at your subject, smile, say “thank you” and move on.

    8. Influence the scene

    Sometimes it is good to have your subjects notice that you are about to take a photograph of them.

    For example in this photo I shot in Hollywood, I saw this hip older lady with these great sunglasses and hat. I crouched down, and took a photograph with my Canon 5D and 24mm lens. The second I was about to take a photograph of her, she looked at me and posed with her hands (giving me the “jazz hands”).

    If I shot from the hip, she might have not noticed me. Therefore she would have never posed for me, and this photo wouldn’t exist.

    But does that ruin the photograph, the fact that your subject noticed you? Absolutely not. William Klein famously engaged with his subjects a lot when he shot street photography, and his presence made his photographs more vibrant, dynamic, and edgy.

    9. Don’t crop

    “If you start cutting or cropping a good photograph, it means death to the geometrically correct interplay of proportions. Besides, it very rarely happens that a photograph which was feebly composed can be saved by reconstruction of its composition under the darkroom’s enlarger; the integrity of vision is no longer there.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    A common mistake many photographers make is that they over-crop their images. They are “crop-a-holics,” in which they crop every single photograph they take (even when unnecessary). I am also a recovering “crop-a-holic.” I would unnecessarily over-crop my shots (even when the edges would be interesting).

    Another downside to being a “crop-a-holic”: I would be lazy when shooting street photography. I shot really far away from my subjects, thinking that I could just crop and zoom in to my subjects, instead of moving physically closer to my subjects.
    I would always tell myself in the back of my head, “Eh, if I didn’t get the shot right, I can always crop it later.” This made me lazy, and prevented me from improving my composition and framing.

    When I first learned that Henri Cartier-Bresson (the Godfather of street photography and the master of composition) didn’t crop his images (and forbade his students to do so), I decided to also try the assignment for myself.

    In the beginning, it was difficult not to crop my shots. Also by not cropping my shots, I realized how sloppy I was when I framed my images. Therefore by imposing this rule of not cropping on myself, I began to focus on “filling the frame” and creating better edges in my shots, which improved my composition dramatically.

    I am not saying that you should never crop your photographs. There are a lot of master street photographers who heavily cropped their photographs (Robert Frank did some radical cropping for his seminal book: “The Americans,” even turning some landscape shots into portrait shots with cropping).
    If you want to improve your composition: go an entire year without cropping. I can guarantee you that a year later, your composition will improve dramatically. And if in the future you do decide to start cropping again, always do it in moderation (I recommend cropping less than 10% of a frame).

    When you’re shooting in the streets, avoid “tunnel-vision” (only looking in the center of the frame). Focus on the edges of the frame and particularly the background to improve your composition.

    10. Focus on the edges

    If you want better composition and framing in your photography, focus on the edges. Don’t worry about the subject in the center of the frame, if you focus on the edges what is in the center of the frame generally takes care of itself.

    In Aix-en-Provence, I saw a woman drinking some wine the table across from me. I saw this epic silhouette of her and her wine glass, so I went up to her and asked if I could take some photos of her shadow. She reluctantly agreed.

    I ended up shooting many different photos of the scene, focusing on the edges of the frame while I was composing this image. I wanted to get the silhouette of her face, the silhouette of the wine glass, and also of the water carafe in the bottom-left of the frame.

    Focus on the edges, and your composition will fall into place.

    11. Emotionally detach yourself from your photos

    “Sometimes photographers mistake emotion for what makes a great street photograph.” – Garry Winogrand

    Imagine this situation: it is a cold and rainy day. You are out shooting on the streets, and you are feeling miserable. You are about to give up and go home when you see a little girl with a red umbrella about to jump over a puddle.

    You think of the famous photograph of Henri Cartier-Bresson (man jumping over puddle), and get excited. The girl jumps, and you click. You just captured the “decisive moment.”

    You rush home, quickly download your photos to your computer, post-process the photo, and then upload the photograph online. You cross your arms, and think that it is one of the finest photographs you have ever taken. You are excited that perhaps, finally, you will get over 100+ favorites/likes on this image.
    A day or so passes, and you only got 10-15 favorites/likes. You throw up your hands in rage and think to yourself: “These people on the internet wouldn’t know a great image if it hit them in the face!” You then continue about your day.

    A week or two go by, and you revisit the image. You then look at the image and tell yourself: “Hmmm, this image isn’t quite as good as I remembered it.”

    What just happened? You became emotionally attached to the backstory of how difficult it was to get that image (and the emotion you felt of being excited). This confused you into thinking that this was actually an “objectively” good shot.
    This happens to the best of us. We get too emotionally attached to our shots, because we were there. We experienced it. It feels alive and vivid inside our memories.

    The problem is that our viewers have no idea what the backstory of the image is (unless you write a long caption, which I generally advise against).

    What is the solution? Emotionally detach yourself from your photos. When editing (selecting) which images to “keep” and “ditch,” ask your peers to be “brutally honest” with your work.

    12. Create context in your frame

    In photography, the entire story of the image must exist inside the frame. If you want to tell a better story, include context in your photos.

    I have this vivid story in my head of how I got the image: I saw this well-dressed man in a hotel lobby, and asked if I could make a few photos. He said, “No problem,” and I took seven photos. Afterwards, I asked him what he did. He told me, “I own this hotel!”

    Now I have this vivid backstory, but the viewer has no idea about that story or information in this photograph.
    Viewers find this photograph interesting because the outfit of the man looks like he’s from the 1950s — a relic of the past. The viewer then makes up their own story about the man, based on the films they have seen in the past.

    If you have a photograph which is weak without having a compelling story, ditch the shot. When you have to “explain” the back-story of a street photograph, it is like explaining a joke. Funny jokes don’t need to be “explained.”

    13. Provoke your subjects

    “Rather than catching people unaware, they show the face they want to show. Unposed, caught unaware, they might reveal ambiguous expressions, brows creased in vague internal contemplation, illegible, perhaps meaningless. Why not allow the subject the possibility of revealing his attitude toward life, his neighbor, even the photographer?” – William Klein

    There is a general scorn in street photography against “posed” photos (or photos that aren’t shot candidly). A lot of people follow the Henri Cartier-Bresson school of street photography in which the photographer shouldn’t interact with his/her subjects, and to be an unattached observer.

    However there is more than one approach to street photography. One street photographer who interacted with his subjects is William Klein; a street photographer who gave a middle-finger to all of the “rules” in photography. Klein provoked his subjects, and interact with them.

    Even for Klein’s famous “Kid with gun” photograph, he told the kid: “Look tough.” At that moment, the kid with the toy gun pointed the gun to Klein’s face with a look of hate, anger, and intensity (see the contact sheet).

    One lesson I learned from Martin Parr when shooting “street portraits” is this: ask your subject to look straight into the lens and not to smile. Sometimes I will more directly pose my subjects by asking them to look the other direction, cross their arms, to take a puff of their cigarette, or look left, right, down, and up.

    An objection I often hear: “But Eric, once you engage with your subjects and ask them to do something for you, doesn’t it make the photograph less legitimate?”

    My response is this: Every photograph we take is a self-portrait of ourselves. We decide how to filter reality. We decide what to put into the frame and what to exclude.

    Don’t have any personal qualms about showing your own version of reality through your photography. Embrace it.

    14. “Can you do that again for me?”

    Sometimes you see things happen in the street; certain gestures, facial expressions, or actions by your subjects but miss “the decisive moment.” If you ever see a moment that you miss, try this out: approach the subject and ask them: “Can you do that again for me?”

    For example, I was in Downtown LA in the fashion district and I saw a man blowing his nose. It looked like an interesting gesture, and I loved his eyes, his suit, and the overall moment. However the second I brought up my camera, he dropped the tissue and made eye contact with me (and stopped blowing his nose). I then said, “Excuse me sir, I love your outfit and look. Can you do me a favor and blow your nose again for me?” He laughed, and blew his nose again, and I took a few photos while walking backwards with a flash.

    Now believe it or not, most people are quite happy to repeat certain gestures for you if you just ask.
    Another technique you can try out in street photography if you feel timid approaching strangers and taking photos without their permission is to approach them and ask them, “Pretend like I’m not here.”

    If you see a cool-looking guy smoking a cigar in front of a store, you can approach him and say, “Excuse me, I think you look badass smoking that cigar. Don’t mind me, can you just keep smoking that cigar and pretend like I’m not here?”
    Most people will laugh, and literally ignore you. This can help you get a candid-looking photo (without getting punched in the face).

    Sometimes your subject will start posing and smiling while continuing to smoke their cigar. In those situations, simply linger around, don’t say anything, and wait about 30 seconds until they start ignoring you.

    Another tip: you can start chatting with them and asking them how their day is. When they start talking and drop their guard, you can continue taking photos. This allows you to capture much more natural looking photos (that don’t look posed).

    15. Don’t be a slave to your camera

    “You are not supposed to be a slave of mechanical tools, they are supposed to help you and be as small and unimportant as possible not to disturb the communication.” – Anders Petersen

    There is a disease and a sickness out there which afflicts millions of photographers globally, and costs them hundreds and thousands of dollars. This disease breeds insecurity amongst photographers, as they feel that the camera they have is never good enough.

    They think that once they upgrade their camera to a newer and more expensive version (or buy a new lens), they will suddenly become more “inspired’ and creative.

    The disease? It is called “G.A.S.” (Gear Acquisition Syndrome). The concept is that camera companies, bloggers, and marketers try to breed dissatisfaction and insecurity with photographers by telling them: “The reason your photos suck is because your camera isn’t good enough.”

    Personally I am still afflicted with “G.A.S.” Whenever I am dissatisfied with my photography, I always hope that buying a new camera will suddenly re-inspire me, and open up doors of creativity. Trust me: it never does.

    One of the mantras I preach is: “Buy books, not gear.” Frankly I regret all the time, energy, and effort I wasted on buying new cameras and lenses. I wish I invested all of that time and money in photography-education (books, workshops) as well as traveling.

    Money can buy you happiness, but only if you spend it on experiences, not stuff.

    Not only that, but I find reading gear review sites, gear rumor sites, and gear forum sites always poisons me into wanting to buy new cameras and lenses that I don’t need. I have added a “StayFocusd” Google Chrome plugin which prevents me from visiting these gear-related sites (because I have no self-control).

    I have discovered that when I am out shooting, I don’t think much about my camera. I only think about my camera when I am sitting at home or bored at work when I am surfing the web.
    When I had a full-time 9-5 job, I barely had enough time to shoot street photography and hated my life. Somehow I convinced myself that by buying a new camera, I would spend more time going out and shooting.

    Whenever I bought a new camera, it would only “inspire” me for a week or two, then I would return to baseline.
    Remember; invest your money into experiences, travel, workshops, education, and photography books. No camera will help improve your vision.

    16. Cure yourself of “G.A.S.”

    I am still personally afflicted from “G.A.S.” (regardless of how many Tums I eat). I am a materialistic person, and everyday I have to fight the urge not to desire a new smartphone, car, home, clothes, watch, laptop, tablet, camera, lens, or accessory.

    I am still not fully cured from “Gear Acquisition Syndrome”, but here are some things that have me feel (less) “gassy”.

    1. Be grateful for what you have:

    Rather than wanting a camera that I don’t have, I try to write down why I love the camera I already own.

    2. Realize there is no “perfect” camera:

    Every camera has an upside and downside. Rather than trying to find a “perfect” camera, try to find a “good enough” camera. Become a “satisficer” (happy with “good enough”) instead of being a “maximizer” (wanting “perfect”). For further reading, read my article: “What to Consider When Buying a New Camera for Street Photography” and the book: “The Paradox of Choice.”

    3. Set yourself an upgrade limit:

    You don’t want to own one digital camera for the rest of your life. For example, most laptops and smartphones work reasonably well for about 3 years. So set yourself a rule: “I am not allowed to buy new camera unless I have owned this camera for 3 years.”

    4. Re-read old reviews of your camera:

    Re-live the excitement you had for the camera you already own.
    Imagine losing your camera: If tomorrow you lost your camera (or if your camera was stolen from you), how would you feel? I bet you would appreciate the camera you own a lot more.

    5. Don’t own more than one camera and one lens:

    I think it is fine to own high-quality and expensive cameras. Just try not to own more than one at a time. Personally when I have owned more than one camera and lens in the past, I had no idea which camera to bring with me when I left my apartment. Psychologists call this “paralysis by analysis.” If you only have one camera and one lens, you know exactly what camera to bring with you.

    17. Embrace “beginner’s mind”

    “My dream is that if you go out in the streets where you were born you see the streets like for the first time in your life even though you have been living there for 60 years.” – Anders Petersen

    Do you remember when you first picked up a camera, and weren’t disturbed by dogma, rules, constraints, or any other “theories” in photography? Do you remember the lightness that you would just roam the streets, and just took photos that interested you without any prejudice or self-criticism? Do you remember how excited it was to just play, like a child?

    In Zen Buddhism they call this approach “beginner’s mind.” When we begin any sort of pursuit, hobby, or art in life, we are unburdened. We see the world as fresh and full of opportunities. We are excited, nimble, fresh, and open-minded. We see possibilities, not obstructions.

    The problem is that the more experienced we become in photography (and life), we become jaded. Everything just seems to becoming boring. Nothing interests us anymore. You can live in the most interesting city in the world (Paris, Tokyo, New York) and after a while become bored of what you see.

    Follow Anders Petersen’s advice and hit the streets like it is the first time. Imagine that it is the first time you experienced it. Imagine what you would find interesting and unique. Imagine yourself like a tourist in your own city.

    Try switching things up. Walk around your city with a different route than you usually take. Perhaps take a short trip out of town, and come back to your city with new and refreshed eyes.
    Imagine yourself like an alien visiting from another planet. If you were an alien and visited your own city streets for the first time, what would you find interesting or unique?

    Don’t analyze your scenes too much when you’re shooting. Just photograph what you find interesting, and just click.
    Disregard what others think; just take photos like any good beginner would.

    18. Shoot how you feel

    Our emotions are highly variable: on some days we are super optimistic and think everything in life is perfect and super dandy. On other days we can feel pretty shitty and only feel doom and gloom.

    Personally even though I have a “perfect” life (traveling, teaching photography, meeting amazing people) I still suffer a lot of dissatisfaction in my life. I have financial worries, family issues, and personal issues.

    There are a lot of times I feel lost, confused, and frustrated. I don’t know what direction my life is going. Other times I have no idea what I am doing in photography and question myself, “Why do you even take photos? Nobody cares about your work. You suck. You will never be great.”

    Photography is one of the best forms of self-therapy. Don’t judge your emotions (whether negative or positive). Know that life is a roller-coaster; we will suffer dips and highs.

    When life is going downhill, the hill going up is just around the horizon. Similarly, when things are going well, remember that it won’t last.

    When I am feeling dark and moody, I find that shooting gritty black and white suits my mood. However when my life is feeling more positive and upbeat, I find myself shooting more happy, colorful, and saturated color.

    A photograph without emotion is dead. Avoid taking photos that are just purely compositional or design-oriented. Make street photos that open the doors of empathy to your viewer.

    19. Limitations are freedom

    ”Too much choices will screw up your life. Work on one thing, then expand on your canvas.” – David Alan Harvey

    The problem with modern society is that we have too many choices. Do you remember the last time you went to the grocery store and wanted to get some breakfast cereal? Let’s say you wanted to get some wheat cereal. You go to the cereal aisle, and you see that there are 10 different brands for wheat cereal. Even worse, there are different flavors: sugar, chocolate, vanilla, blueberry, and strawberry. Even worse, there are some cereals loaded with probiotics, some with less sugar, and some that is advertised as “heart healthy.”

    Overwhelmed, you just pick up some of the chocolate wheat cereal, and you go home and the next morning you have a bowl of cereal. You are slightly disappointed with your choice, and you kick yourself for not getting the sugar variety.

    This is what psychologists call “The Tyranny of Choice” (or “The Paradox of Choice”). When we have too many choices or options, we become overwhelmed. This causes more regret, and more stress.
    Having too many choices (for example, owning more than one camera and one lens) can be stressful. By having more choices as a photographer, you spend less time shooting, and more time and energy debating which camera, lens, or film to use.

    Ironically enough, having fewer options leads to less stress, and more inner-peace.

    When I used to own more than one lens, “decision fatigue” killed me. I would be out shooting, and constantly switch my lens from a 28mm to a 35mm to a 50mm. No lens was ever perfectly “ideal” for the situation I was shooting. In the past I also shot with a Sigma 18-200mm (which made me a really lazy photographer).

    If you only own one prime (non-zoom) lens, you learn how to work within the boundaries of your focal length. If your 35mm can’t fit in a whole body shot of your subject, perhaps you can focus on just their face or hands. “Creative constraints” force you to make more intriguing and interesting images.

    Many masters of street photography have followed the philosophy of “one camera, one lens.” Henri Cartier-Bresson made the majority of his iconic images with his film Leica, 50mm, and black-and-white film. Alex Webb has stuck to mostly a film Leica, a 35mm lens, and Kodachrome color film. Daido Moriyama has stuck with point-and-shoot Ricoh GR cameras, 28mm, and have stayed consistent with grainy black and white look.

    Of course there are other great photographers like Todd Hido who have used multiple cameras, lenses, films, and formats and have made great work. However if you are a beginner, starting off with just one camera and one lens and sticking with it for a long time can help push you creatively.

    Try to figure out how you can start to eliminate options and choices from your photography (and life). Having more limitations will force you to be more creative, and set you free.

    20. Document your own life

    In January 2013, I got the news that my grandfather passed away. I quickly boarded a plane, and only brought one camera and lens with me: the Ricoh GR1v (a point-and-shoot film camera with a 28mm lens). I also only brought 10 rolls of film (Neopan 400) and pushed the film to 1600. I set myself this limitation in terms of my gear and my goal was to document my grandfather’s funeral in a meaningful, present, and mindful way.

    By having this simple point-and-shoot camera, I was able to really focus on the experience of being there for my grandfather’s funeral. Because the camera is film, I couldn’t “chimp” and check my LCD screen after every photograph I took.
    I was truly present, and wasn’t distracted by my camera. I think this lack of distraction from my camera helped me create one of the most meaningful projects in my photography career: my “Grandfather” series.

    If you are a photographer that owns more than one camera and one lens, just bring one camera and one lens with you when you go out shooting. Or if you’re pursuing a certain photography project, do it all on one camera, one lens, and one film (or style of post-processing if you shoot digital).

    Focus on the “shooting process,” and less about the equipment and technical settings involved.

    21. Shoot with a “stream-of-consciousness”

    “For me, capturing what I feel with my body is more important than the technicalities of photography. If the image is shaking, it’s OK, if it’s out of focus, it’s OK. Clarity isn’t what photography is about.” – Daido Moriyama

    One of the common mistakes a lot of photographers make is that they are too analytical when they shoot street photography. They forget the most important part of photography: photographing what you feel with your heart.

    Daido Moriyama is one of Japan’s most famous photographers who popularized the “stream-of-consciousness” style of photography. Not only that, but he popularized the radical “are, bure, boke” (grainy, blurry, out-of-focus) aesthetic, which rebelled against the photography at the time, which focused on making hyper-sharp images with fancy high-end cameras.

    What is “stream-of-consciousness” in photography you ask? Well, the concept is that your thoughts, emotions, and ideas are like a river or stream, flowing through your mind. You trust your intuition, instincts, and gut.

    When you’re shooting street photography, you just photograph what you find interesting, without any judgement, self-criticism, or frustration. You setup your camera with fully-auto settings, and just point-and-click. It is the purest form of “snapshot” photography, where you aren’t thinking like an “artist.” You are just like a child, exploring the world, and photographing what you find interesting.

    If you shoot with a “stream-of-consciousness,” realize that the majority of your shots won’t be very good. In-fact, you will make a lot of crappy, uninteresting, and boring photographs. However if you channel your emotions into your photos, they will become more personally meaningful to you. Furthermore, this feeling will transfer to the viewer.

    This makes the editing process so important. You need to always get a second opinion on your photos, and to see if other people get the same emotions from your photograph as you do.

    22. Shoot what it feels like

    “Seeing is not enough; you have to feel what you photograph” – Andre Kertesz

    I shot this image in Saigon, Vietnam. I was at a bar, and I saw the mysterious mood and feeling of this man through a set of curtains. In terms of technical settings, I shot this image on a Fujifilm x100s, and set the camera to manual-focus, focused on the man, and just started to shoot away in “P” (program) mode (aperture set to auto, shutter-speed set to auto) at ISO 3200.
    I often use “P” mode when shooting digitally, because it helps me focus on composing the scene, framing, and “working the scene” (instead of fiddling around with my camera).

    I loved the expression of the man’s face, his sense of loneliness, and the mysteriousness of the place. I didn’t think too much about the composition and the framing, I just kept shooting what the scene felt like: dark, estranged, and lost.
    Afterwards when I shared the photo with my friends and other photographers I trusted, they told me that the emotion that I felt in this scene mirrored what they felt.

    The emotions you feel while shooting street photography won’t always translate to your viewers. However the more you shoot with your heart (and not with your brain), the more likely you are to translate what a scene feels like to your viewer.

    23. Embrace failure

    “Luck – or perhaps serendipity – plays a big role… But you never know what is going to happen. And what is most exciting is when the utterly unexpected happens, and you manage to be there at the right place at the right time – and push the shutter at the right moment. Most of the time it doesn’t work out that way. Street photography is 99.9% about failure.” – Alex Webb

    Street photography is all about failure. As Alex Webb said, “Street photography is 99.9% about failure.” Every time you click the shutter, there is only a .1% chance that you will make an interesting shot. The majority of the time, you might shoot an entire day, not get a single good shot, and feel disappointed and frustrated.

    Know that failure is a good thing. The more you fail, the more likely you are to succeed. As Thomas Edison once said: “If you want to increase your success rate, double your failure rate.” 
    You can control the effort, not the results. Meaning, you can control putting in 8 hours of shooting in one day, and how hard you work. What you can’t control is whether you get a good shot or not.

    In my street photography, I often found that the more I go out and bring my camera, the more “lucky” I get. When I have my camera with me, the more opportunities I see. Luck isn’t some magical thing that hits us like lightning. However luck favors the prepared.

    Be prepared by always having your camera with you, always observing your scenes and environment, and know that every once in a while, you will be at the “right place at the right time.” If you’re comfortable with your camera and skilled enough, you will also click the shutter at the right moment.

    When you fail to get the shot, don’t become discouraged. Rather, learn from your failures and mistakes. What caused you to miss the shot? Was it because your camera wasn’t setup properly? Was it because your camera was in your bag (and not in your hand)? Was it because you were too nervous and didn’t have the courage to click the shutter? Learn from your failures, and the closer you will become to mastering your photography.

    24. Don’t be afraid to click the shutter

    One of the mistakes that street photographers make is that they are afraid to click the shutter, fearing that they will take bad shots. Realize the more bad shots you take, the more likely you are to get a “keeper.”

    In this scene in Istanbul, I took 6 “bad” shots until I got lucky (boy jumping into the water) and got an interesting image next to this man.

    To succeed more, fail more.

    25. Add “something more” to the frame

    “It’s not just that that and that exists. It’s that that, that, that, and that all exist in the same frame. I’m always looking for something more. You take in too much; perhaps it becomes total chaos. I’m always playing along that line: adding something more, yet keeping it sort of chaos.” – Alex Webb

    The more experienced you get in street photography, the more sophisticated you will become. You might start getting bored with the images you make, and you want something more in your images.

    Alex Webb is famous for creating complex images, with multiple layers and colors while having minimal overlaps in his frame. His photos are bursting with life, energy, and subject-matter. His photos are on the border of chaotic, yet they still work.
    What Alex Webb does is he constantly looks for something more in the frame he can add, especially things in the background.

    As beginner street photographers, we become obsessed only what is in front of us, and we disregard the background. We don’t know that the background is often as important as the foreground.

    If you see a single-subject in the foreground, take the shot, but wait and be patient and look for “something more.” Perhaps somewhere to the right of the scene, you see an old lady about the enter the frame. And on the top-left of the scene, you might see a woman pushing a baby stroller into the frame.

    Try to frame the shot where you can balance the image by dispersing subjects in opposite sides of the frames. Also try to avoid creating overlaps in your images with your subjects by adding a little bit of white-space between them.

    But how do you know when a scene is “too busy”? It is often a matter of taste. What I try to find is “multiple stories” in a single scene, which keeps the viewer engaged and interested.
    Don’t just put extra subjects in the frame for the sake of it. Only add what you think is essential and will add something of value to the frame.

    26. Master your body language

    “If you photograph for a long time, you get to understand such things as body language. I often do not look at people I photograph, especially afterwards. Also when I want a photo, I become somewhat fearless, and this helps a lot. There will always be someone who objects to being photographed, and when this happens you move on.” – Martin Parr

    As a street photographer, you want to learn how to master your body language. 90% of communication isn’t verbal; we communicate through our facial expressions, body language, and hand gestures.

    If you want make strong images, Martin Parr explains the importance of getting close to your subject, and how difficult it is:

    ”I go straight in very close to people and I do that because it’s the only way you can get the picture. You go right up to them. Even now, I don’t find it easy.” – Martin Parr

    Even Martin Parr, who has been shooting street photography for decades still finds it difficult to get close to people and get the shot.

    To be “invisible” when shooting street photography, Martin Parr gets very close to his subjects by pretending to focus somewhere else:

    ”I don’t announce it. I pretend to be focusing elsewhere. If you take someone’s photograph it is very difficult not to look at them just after. But it’s the one thing that gives the game away. I don’t try and hide what I’m doing – that would be folly.” – Martin Parr

    Eye contact often makes a stronger street photograph, but also it makes it very obvious to your subject that you want to photograph them. So if you want to be invisible when shooting street photography, avoid eye contact.

    The less nervous and awkward body language you show, the less nervous and awkward your subjects will feel.

    26. Tell convincing lies

    For this image, you can see the powerful effect of having eye contact in your photographs. To me, the man looks like he is peering straight into your soul; with a death-stare, which is unforgettable to the viewer.

    How do you make memorable street photos?

    Tell convincing lies.

    The lie in this photograph is that it looks like a candid photograph, where I just took a photo of him without permission, and he is about to go up to me, and bash in my face.

    The truth? He was the sweetest guy ever, as you can see in the contact sheet:

    The photo is a lie. I crafted my own version of reality, rather than capturing what I saw before me. Ultimately I think it is less boring.

    In this scene, I didn’t pretend like I was shooting something else. I was bold and make eye contact with my subject, and interacted with him. If I had never built up the confidence being able to make eye contact with strangers, I would have never been able to make this image.

    Switch it up in your street photography. Sometimes interact with your subjects and ask them not to smile. Other times shoot candid shots without permission. Shoot whatever suits your mood, and know that there isn’t one “right” or “wrong” way to shoot.
    Follow what feels right for you, and forget the rest.

    28. Kill your master

    “In those days Henri Cartier-Bresson limited us to lenses from 35 mm to 90 mm. When I showed him the photos he said, ‘brilliant René!’ I went outside and shouted ‘Hah!’ He heard me and said ‘what was that?’ I said, ‘nothing, never mind’. The lens I used was 180 mm – I never told him! At that point I broke loose from my mentor. I killed my mentor!” – Rene Burri

    Ironically enough even though this book is on learning from the masters of street photography, there are only so many “lessons” you an learn from the masters before you need to “kill your master.”

    For example, when Rene Burri started to shoot photography in Magnum, Cartier-Bresson was one of his mentors and “masters.” He hugely admired Cartier-Bresson’s work, and therefore would follow his philosophies in not using telephoto lenses, not cropping, and not posing his subjects.

    Ironically enough one of Burri’s most famous image of silhouetted men in Brazil, he shot it with a 180mm (directly contradicting the rules of Cartier-Bresson). By “breaking the rules,” Burri was able to make one of his most iconic and memorable images.

    Remember that after learning from the masters, you need to know when to ignore them or when to go against their teachings.
    Consider the “masters” of street photography simply as mentors or guides. Don’t listen to them blindly, as one day you need to take off your training wheels and learn to ride on your own.

    29. Contradict a “rule”

    If there is a certain “rule” in photography you normally follow, break it for a month, in a creative way.

    If the rule is “don’t crop,” do the exact opposite by experimenting with radical cropping. This is what William Klein and Robert Frank did with their images, and it worked for them. So never take “rules” at face value– always challenge them and try to contradict them.

    A personal rule I don’t shoot the back of heads. Why not? Generally if you can’t see someone’s face, it is hard to see their facial expression, and get a sense of emotion in the shot. I almost always prefer faces.

    In this situation for my “Suits” project, I visited the business quarters in Tokyo at around midnight. There was this arcade that I found on the top floor, and went around taking some photos with a flash. I saw this old man playing games at the arcade machine, and I took perhaps or two shots, and simply moved on.
    For me, the reason I think the shot works is because the back of his head is quite interesting: it shows that he is an older “suit,” probably in his 60’s or older (because of his balding head).

    If the back of someone’s head is more interesting than their face, just shoot it. Don’t be constricted by rules in a negative way.

    30. Follow your curiosity

    “The camera is like my third eye it is an outlet for my curiosity. I was always curious as a kid and you have to use your senses. I wanted to meet the big giants of the 19th century, a sculptor, an artist, a dictator a musician and then I would find the pictures would just happen. You don’t capture a picture you are responding. I respond to situations and I am very fast – fastest gun in the West – even at my age.” – Rene Burri

    One of the best traits a street photographer can have is curiosity. You can’t fake curiosity in life. Curiosity is the fuel of life. Curiosity is what keeps us hungry to learn more, experience more, and live more.

    If you want to become a better photographer, learn how to become more curious in life. Be more like a child and less like an adult. Once we become adults, we become closed off to new ideas and ways of thinking. Rather than exploring things for ourselves and following our curiosity we rather Google answers.

    Jacob Aue Sobol is a photographer who is perpetually curious about the lives of others. This is what fuels his work and passion:

    ”I also photograph because I am curious. I am curious about what the person on the other side of the street is thinking, how he or she lives, and how he or she feels. I am always looking for someone to share a moment with.” – Jacob Aue Sobol

    Don’t photograph what you think others might find interesting. One of the best ways to discover your “style” in photography is to learn what you don’t like to photograph. Photograph what you are personally interested in. If there is a certain neighborhood or part of your town that you are interested in, just go there with a camera and take photos.

    Don’t think too much. Follow and shoot what you’re curious about.

    31. Don’t explain your photos

    “I leave it to others to say what [my photos] mean. You know my photos, you published them, you exhibited them, and so you can say whether they have meaning or not.” – Josef Koudelka

    One of the common mistakes photographers make is that they don’t leave their photos open to interpretation. They use fancy titles which explain what they want the viewer to take out of the photograph.

    Take the opposite approach: leave your photos open to interpretation to the viewer. The more open to interpretation you make your photos, the more engaging they will be to your viewer.

    A key way to do this is to leave out key information, or to add mystery or ambiguity to your photos. Intentionally cut off heads, limbs, or obscure the background. Kill the sense of context of the scene. Make the viewer work hard to interpret what is going on in the scene.

    A good joke shouldn’t need to be “explained” by the joke teller. Similarly a good street photograph shouldn’t need a detailed backstory in the caption of a photograph.

    Similarly, movies are always the best when they end in an ambiguous way, in which the viewer makes up their own ending. When the director ends a film without a clear ending, the film is unforgettable.

    Photographer Joel Sternfeld shares how when the photographer makes an image, he or she is interpreting the world:

    ”Photography has always been capable of manipulation. Anytime you put a frame to the world, it’s an interpretation. I could get my camera and point it at two people and not point it at the homeless third person to the right of the frame, or not include the murder that’s going on to the left of the frame.” – Joel Sternfeld

    Richard Kalvar, a master Magnum photographer, also shares the importance of having mystery behind your shots and not explaining them:

    “It’s tempting to satisfy people’s curiosity as to what was “really going on” in a scene, but it always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. If there’s a mystery, the viewer should try to unravel it for him- or herself, subjectively, through intelligence, imagination and association. I want people to keep looking, not just move on to the next thing.” – Richard Kalvar

    One of the biggest takeaways we can get from Richard Kalvar?

    Don’t make the mystery or drama too obvious to your viewer. Let them follow their curiosity, by analyzing your images, and trying to unfold the mystery themselves.

    32. “Open” vs “closed” photos

    In photography, there tends to be two types of images: “open” photos and “closed” photos.

    “Open” photos

    “Open” photos are open to interpretation; which means the viewer can make up his or her own story in their head. “Open” photos tend to be more memorable and engaging.

    “Closed” photos

    “Closed” photos are closed to interpretation. A “closed” photo can only be interpreted in one way. Generally “closed” photos are forgettable; the viewer looks at the image once and has no reason to look at it again.

    Here are some assignments you can try out:

    Assignment #1: Make an “open” photo

    Make a photograph without a clear explanation. Intentionally try to use blur, out of focus effects, a flash, high contrast black and white, or cut out limbs or body parts.

    Make an image difficult to interpret, and ask your friends or viewers to come up with their own story. Capture people with strong body gestures or emotions, and don’t make it clear what exactly is going on.

    Make a mystery out of your photos, in which the viewer has to be the detective.

    Assignment #2: Make a “closed” photo

    Sometimes when you’re doing documentary or photojournalism photography, you don’t your photos open to interpretation. You want it to share a specific viewpoint.

    In this case, you want a detailed description or caption, for the viewer not to be misled. But street photography is more about creating your own interpretation of the world, rather than trying to capture some “objective” reality.

    Don’t forget that the more ambiguous or open-ended you make your images, the more fun and engaging it will be for the viewer.

    33. Kill your ego

    ”I wouldn’t talk about the photographs. No, I try to separate myself completely from what I do. I try to step back to look at them as somebody who has nothing to do with them.” –  Josef Koudelka

    We can let our ego get in the way of our photography. We think our photos are like our children, and we become too emotionally attached to them (even if they are bad photos). We need to learn how to “kill our babies.”

    I have a difficult time overcoming my attachments to my photos. When people critique my photos, I feel like they’re critiquing me as a human being.

    Remember: you are not your photos. When people critique or criticize your photos, they aren’t criticizing you. They’re just judging your photos.

    One of the best ways to overcome this is to detach your ego from your photos. By detaching your ego from your photos, you can judge them more honestly and objectively.

    When you want feedback on your photos, ask people, “Please be straightforward and give the photos a brutally honest critique.” Also when critiquing your own work, imagine that they were shot by someone else.

    Another master photographer, Sebastião Salgado mirrors this sentiment. He dedicates making images for others to make a positive impact in the world, instead of boosting his own self-ego:

    ”The biggest danger for a photographer is if they start thinking they are important.” – Sebastião Salgado

    Edit ruthlessly, and kill your ego from the process.

    34. Shoot what you love

    ”I wouldn’t talk about the photographs. No, I try to separate myself completely from what I do. I try to step back to look at them as somebody who has nothing to do with them.” –  Josef Koudelka

    We can let our ego get in the way of our photography. We think our photos are like our children, and we become too emotionally attached to them (even if they are bad photos). We need to learn how to “kill our babies.”

    I have a difficult time overcoming my attachments to my photos. When people critique my photos, I feel like they’re critiquing me as a human being.

    Remember: you are not your photos. When people critique or criticize your photos, they aren’t criticizing you. They’re just judging your photos.

    One of the best ways to overcome this is to detach your ego from your photos. By detaching your ego from your photos, you can judge them more honestly and objectively.

    When you want feedback on your photos, ask people, “Please be straightforward and give the photos a brutally honest critique.” Also when critiquing your own work, imagine that they were shot by someone else.

    Sebastião Salgado mirrors this sentiment. He dedicates making images for others to make a positive impact in the world, instead of boosting his own self-ego:

    ”The biggest danger for a photographer is if they start thinking they are important.” – Sebastião Salgado

    Edit ruthlessly, and kill your ego from the process.

    35. Don’t hesitate

    I have always been drawn to badasses, characters, and tattoos. Partly because I grew up not being confident in my own masculinity, so whenever I see those who I think are tough, I am naturally drawn to them.

    I saw this man in Downtown LA, and I was absolutely frightened to approach and photograph him. However I mustered up the courage to approach him, and ask to make a few portraits of him.

    Even though he looked scary, he was extremely friendly and had no problem with me taking his photo. I shot two photos with a flash on my camera, and I am glad that I followed my gut and intuition in asking him for the shot.

    If you see what you think might be a good photo, never hesitate; and just go for it. Live life without regrets.

    36. Don’t try to be someone else

    ”Photograph who you are!” – Bruce Gilden

    One of the most polarizing street photographers is Bruce Gilden. Love him or hate him, he is true to who he is. He was born and raised in the concrete jungle of New York City, and he professes that his father was a “gangster type.” Bruce has an attitude, shoots up close and personal with a flash and 28mm, and is unapologetic about how he shoots or his work.

    A lot of people criticize him for exploiting his subjects, or being an asshole. Personally I’ve met him and I would say that he stays true to who he is: a rough, tough, no bullshit human being. But at the same time, he has a lot of empathy for the people he photographs:

    ”I love the people I photograph. I mean, they’re my friends. I’ve never met most of them or I don’t know them at all, yet through my images I live with them. At the same time, they are symbols. The people in my pictures aren’t Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith or whatever; they’re someone that crossed my path or I’ve crossed their path, and through the medium of photography I’ve been able to make a good picture of that encounter. They have a life of their own, but they are also are symbols. I would say that I respect the viewer, but I don’t want to tell him everything.” – Bruce Gilden

    When I started shooting street photography, I tried to imitate Henri Cartier-Bresson (who was extremely introverted and didn’t like to interact with his subjects).

    But the problem is that I wasn’t being true to myself. I didn’t photograph who I was. I was imitating a photographer whose personality and worldview was completely different from mine.
    Over the past several years I discovered my style in street photography reflected who I was as a human being: social, chatty, and engaging with others.

    At heart I am an extrovert (I am an “ESFP” according to the Myers-Briggs personality test). Ultimately I prefer engaging with my subjects when photographing them (as Bruce Gilden often does), and I prefer to shoot closely and prefer physical intimacy through proximity.

    There is no “right” or “wrong” way to shoot street photography. You need to shoot who you are. What makes your personality unique? If you prefer not to interact with your subjects, shoot from a distance and be candid.

    If you’re extroverted and like conversation, don’t be afraid to talk with your subjects.

    The ancient Greeks said: “Know thyself.” Similarly, know thyself in street photography. Shoot what suits your personality, mood, and temperament, and disregard what everyone else says or does.

    37. Don’t repeat yourself

    ”When I went out of Czechoslovakia I experienced two changes: The first one is that there wasn’t this situation any longer. I didn’t need wide-angle lenses. And I had understood the technique very well, I was repeating myself, and I’m not interested in repetition, I wanted to change. I took a 50mm/35mm Leica.The second change was that I started to travel the world. I had this possibility and I had a look at this world.” – Josef Koudelka

    There is always a fine line between repetition and variety as a photographer and artist. On one hand you want repetition and consistency in your work to give you a certain style or voice. On the other hand, you want variety in your work to prevent yourself (and viewer) from getting bored.

    When Josef Koudelka worked on his “Gypsies” project, he traveled and lived with the Roma people for around ten years. He shot it all on a SLR and a 25mm lens. This helped him shoot in cramped quarters, and create an intimate document of the life of the Roma people.

    When Koudelka was done with the project, he realized that he no longer needed to repeat himself. Therefore he just ended up exploring and traveling the world with a 35mm/50mm Leica. Koudelka wanted to also switch up the subject matter that he photographed:

    “I don’t want to reach the point from where I wouldn’t know how to go further. It’s good to set limits for oneself, but there comes a moment when we must destroy what we have constructed.” – Josef Koudelka

    There is a concept called “creative destruction” in art and life. The idea is that you need a framework to keep you inspired and creative in your artwork. But at a certain stage, this framework can become more of a cage. Once this happens, you must break out of your cage.

    38. Ask for permission

    “I carried this little album of my work. I have three choices. If I see someone in this beautiful mood, I’ll go up to them and ask them, I’d like to take a picture of that mood. If they say yes, I ask if they can get back into that mood. Not everyone can do that. Or, if the said no, then I took out the album and they saw the work. Or I took it, and ran like hell. I had those three choices in the subway.” – Bruce Davidson

    Bruce Davidson is a photographer who isn’t afraid to ask for permission. He is a street photographer who has deep empathy for his subjects, and tries to make imagery that connects with them.
    Davidson’s first body of work was “East 100th Street,” in which he documented impoverished individuals and families with uncompromising sincerity and love with a large-format camera. He would visit the neighborhood over and over again, before he was able to build trust with his subjects. One thing that helped him was that he printed photos of the people he shot and gave it to the subjects in the neighborhood, rather than just taking shots and running away.

    After that project, he started to work on photograph the gritty subways of NYC in color, using an SLR and a flash in the 1980’s.

    If you see Davidson’s images in his “Subway” book, most of them look candid and without permission. But in reality, Davidson asked a lot of his subjects for permission. Davidson describes his approach:

    “Often I would just approach the person: ‘Excuse me, I’m doing a book on the subway and would like to take a photograph of you. I’ll send you a print.’ If they hesitated, I would pull out my portfolio and show them my subway work; if they said no, it was no forever. Sometimes, I’d take the picture, then apologize, explaining that the mood was so stunning I couldn’t break it, and hoped they didn’t mind. There were times I would take the pictures without saying anything at all. But even with this last approach, my flash made my presence known. When it went off, everyone in the car knew that an event was taking place– the spotlight was on someone. It also announced to any potential thieves that there was a camera around. Well aware of that I often changed cars after taking pictures.” – Bruce Davidson

    Davidson didn’t always ask for permission. But shooting candidly would sometimes draw unnecessary attention:

    ”Sometimes, I’d take the picture, then apologize, explaining that the mood was so stunning I couldn’t break it, and hoped they didn’t mind. There were times I would take the pictures without saying anything at all. But even with this last approach, my flash made my presence known. When it went off, everyone in the car knew that an event was taking place- the spotlight was on someone.” – Bruce Davidson

    Know that there is no reason you should be afraid of asking for permission. The worst case scenario is that someone will say “no” upon you asking them.

    Zoe Strauss, a contemporary Magnum Photographer also has to deal with a lot of rejection in her work when asking for permission:

    “I’ve stopped hundreds of people and asked to make their photo. If it’s an up-close portrait, I always ask the person if I can take the photo. Often the answer is ‘no’.” – Zoe Strauss

    Asking for permission is incredibly difficult. You make yourself vulnerable to rejection, which is scary and intimidating.

    The wonderful thing about asking for permission is that the image-making process becomes more a collaboration between two individuals, rather than the photographer simply “stealing” an image from the subject.

    If you are afraid of approaching strangers and shooting their photo without permission, start off by asking. The more you ask and the more you get rejected, the more confidence you will build. Not only that, but you will improve your people skills when people do eventually say “yes.”

    Here is some practical advice when asking for permission:

    1. Compliment your subject

    When you first approach your subject, start off by complimenting them by telling why you want to photograph them. For example, it can be the color of their hair or eyes, their outfit, their earrings, or sunglasses. In the past I have said, “Excuse me sir, I absolutely love your face. Do you mind if I made a portrait of you?” with great success.

    If you find someone who looks a bit down on his/her luck yet still want to make a photo of them, don’t give a fake compliment. However you can say something positive like, “Excuse me sir, you look like you have one hell of a life story. Do you mind if I made a portrait of you?”

    2. “Making” vs “Taking” a photo

    I have also found that by saying “making” a photo (instead of “taking” a photo), I get more people to say yes. Why is that? “Making” a photo is a more collaborative and creative process (this is what Europeans say). “Taking” a photo almost sounds like you’re stealing somebody’s soul.

    3. “Portrait” vs “Picture”

    By asking to make someone’s “portrait” not “picture,” subjects are much more willing. What is the difference? “Portrait” sounds much more regal and respectful. Most people would be honored to have their “portrait” made. However “picture” sounds more creepy and unprofessional.

    4. Show them your LCD screen

    If your subject says “yes” to being photographed, make them part of the image-making process by showing them the LCD screen. Ask them which shot they like the best, and even offer to email them the photo.

    5. Ask them their life story

    Generally when I approach people and don’t have anything to say, I ask them “What is your life story?” as an ice-breaker. This opens up so many amazing stories, and you can always find some common ground. By paving this path, you can find a way to connect with any stranger on the streets, and also share some of your life story with them too.

    As an example, I met this interesting character in the Mission in San Francisco while out shooting with a student. We chatted with him for about 10 minutes before taking his image. Once we started to talk about his life story, he totally dropped his guard:

    I took 69 photos of him in total, and it wasn’t until the last photo that I made which I felt showed his character. I loved his orange beard, and the soft robin-egg blue of his eyes. Even though he was a rough character who was homeless, we made a connection. I ended up giving him a print, which brought him immense amounts of joy.

    39. Try to get rejected

    We often fear the rejection more than the rejection itself.

    If you want to quickly break out of your shell in street photography, start off by asking for permission. The goal is by the end of the day, you want 10 people to say “yes” being photographed, and 10 people saying “no” to being photographed.

    If your subject says “yes,” take at least 10 photos of them, and show them the LCD afterwards. Even offer to email it to them.
    You can also ask your subject which photo of them they prefer. This engages your subject, and makes them more comfortable being photographed.

    40. Don’t define yourself

    “Oh people you’re a documentary photographer. I don’t even know what that means. Oh people say you are a photojournalist. I’m rarely published in journals. Oh then yore a fine art photographer. Then I say I’m not. I aspire to be a fine photographer.” – Bruce Davidson

    Don’t become pigeon-holed by definitions in photography (especially in “street photography”). Most of the “street photographers” profiled in this book never call themselves “street photographers.”

    “Street photography” is just an easy blanket term we can use to describe the type of public photos of people we make (to differentiate ourselves from nature and landscape photographers).

    Photography is photography. Some days you might want to shoot “street photography,” and on other days you might want to shoot your friends, family, or sunsets.

    Don’t let definitions hold you back. Disregard labels that others try to put on you.

    Bruce Davidson is often characterized as a “documentary” or “street” photographer. Some of his work is “documentary” in the sense that he spends a lot of time with the same subjects. Some of his work is “street photography” in the sense that sometimes he shoots photos of subjects candidly, in public spaces.

    Bruce Davidson sees himself as a “humanist” that happens to take photos, rather than being any sort of “photographer.”

    You are a human being that is interested in life. Just think of yourself as an individual that loves life, and just happens to take photos.

    Once you shed external definitions, this opens up your view to the world. No longer do you not shoot certain subject matter because it isn’t “street photography.”

    Photograph anything that remotely interests you. Don’t worry if the photo might be a “cliche” or “boring.” You don’t need to publish all the photos you take. And if you shoot digitally, there is no downside to making extra photos.

    Don’t aim to be a “street photographer”, aim to be a great photographer. Don’t ask photographers whether they think your photos are “street photography” or not. Simply ask them whether the images you make emotionally move them.

    Why do photographers like to define one another and stick them into boxes? It makes others feel comfortable about themselves.

    By putting other photographers into boxes, you feel more secure about yourself. This is a greedy and selfish thing to do that imposes your own definition onto others. Human beings are uncomfortable with unambiguity, and they always want to see where they are in comparison to you.

    I often get ridiculed that I am not a “street photographer.” Rather than arguing with them, I just resort to self-deprecating humor by saying, “You’re right, I’m not a street photographer, I’m just an Asian tourist with a camera.”

    To be a better photographer, be more interested in your fellow human beings:

    “I’m just a humanist. I just photograph the human condition as I find it. It can be serious. It can also be ironic or humorous. I’m political, but not in an overt way.” – Bruce Davidson

    Even Garry Winogrand hated the term “street photographer.” In one interview he joked that when people asked him what kind of photographer he was, he would just that that he was a “zoo photographer.”

    To sum up, aim to love people first, and then focus on photography afterwards. I believe that it is more important to make connections with people than to make photos.

    41. Don’t stop your projects too soon

    “I find that young people tend to stop too soon. They mimic something they’ve seen, but they don’t stay long enough. If you’re going to photograph anything, you have to spend a long time with it so your subconscious has a chance to bubble to the surface.” – Bruce Davidson

    One of the problems that many photographers starting off is that they stop their photography projects too soon. They quickly get bored before really delving deep into their subject matter, theme, or concepts.

    A truly great photography project require time, depth, consideration, hard work, sweat, passion, and endurance.

    For example for Bruce Davidson’s “Subway” project, he rode the subway nearly every single day (at random hours in the day) for two years straight. By spending so much time in the subway, he became part of the subway. He learned the nuances of the subway, was able to capture different types of subject matter, and a variety of images.

    The problem with modern day society is that we often suffer from “photographic ADD”; we can’t concentrate on one project, vision, or subject matter. We quickly flit from one fashionable type of photography to another.

    Growing a strong photography project is like growing a tree. You need to start off with a strong foundation, and you need to plant a seed and give it lots of water, light, and love. It takes a long time for a seed to sprout into a great tree.

    Look at all the great redwood trees, and imagine the thousands of years they needed to grow to the height they currently exist.

    The mistake many photographers do is that they prematurely pull their seeds out of the ground. They don’t let their seeds germinate long enough to lay down roots, and grow. If you are constantly re-planting your seed, it will never grow to incredible heights.

    How do you find a photographic project that is interesting? Bruce Davidson gives great advice for aspiring photographers:

    ”If I were a student right now and I had a teacher like me I’d say, ‘You have to carry your camera everyday and take a picture everyday. And by the end of the week you should have 36 pictures exposed. And then suddenly you’ll latch onto someone, maybe a street vendor- oh he or she is very interesting I might have to be with him or her. So things open up visually.” – Bruce Davidson

    Dorothea Lange, the famous photographer of “migrant mother” also shares the philosophy of working your theme until exhaustion, and not giving up too soon:

    “Pick a theme and work it to exhaustion… the subject must be something you truly love or truly hate. […] Photographers stop photographing a subject too soon before they have exhausted the possibilities.” – Dorothea Lange

    When you’re working on a project, don’t stop too soon. Keep working your theme over a long period of time. The more depth you have with your project, the more unique and meaningful you will make it.

    A practical tip? Think decades for your photography project, not years, months, or days.

    42. Take shitty photos

    “You shoot a lot of shit and you’re bound to come up with a few good ones.” – Trent Parke

    Don’t be a perfectionist in your photography. If you seek perfection, it might lead to “photographer’s block.”

    Don’t get caught up in your ideas for your photography projects. Don’t worry about the small details; just go out and shoot and figure out the details later.

    A lot of perfectionists shoot themselves in the foot because every time they go out and shoot, they expect all their shots to be great. But friend remember that the more “shit” you shoot, the more likely you are to get a great shot.

    I am constantly disappointed in my photography, especially when I shoot digitally. Why is that? Because I set unrealistic expectations for myself, and I look at my photos too soon (the same day).

    Most master photographers I have talked to only admit to making one good photo a month, and one great shot a year. The chance of me making a good photo in a day is extremely low.

    This is a benefit of shooting film: I generally get my film processed once every 6 months-1 year. This means that I am more likely to get a great shot, which leads to less disappointment.

    With digital, I don’t have the mental fortitude to wait so long.

    Remember that the more risks you take, the more likely you are to take a great shot. To live life without taking any risks is to never have the chance to be great. Wayne Gretzky, one of the best hockey players of all time once said:

    ”You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” – Wayne Gretzsky

    If you don’t take any photos of a scene you find interesting, your chance of making a good photo is 0%. The more risks you take, you are slightly more likely to make an image you are happy with.

    Don’t be afraid to shoot shitty photos. In-fact, intentionally try to shoot a lot of “shit.” To be frank, I think it is impossible to shoot 100,000 “shitty” photos in a row. You are bound to get a good one along the line.

    I don’t mean for you to put your camera to burst mode and just “machine gun” everything you see. Rather, try to shoot 10,000 photos intentionally, and try to make good shots. But the secret is to have no expectations of making any good photos.

    The higher the expectations you set for yourself, the more pressure you will put on yourself, and the less likely you are to make a good shot. It is kind of like going on a first date: trying too hard to impress your date will actually make them less interested in you.

    Remember to separate the shooting/editing phase in photography. When you’re out on the streets, just shoot anything you find interesting. Don’t put any restrictions on your shooting.

    Once you go home and download your photos to your computer, be a brutal editor. Be ruthless. Kill your babies.

    As a general rule of thumb, only expect to make one good street photograph a month.

    Never forget how difficult street photography is; it is the most difficult genre of photography that exists. No other form of photography requires courage to approach strangers, to compose your frame well, and to also have the stamina to “work the scene.”

    Not only that, but so much of what happens in street photography is fleeting and random. There is so little we can control in street photography; we can only control where to stand and when to click the shutter.

    Remember if you don’t get the shot, don’t make excuses. There are certain scenes in which there is nothing else you can do in terms of making a better shot. For example, you might have been in a very cramped area, which prevented you from framing the scene better. But ultimately you have the control whether to “keep” or “ditch” your shot.

    I honestly feel that 90% of photography is about being a good editor of your own work (choosing your best shots), rather than just making good images.

    With modern digital cameras, making a technically competent photo is very easy (especially if you shoot in “P” mode and RAW). “Bad” cameras don’t exist anymore.

    The biggest issue we have in modern photography is that there are too many images to look through. My friend Charlie Kirk said it best:

    “If you shoot film, you’re a photographer. If you shoot digital, you’re an editor.” – Charlie Kirk

    Not to say film is better than digital; they are just different. With digital, you need to be even more brutal with your editing, because with film you end up shooting less.

    One great example of a master photographer is Trent Parke who is never satisfied with his work, and is always trying to take his work to the next level.

    For example, one of Parke’s most famous images of of dark silhouetted subjects against a bus in Sydney (AUSTRALIA. Sydney. Martin Place, Moving bus. 2002) required him to visit the area 3-4 times a week for an entire month to capture. Parke explains:

    ”I shot a hundred rolls of film, but once I’d got that image I just couldn’t get anywhere near it again. That’s always a good sign: you know you’ve got something special.” – Trent Parke

    One of the lessons I learned from a Magnum workshop I attended with David Alan Harvey and Constantine Manos is this: the difference between a mediocre and great photographer is how bad they want the shot.

    A mediocre photographer will be satisfied with 1-2 photos of a scene. A great photographer will take 100-200 photos of a scene (to get the perfect image).

    Don’t be afraid to make bad images. Diane Arbus explains how by taking “bad” photos we can learn:

    “Some pictures are tentative forays without your even knowing it. They become methods. It’s important to take bad pictures. It’s the bad ones that have to do with what you’ve never done before. They can make you recognize something you had seen in a way that will make you recognize it when you see it again.” – Diane Arbus

    43. Chase the light

    “I am forever chasing light. Light turns the ordinary into the magical.” – Trent Parke

    The root of the word “photography” in Greek means “drawing with light.” Don’t see yourself as a photographer, but as painter using a camera as your brush.

    As a rule, always follow the light. When you’re out shooting on the streets, try to find areas with dramatic contrast between the shadows and light. If you shoot during the middle of the day, you can adjust your camera to -2 exposure compensation to get very dark shadows, and well-exposed highlights.

    In post-processing, you can also “crush the blacks” by dragging the “black” slider to make even more contrasty black and white images.

    One thing I have discovered is that black and white looks good regardless of lighting situations. However color photographs look really bad when shot in poor light.

    For good inspiration of good light and color, study the work of Alex Webb. As a rule, he doesn’t shoot when the light is poor and harsh. Therefore he either shoots early-morning (sunrise) or late-afternoon (sunset). He is the ultimate painter of light in color photography.

    What you can also do is this: during the day (when the light isn’t good), use that time to scout locations. If you find a street corner that you find might be interesting, re-visit it when the sun starts to set, and then park yourself on that corner, and work the scene.

    Light turns the ordinary into the magical. A scene without good light can be boring. A scene with great light becomes something otherworldly.

    If you’re shooting at sunset, follow the light. As the sun starts to set, you will notice the rays of light will shift and move. Just follow the light.

    If you want to be more “efficient” in your street photography, limit your shooting only to “golden hour” (sunrise/sunset). During the times when the light isn’t good, either get a cup of coffee or take a nap.

    When the light is good, shoot like a madman.

    44. Channel your personal emotions

    ”When I came to Sydney at the age of 21 I left everything behind – all my childhood friends and my best mate – at first I just felt this sense of complete loneliness in the big city. So, I did what I always do: I went out and used my Leica to channel those personal emotions into images.” – Trent Parke

    There is no “objectivity” in photography. As a photographer, you are a filter of reality. You decide what to include in the frame, and what not to include in the frame.

    Furthermore, you are also a “subject selector.” You filter what you find “interesting” and what you find “boring.”

    There is no such thing as an objectively “interesting” image. What you find interesting might not be interesting to your viewer.

    For example, let’s say you took a photo of an African villager with exotic paint on their face. To you (assuming you are a Westerner) you might find it fascinating. But if you showed that to one of the fellow African villagers (who also wear the same exotic paint on their face), they wouldn’t find it interesting.

    As viewers of images, we use our own personal background and story to interpret images. We use our prejudices, our pre-conceptions of the world, and interpret images based on our personal biases and views.

    How can we make emotional images that connect with our viewers, if photography is so subjective?

    My suggestion: shoot with your heart. Capture emotions.

    There is no guarantees that your viewers will find your images interesting. But the more you shoot with your heart, the more likely you are to strike an emotional chord with your viewer as well.

    One photographer whose work I greatly admire is Josh White, a friend of mine who shows his emotional scars through his photos. He is from Canada and has lived in Seoul for many years, and has blogged about his life experiences very publicly.

    The viewer of Josh’s images don’t feel like outsiders; they feel like a part of his experiences. Furthermore, Josh writes with his heart on his sleeve (and also shoots from the heart). I feel like I have gotten to know Josh not only as a photographer but a human being through both his writing and images.

    Often photographers who deal with a lot of emotional hurt and turmoil end up creating great work. Think about all the famous artists who have created incredible work after suffering a death, a break up, or any other personal tragedy.

    Similarly, many artists have created great work when intensely happy things happen in their lives (birth of a child or a second-chance at life after a near-death accident).

    Trent Parke, whose monochrome images bleed with emotion and mystery shares how he tries to infuse his personal images into his work:

    ”I’m always trying to channel those personal emotions into my work. That is very different from a lot of documentary photographers who want to depict the city more objectively. For me it is very personal – it’s about what is inside me. I don’t think about what other people will make of it. I shoot for myself.” – Trent Parke

    I find that photography is one of the best ways of self-therapy. When I used to work a 9-5 job, and feeling stressed after answering 200+ emails, I would go walk around the block from my office and just take photos of strangers to relieve stress.

    When I channeled my emotions in my shooting, I could better relate and emphasize with my subjects on the streets. When I felt shitty and overwhelmed, I would see other people like that on the streets. When I felt excited and overjoyed, I could see that in the streets as well.

    In-fact, I could surmise that many street photographers treat street photography as “walking meditation” (Rinzi Ruiz, a good friend has taught me a lot about how he connects Zen “mindfulness” and street photography).

    The more I shoot strangers, the more I discover and learn about myself. Every image I take of a stranger is a projection of my own emotions and beliefs upon them. Each image I shoot of a stranger is a self-portrait.

    I love the interactions that I gain through street photography. There is nothing more soothing than sharing my stresses, anxieties, and difficulties with strangers (ironically enough, strangers are more willing to listen to your life problems than your close friends).

    Trent Parke has a similar philosophy, that photography is discovering yourself and your place in the world:

    ”My mum died when I was 10 and it changed everything about me. It made me question everything around me. Photography is a discovery of life which makes you look at things you’ve never looked at before. It’s about discovering yourself and your place in the world.” – Trent Parke

    Jacob Aue Sobol is another Magnum Photographer who is intensely curious about his subjects. I am always amazed to see the access he is able to get with his subjects during intimate moments (even having sex). His goal with photography? Integrating his life experiences with love:

    ”The year after I started at the European Film College, I started writing short stories and, later, taking pictures. Once I realized that I was able to isolate my emotions and communicate them through my pictures, I felt like I had found an ability which was unique and which I wanted to explore further. Now, a lot of experiences in life and the people I have shared my time with have added to my memories, my fear and my love, and through this they have inspired me to continue photographing.” – Jacob Aue Sobol

    Photography enhances my life experiences. Without a camera I wouldn’t be as present. Furthermore, the camera helps record my emotions, memories, and feelings of loved ones, strangers, and my life experiences.

    45. “All photographs are accurate, none of them is truth”

    ”There is no such thing as inaccuracy in a photograph. All photographs are accurate. None of them is truth.” – Richard Avedon

    Richard Avedon isn’t known as a “street photographer.” He is famous for his large-format black and white portraits of models, celebrities, and musicians.

    However I feel that his strongest body of work is his “In the American West” project. From 1979-84, Avedon traveled across America with a crew and shot stark black-and-white portraits of ordinary people against a simple white backdrop. His images ooze of hope, despair, longing, strength, confusion, and love.

    When Avedon first exhibited the images, he got a lot of criticism. Many said that he showed a “distorted” view of working-class Americans. Furthermore, he was often criticized for capturing unflattering portraits of his subjects. How did Avedon respond? He described how his image-making process was more of a “fiction than “objective” documentary:

    “I think the larger issue is that photography is not reportage, it is not journalism— it is fiction. When I go to the west and do the working class (it is more about the working class than the west)—it is my view. Like John Wayne is Hollywood’s view. So it means my idea of the working class is a fiction.” – Richard Avedon

    Every photo we make is an opinion. Opinions are never “right” or “wrong”; they are simply our subjective view of reality.

    Avedon boldly states that all photos are “accurate” in the sense that the moment your camera captures an image, the moment you caught is precise (cameras don’t lie).

    There is no objective “truth” in your photos, because we only capture a fraction of a second. How can a fraction of a second show the entirety of someone’s personality, character, and soul? If you take a photo of someone blinking (and it makes them look stupid), is that a “lie,” or just a slice of reality?

    Mary Ellen Mark (a photographer who was very intimate with her subjects) admits that photos are just opinions. As a photographer, you need to express your subjective point-of-view:

    “I don’t think you’re ever an objective observer. By making a frame you’re being selective, then you edit the pictures you want published and you’re being selective again. You develop a point of view that you want to express. You try to go into a situation with an open mind, but then you form an opinion and you express it in your photographs. It is very important for a photographer to have a point of view- that contributes to a great photograph.” – Mary Ellen Mark

    The humanist photographer Sebastião Salgado adds the deeply subjective nature of photography:

    “Photography is not objective. It is deeply subjective – my photography is consistent ideologically and ethically with the person I am.” – Sebastião Salgado

    Who are you as a photographer and a human being? Show it through your images.

    46. Disturb your viewer

    ”It’s so strange to me that anyone would ever think that a work of art shouldn’t be disturbing or shouldn’t be invasive. That’s the property of work— that’s the arena of a work of art. It is to disturb, it to make you think, to make you feel. If my work didn’t disturb from time to time, it would be a failure in my own eyes. It’s meant to disturb— in a positive way.” – Richard Avedon

    Fear holds us back as photographers and artists. We are afraid of being judged, critiqued, or hated on.

    Every great photographer had their critics. No matter how great you are as a photographer, you will never have 100% of the photography world love your work.

    Often people hate on photographers simply because they are jealous of their success. These jealous people call great photographers “overrated” because they feel frustrated about their own lack of fame and success.

    No matter how good you are as a photographer, you’re always going to get your “haters.” In fact, you can judge how successful a photographer by how many haters that photographer has.

    When you’re starting off, everyone is supportive of you. But once you become rich, famous, and influential– you are going to have people stab you in the back, be jealous of your success, and talk shit about you behind your back (trust me, it has happened to me).

    When Robert Frank published “The Americans,” (arguably the most influential photography book in history) it was hated. Photography critics called it communist, Anti-american, and ugly. They disliked the high-contrast and gritty images, and they thought Frank was an amateur who didn’t deserve any respect.

    Nowadays everybody looks at Robert Frank with a holy reverence, and his work has inspired millions of photographers from all around the world.

    Whenever you try to do something against the grain, you will always be criticized. For example, when Daido Moriyama first started to shoot photography, the trend was to get hyper-crisp, sharp, and realistic images (with little grain as possible). Perfection in images were valued.

    However Daido followed his own path and disregarded what everyone else did. He inherited a point-and-shoot film camera from a friend (film Ricoh GR) and shot gritty black-and-white photos, and innovated the grainy, out of focus, and technically imperfect aesthetic called “are, bure, boke.”

    Now gritty black-and-white photos with high-contrast is a popular aesthetic, adopted by photographers such as Anders Petersen and Jacob Aue Sobol.

    Going back to what Richard Avedon said, great art is often disturbing and invasive to the viewer. Great art disturbs the viewer by pushing them out of their comfort zones. Great art challenges the thinking, pre-conceived notions, beliefs, and concepts of the viewer. Great art challenges viewers to think and feel in a different way.

    The worst thing you can be as an artist and photographer is to be boring. The secret to failure as a photographer is to make work that doesn’t offend anybody.

    No matter how great a photographer is, they will always have “haters.” For example, do a Google search on any photographer or artist you admire. Search for their name and add keywords like “overrated” or “sucks.”

    You cannot go through life and your photographic journey without having someone dislike your work.

    My suggestion: embrace it, and follow your own voice, without worrying if others will be disturbed by your work.

    47. Disregard technical settings

    ”Modern technology has taken the angst out of achieving the perfect shot. For me, the only thing that counts is the idea behind the image: what you want to see and what you’re trying to say. The idea is crucial. You have to think of something you want to say and expand upon it.” – Martin Parr

    Nowadays with modern digital technology, a photographer doesn’t need to rely on manual or technical settings anymore. If you just set your camera to “P” (program mode), your camera automatically chooses the exposure, aperture, shutter speed, and often does a better job than the photographer. This liberates the photographer to focus on composing and framing the scene.

    The technical settings matter insofar much as you need to make a strong image with a strong idea.

    The real master photographers don’t care so much about technical settings, but what they are trying to say through their images. Magnum photographer Constantine Manos also mirror the importance of ideas in photography:

    ”Ideas are very important and underrated in photography. A photograph, like a written text or a short story, is an idea. A photograph is an idea. A visual idea. It doesn’t need any words. If you see something, a good photograph is the expression of an idea. This doesn’t require captions and explanations. A photo should make a statement.” – Constantine Manos

    Even several decades ago many photographers were overly-obsessed with technical considerations. Andre Kertesz (a predecessor to Henri Cartier-Bresson) stressed the importance of mood and emotion:

    ”Technique isn’t important. Technique is in the blood. Events and mood are more important than good light and the happening is what is important.” – Andre Kertesz

    Andre Kertesz expands by saying images with expression and soul is more important than technical perfection:

    ”If you want to write, you should learn the alphabet. You write and write and in the end you have a beautiful, perfect alphabet. But it isn’t the alphabet that is important. The important thing is what you are writing, what you are expressing. The same thing goes for photography. Photographs can be technically perfect and even beautiful, but they have no expression.” – Andre Kertesz

    When someone reads a book that is amazing, wouldn’t it be silly if they asked the author what typewriter, laptop, or pen or paper they used?

    It is the content and the emotion that matters, not the tool or technical settings.

    48. Embrace “P” mode

    When you’re out making images, you only have a limited amount of brainpower. So don’t waste your effort in thinking about your camera settings. Focus on capturing the moment, the mood, and the soul behind an image.

    If you’ve never tried “P” mode, give it a go. Set your camera to “P” (or program), center-point autofocus, and ISO 800. This will automatically prevent you from worrying about the technical settings, and more on the image-making aspect of things. Try it out for a month, and see if this liberates and helps your photography.

    For example when I was in New Orleans in 2015, I shot only with a Ricoh GR II digital camera, and shot it all in “P” mode, center-point autofocus, and ISO 800. I photographed anything I found remotely interesting, and had fun. It was amazing; I felt like I was a kid again.

    The less I worry about technical settings, the more fun I have, and I also make better images.

    If you make a great shot, nobody is going to care what camera mode you shot it in. Apparently Steve McCurry shoots nowadays digitally in “P” mode and Auto-ISO (even Moises Saman and Eli Reed from Magnum).

    Set your camera settings, forget about it, and just shoot. Or even easier to remember: “Set it and forget it.”

    49. Enjoy the process

    “I was taking pictures for myself. I felt free. Photography was a lot of fun for me. First of all I’d get really excited waiting to see if the pictures would come out the next day. I didn’t really know anything about photography, but I loved the camera.” – William Klein

    If you’re not having fun in photography, you’re doing something wrong. Not only that, but why would you make photos if you didn’t enjoy it? We already have enough stress and anxiety from our jobs, relationships, and other aspects of our lives. The more fun you have while making images, the more your enthusiasm will communicate to the viewer.

    William Klein expresses his love and enthusiasm for photography vividly. Through his words, you can see how much love and passion he has for his craft:

    “… a photographer can love his camera and what it can do in the same way that a painter can love his brush and paints, love the feel of it and the excitement.” – William Klein

    When William Klein shot on the streets, he would experiment and try out different techniques. He wasn’t 100% sure what he would get, but he harnessed luck and chance, all the while enjoying the process:

    ”I would look at my contact sheets and my heart would be beating, you know. To see if I’d caught what I wanted. Sometimes, I’d take shots without aiming, just to see what happened. I’d rush into crowds – bang! Bang! I liked the idea of luck and taking a chance, other times I’d frame a composition I saw and plant myself somewhere, longing for some accident to happen.” – William Klein

    While it is important to work hard in your photography, don’t push yourself so hard that you no longer enjoy the process of photography. Constantine Manos explains:

    ”Don’t drive yourself [too hard]. If you’re tired, sit down. If you’re not enjoying it [photographing], you’re doing something wrong. Photography should always be a pleasurable search for something wonderful.” – Constantine Manos

    Another tip: don’t take yourself too seriously, just like Elliott Erwitt:

    ”I’m not a serious photographer like most of my colleagues. That is to say, I’m serious about not being serious.” Elliott Erwitt

    At the end of the day, nobody cares about your photos but yourself. So remember that photography isn’t about creating great images, but about enjoying your life, and enjoying the process.

    50. Single photos can’t tell stories

    ”For me this just reveals, once again, the biggest problem with photography. Photographs aren’t good at telling stories. Stories require a beginning, middle and end. They require the progression of time. Photographs stop time. They are frozen. Mute. As viewers of the picture, we have no idea what those people on the waterfront are talking about.” – Alec Soth

    Alec Soth is one of the most successful and hard working contemporary master photographers. He is a master storyteller, and also constantly experiments with his photography. Although he is a photographer, he is less interested in making single images and more interested in telling good stories.

    Soth makes the bold statement that a single image cannot tell a story. While a single image can suggest a story to the viewer, a real story needs a beginning middle and end. And you can only achieve that through a series of images. Soth expands on the idea:

    ”So what are photographs good at? While they can’t tell stories, they are brilliant at suggesting stories.” – Alec Soth

    Furthermore, the problem with single images is that they often don’t provide enough context. Soth states:

    ”You can’t tell provide context in 1/500th of a second.” – Alec Soth

    Photography has only been around for less than 150 years. But story telling has been around for millennia. Soth views the storytelling as the ultimate goal in his photography:

    “I think storytelling is the most powerful art. I just think there’s nothing more satisfying than the narrative thrust: beginning, middle, and end, what’s gonna happen. The thing I’m always bumping up against is that photography doesn’t function that way. Because it’s not a time-based medium, it’s frozen in time, they suggest stories, they don’t tell stories. So it is not narrative. So it functions much more like poetry than it does like the novel. It’s just these impressions and you leave it to the viewer to put together.” – Alec Soth

    Garry Winogrand also shares his perspective that photographs by themselves are just images; light reflected off surfaces. The meanings created through images are through the viewer, not the images themselves:

    “Photos have no narrative content. They only describe light on surface.” – Garry Winogrand

    Joel Sternfeld also shares the problem of photography, that single images can’t explain enough context:

    “You take 35 degrees out of 360 degrees and call it a photo. No individual photo explains anything. That’s what makes photography such a wonderful and problematic medium.” – Joel Sternfeld

    Sebastião Salgado ties it all together by also hammering in the point that he only works for a group of images to tell a story:

    ”I always work for a group of pictures, to tell a story. If you ask which picture in a story I like most, it is impossible for me to tell you this. I don’t work for an individual picture. If I must select one individual picture for a client, it is very difficult for me.” – Sebastião Salgado

    One last piece of advice from Alec Soth when working on a project: think of yourself as a film maker, not a photographer. This will help you, because making great photography projects isn’t just shooting; the editing, sequencing, and publishing are just as important:

    ”I don’t come close to shooting every day. For better or worse, I don’t carry a camera with me everywhere I go. I liken my process to that of filmmaking. First I conceive of the idea. Then I do pre-production and fundraising. Then shooting. Then editing. Then distribution (books and galleries). As with most filmmakers, the shooting takes just a fraction of my time.” – Alec Soth

    One of the problems of social media (Instagram and Flickr especially) is that there is a focus on the single-image. While single images are powerful and memorable; they’re not good at story-telling.

    Know that making strong single images is important, but if you want to make a compelling story or narrative in a photography project, you need to string together many images to create that story.

    51. Don’t worry about marketing your work

    ”I see a lot of young photographers pushing their work, and I think that’s fine, but so often it’s wasted effort before the work is ready. Everyone’s running around trying to promote themselves, and you kinda have to put in those years of hard work to make something decent before you do that. Particularly that first project is the hardest thing. I always say the 20s are the hardest decade because you don’t have money and you don’t have a reputation. In relation to this kind of issue, I’m always wary that the advice is like “you need to put together this promo package that you send out to these 100 people.” No, you need to do the work, and worry about that later.” – Alec Soth

    In today’s society we all want to become famous. Social media has only intensified this. We start to focus on how to become more famous; how to get more followers, more views, more comments, more likes, more awards, more commissions, more exhibitions, more money, and more popularity.

    Before you worry about promotion, fame, and wealth, you should focus on the most important thing in photography and art: the work itself.

    It is true that you need some promotion if you want to have your work recognized. For example, Vivian Maier died penniless because she never showed her work to anybody else while she was alive (even though she was a master photographer).
    At the same time, the problem that a lot of photographers make is they focus on the promotion of their images before getting better.

    If you make good work, sooner or later you will become “discovered” and have your work appreciated. Even if you never become “discovered,” don’t you shoot to please yourself, not others?

    I find the photographers who best become “discovered” are the ones who work on meaningful projects, that have a cohesive concept and theme, and publish it as a “body of work.” This often works much better than publishing random photos to Facebook, Instagram, or Flickr.

    52. Subtract from the frame

    ”I have this thing, the camera’s on a tripod, it’s like an easel “Ok, I can only take a couple, I gotta makes this great.” Then I tried to get everything in the frame, which, in fact, is not a good strategy for photography. Its pulling stuff out of the frame is usually what you want to do, to simplify it. But I didn’t know that. So that was one of the lessons learned.” – Alec Soth

    As a photographer, you are a surgeon with a scalpel, deciding what to remove from a frame and what to keep in the frame.
    To make stronger images, you want to have less clutter and distractions in your frame. You want to be specific. By having too many subjects or objects in a frame, you only confuse your viewer. A cluttered photograph is difficult to look at, and often uninteresting.

    By removing unnecessary elements from the frame, you give more focus and importance to what actually exists in the frame.

    Ruthlessly eliminate distractions from the frame.

    “The framing is very important – you have to keep out things that distract from the little drama that’s in the picture. I’d like my pictures to exist almost in a dream state and have people react to them almost as if they’re coming in and out of daydreams, you know?” – Richard Kalvar

    Less is more. Try to be a minimalist in photography, and you will give more strength and focus to the subjects in your frame.

    53. Make yourself vulnerable

    ”One thing I’m really interested in is vulnerability. I like being exposed to vulnerabilities. I think there’s something really beautiful about it. That’s kind of what I’ve been doing with these little stories, amping up the vulnerability, but also my own vulnerabilities, exposing more of myself. Because I knew with that “journalist” line I’m exposing my own shit there. I’m trying to get down to something raw.” – Alec Soth

    The more vulnerable you make yourself as a photographer, the more vulnerable your subjects will make themselves to you. By breaking down these barriers, you will be able to connect with your subjects on a deeper level.

    If you look at many of Alec Soth’s portraits of strangers, you might wonder how he was able to make them open up so much to him. His subjects are open, transparent, and sometimes even nude. Alec Soth still has difficulty approaching strangers, but he does it for the greater good.

    You can’t expect your subjects to open up to you if you don’t open up to them. Human beings are mirrors; they will treat you the way you treat them.

    Jacob Aue Sobol also gets deeply intimate with his subjects, and makes himself equal to them:

    ”You mustn’t avoid being vulnerable. For me, it’s a kind of exchange. Even though I’m the one taking the pictures, my ambition is to achieve an equal exchange between myself and the person I’m photographing.” – Jacob Aue Sobol

    One of the common mistakes is that photographers just “take” from their subjects, but don’t “give” to their subjects. This happens more so when your subject is of a lower socio-economic background from you (think about all the middle-class photographers who have documented poor communities).

    Treat and photograph your subjects the way you would like to be photographed if you were in their shoes.

    54. Forever be an “amateur”

    “I am an amateur and intend to remain one my whole life long. I attribute to photography the task of recording the real nature of things, their interior, their life. The photographer’s art is a continuous discovery, which requires patience and time. A photograph draws its beauty from the truth with which it’s marked.” – Andre Kertesz

    In modern society, being called an “amateur” is an insult. However in reality, the definition of “amateur” is someone who does something purely for the love of it. Therefore just because you are an “amateur photographer” doesn’t mean that you are a bad photographer. It just means that you don’t make a living or money from your photography.

    Similarly, just because you’re a “professional” photographer doesn’t mean that you’re good. You can be a baby photographer in a mall and be a “professional.”

    Some of the best photographers I know are amateurs. Similarly, some of the best professional photographers I know admit to being amateurs, by shooting personal work on the side (which doesn’t pay their bills, but it is what they’re really passionate about).

    Embrace and revel being an amateur.

    The next time you meet someone at a party and they ask you the typical, “What do you do?” question simply respond and say, “I am an amateur photographer.” This will be much more interesting than just saying you work as some consultant or whatever.
    Be proud of your photography, your passion, and your love of making images.

    When I started shooting photography for fun, I did it purely for the joy of it. But then I got the idea that if I did photography full-time for a living, it would solve all of my life’s issues and I would be eternally happy.

    Although it is true that now that I am technically making a living from photography (by teaching workshops), I honestly don’t shoot more now than when I had a full-time job. Furthermore, I know a lot of friends who are full-time wedding photographers who no longer have the passion to shoot as a hobby.

    My practical advice is this: if you want to become a professional photographer, keep your day job, and work enough part-time gigs on the weekend until you earn enough income to make the jump. Don’t just quit your job and start traveling the world without a practical business plan.

    At the same time, it is totally fine to have a day job and to work on your photography on the side. Often worrying too much about paying rent and monetizing your photography will suck the soul out of your work.

    It is a fine line; tread carefully between following your passion and making money.

    Ultimately, shoot because you love it. Forever be an “amateur.”

    55. Stay hungry, stay foolish

    ”Even when Andre Kertesz was 90 years old, he created a new portfolio and shared it with the photographer Susan May Tell. When Tell asked him what kept him going, Kertesz responded: ‘I am still hungry.’”

    Many of us have many frustrations in our photography: that we’re too old (and wish we started sooner), that we wish we had more time to shoot, that we don’t have enough money to travel (or afford the fancy new equipment), or that we don’t have enough “talent” (I don’t believe talent exists in any artistic form, it is just hard work).

    None of these things matter. The only thing that matters is how passionate and hungry you are in your photography.

    Many photographers become jaded after years of shooting. They lose a sense of their hunger and passion. This is what leads to artistic death and stagnation.

    Andre Kertesz (after a lifetime of shooting) still created new work in his 80’s and even presented a new portfolio when he was 90 years old. Kertesz wasn’t easily satisfied with his work, he was still hungry to explore the world and shoot more, and to see the limits of the photographic medium.

    One of the mantras I try to live my life by is from Steve Jobs who said:

    ”Stay hungry, stay foolish.” – Steve Jobs

    We all need a bit of hunger in our life to propel us to action, and to keep going. If you’re constantly full and bloated with food, you have no motivation to move or do anything.

    Personally I find my best writing, photography, and exercise happens when I am physically hungry. Hunger compels me to act. Hunger forces you to innovate.

    Similarly in photography, stir up your appetite and hunger for image-making. Whenever I don’t feel motivated or inspired, I look at the photography and work of the masters. By chewing and digesting their images, I feel invigorated again and full of life, and hungry to follow in their footsteps.

    Don’t let any external circumstances hold you back (whether time, financial, or where you live). Just ask yourself the question:

    ”How bad do I want it?”

    56. Don’t force it

    The irony of photography is that the harder I try to make good photos, the less likely I am to make good photos.

    As a general rule, always have your camera with you, but don’t force yourself to shoot when you don’t feel like it.

    There are certain photos you know you “should” shoot, and certain photos that you “must” shoot. Here is the difference:

    “Should” photos

    Photos that you “should” shoot are photos you think others expect you to shoot. This is the pressure of society to mold you into a certain type of photographer. Disregard taking “should” photos.

    “Must” photos

    Photos that you “must” shoot are images or situations in which you feel physically compelled to shoot, and you know that if you don’t shoot them, you will feel extreme regret or sadness afterwards.

    Avoid taking “should” photos; only focus on taking “must” photos for more inner-serenity, happiness, and freedom from the opinion of others. Of course there is still a lot of fear to overcome of shooting “must” photos as well.

    Whenever I see a photo that I “must” shoot (and still feel nervous), I generally go up to the person and ask for permission. I would rather ask and get rejected (than not ask at all).

    If you want a candid photo, learn to deal with the negative consequences of shooting street photography (once again, the question you have to ask yourself in photography is “How bad do I want the photo?”) It ultimately comes down to a personal choice.

    For me, I want to shoot and live with no regrets (and deal with the risk of pissing someone off or having them get angry at me).

    57. Don’t take easy photos

    ”Shooting people is more beautiful, because it is more difficult.” – Constantine Manos

    One of the best things about street photography is that it is so challenging. Anything in life which is too easy is no fun. As human beings we crave adventure, difficulty, and challenge.

    Street photography is one of the most difficult genres of photography out there, because it is difficult to shoot human beings. We have so little control over the background, the subject, and the light. We have a fear of pissing people off. We have the fear of missing the “decisive moment.”

    If you find yourself being bored with photography, it probably has become too easy for you. Push yourself out of your comfort zone, and aim to make more complex and difficult images from what you’re used to.

    58. Shoot what you’re afraid of

    Have you ever had a situation when you were out shooting all day and you didn’t find anything interesting? Happens to me all the time.

    However have you ever seen a scene that you wanted to capture but were too nervous or afraid to do so?

    Channel that fear in a positive way. Photograph what you are afraid of. The only reason that you’re afraid of shooting a scene is because you want to photograph it, but you’re afraid of the consequences.

    By doing what we’re afraid of we continue to grow. We escape complacency.

    As an assignment, go out and photograph a neighborhood or type of subject matter which frightens you. Of course do this within common sense and with safety in mind.

    Whenever you see a shot you’re afraid of, shoot it.

    59. Print your photos

    ”A photograph doesn’t exist until it is printed.” – Constantine Manos

    In today’s digital age, we are so used to seeing our images on a screen. We see them on our laptops, tablets, and smartphones.

    But the print is a dying medium. When is the last time you printed 4×6 prints of a holiday trip, instead of just sharing and tagging them on Facebook?

    Constantine Manos says a photograph doesn’t exist until it is printed. If a photograph isn’t printed, it only exists metaphorically in pixels, and in 1’s and 0’s digitally in the ether. Printing a photograph makes it physical and brings it into the “real world.” A printed photograph has texture, weight, and takes up physical space.

    In a manifesto called “The Print,” Constantine Manos shares the importance of printing our images:

    “There are still photographers who believe that a photograph does not exist until it is a print. There remains in their memory the experience of working in a darkroom and recalling the magic of seeing an image gradually appear on a piece of paper in a tray of liquid. If processed and stored properly this print can last for generations. It becomes a treasure. It can be framed and hung in a favorite spot, to become an object of daily pleasure and comfort. It is a real object we can hold in our hands, not a negative or an image floating around in space and stored in cold machines. Let us celebrate the print.” – Constantine Manos

    Prints are cheap. You can get them done at home, at the local drugstore, or the local photography lab. You can also get them done affordably online (I recommend mpix.com in the states). Print out your photos as small 4×6’s, give them away as friends as gifts, hang them on your walls, and enjoy the physicality of the print as an object. Lay them out on a table to edit your photography projects and sequence them.

    Prints also make for fantastic presents to close friends and colleagues. The joy I get from giving away my prints is quite possibly the most joy I have ever received in photography.

    60. Don’t be “suckered by the exotic”

    “It is not enough to just photograph what something looks like. We need to make it into something that is unique, a surprise. Photography has been used forever to show what things look like, like when photographers photographed objects and landscapes.” – Constantine Manos

    Have you ever been to India for the first time, where you strove to make all your photos look “National Geographic” and exotic? But we have all already seen those types of images before. The job of a photographer isn’t to just make beautiful postcards of exotic places but to make a unique image that hasn’t been done before.

    Rather than simply duplicating what has been done in the past, we should strive to add to the conversation of photography by adding something a little extra.

    Constantine Manos advised me not to get “suckered by the exotic.” I have to admit, this happens to me all the time, especially when I travel to exotic locations which are novel to me, like India, Tokyo, or Paris. I have a mental repository of all the exotic photos I have seen in the past, and I try to simply replicate it.

    Also as a photographer, we need to imbue meaning into the images we make. We aren’t there to simply capture what is before our very eyes. We have already seen a million photos of the Eiffel tower, the Taj Mahal, and of a sunset.

    We shouldn’t photograph what things look like. We should photograph what things feel like.

    For example, it took me 3 trips to India before I didn’t take the cliche “National Geographic” Steve McCurry-wanna-be images. When I first went to India, I was blown away by all the colors, and the “exoticness” of the place.

    61. Shoot in boring places

    I make it a point to always have a camera with me, because you never know where there will be a good photo opportunity. However I do have the same struggles as you, I often find it hard to find inspiration in my photography.

    Let me give you an example; when I lived in East Lansing, Michigan for about a year, I struggled a lot to find inspiration. I just moved from Los Angeles, where my main focus was photographing people.

    Once I got to Michigan, there was barely anybody walking in the streets. I complained about my fate everyday, and made excuses how I wasn’t able to shoot interesting photos in Michigan.
    However I started to try to find possibilities in the “boring” life that I lived.

    This image shot at Meijer, the supermarket in town. I had a point-and-shoot film Ricoh GR1s in my pocket (which I always carried with me in Michigan), and I saw this interesting scene: an online employment application booth with an “OUT OF ORDER” sign in front.

    To me, it said much about the socio-economic condition of Michigan and the United States. I would always hear Republican debates about the “lazy” and poor Americans not getting jobs.
    What is the irony of the shot? Even if you want to get a job and apply for it, you can’t. Obviously you can see my political leanings in this image. But the takeaway point is know that good photos exist everywhere, sometimes in the most unlikely places (gas stations, supermarkets, mall, etc).

    62. Don’t take bad photos

    “The best way to take a bad picture is to take it. Ask yourself: ’Why am I pushing the button?’ You want to get rid of the clutter before putting it into the machine.” – Constantine Manos

    As photographers we sometimes ask the wrong questions to ourselves. We ask how to take photos, where to take photos, when to take photos. But rarely do we ask ourselves why we take photos.

    You need a reason to click the shutter. Otherwise you will lose your passion and drive.

    What about a scene interests you? Why did you make that image? What kind of mood does it have? What are you trying to say about society? Try to keep this question always in the back of your head.

    Furthermore, if you see a person or a scene that you don’t think will be a good photo, don’t feel pressured to shoot it. You don’t need to take bad pictures.

    Sometimes it is sufficient to just look at something, appreciate it, and move on (without shooting it).

    63. Make specific photos

    ”A photograph has to be specific. I remember a long time ago when I first began to photograph I thought, ‘There are an awful lot of people in the world and it’s going to be terribly hard to photograph all of them, so if I photograph some kind of generalized human being, everybody’ll recognize it.’ It was my teacher Lisette Model, who finally made it clear to me that the more specific you are, the more general it’ll be.” – Diane Arbus

    A common mistake I see a lot of beginning photographers make is that their photos are too general. If you make your photos too general, there isn’t enough interest for the viewer to keep looking.

    Viewers want to latch onto certain details they find interesting in a photograph. They want a visual anchor they find interesting to keep their eyes from wandering outside of the frame.

    Diane Arbus learned the lesson from her teacher (Lisette Model) that the more specific you make your photos, the more people they will reach and touch.

    For example, Diane Arbus would find specific details in her subjects that she found interesting. She would be drawn to their face, body gestures, or their expressions. Not only that, but she was specific in the types of subjects she photographed; people generally ignored or ostracized in society. These included dwarves, transgendered people, and others commonly known in her era as “freaks.”

    What made Diane Arbus’ work special is that she photographed them as just normal human beings, and photographed them with empathy, love, and compassion.

    Life is too short for you to photograph everything. Rather than trying to photograph every single genre of photography, stick to the type of photography that you are truly passionate about.

    If your passion is street photography, intentionally give up all forms of other photography. Why? If your mind is divided amongst many different genres of photography, you will never create a single body of work that you are truly proud of. Not only that, but it takes a long time to cultivate and do one thing very well.

    Don’t be a generalist in your photography; aim to be specific. Aim for depth over breadth. Then once you are able to “master” a type of shooting (let’s say this takes 10 years), then you can “graduate” and move onto the next project, theme, genre, or idea.

    64. Compose intuitively

    ”Composition must be one of our constant preoccupations, but at the moment of shooting it can stem only from our intuition, for we are out to capture the fugitive moment, and all the interrelationships involved are on the move.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    There are two things that make a great photograph: content (what’s in the frame) and form (how it is composed). You need a perfect marriage of these two elements to make a compelling image.

    As photographers we must constantly be preoccupied with how we compose our photos. When it comes to street photography, how can we compose quickly when the moment we see can be so fleeting?
    Henri Cartier-Bresson states that composition can only be derived from intuition. It is difficult to see diagonals, triangles, circles, leading lines, or other compositional elements when you’re out shooting.

    You want to internalize composition. You want composition to be something that lives and breathes inside of you.

    I never learned the theory of composition until after 8 years of shooting street photography. Too much theory can hurt you; you need to first be a practitioner and then create the theory from your experiences. You can sit in a studio and draw lines over images for hours on end, or you can go out and make images and discover the compositions after you shoot them.

    Cartier-Bresson continues and once again really hits home the point: you can only discover composition after you’ve shot your images, not when you shoot them:

    ”Any geometrical analysis, any reducing of the picture to a schema, can be done only (because of its very nature) after the photograph has been taken, developed, and printed- and then it can be used only for a post-mortem examination of the picture.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    Having a “post mortem” examination is one of the key points to improving your composition. We learn more from our mistakes than our successes.

    When you’re out shooting on the streets, shoot with your gut. Then when you go home and sit down in front of your computer, edit with your brain. When you are analyzing your images, dissect your compositions, learn from them, and learn how you can improve from them.

    Don’t shoot composition for composition’s sake. Who cares if you have a pretty photograph with beautiful composition, if the image has no soul and emotion?

    One common mistake I make in my composition is that the edges of my frame are distracting and messy. So now I am super anal about having clean edges in my frame.

    Nowadays when I am shooting, I only focus on the edges of the frame and just toss my subject somewhere in the center of the frame. By focusing on the edges of my frame, I eliminate distracting elements, which gives more focus to the subject in my photograph.

    Another common mistake that a lot of street photographers make is that they have messy and cluttered backgrounds. Avoid poles sticking out of heads and shoulders of your subjects, white bags, white cars (anything white is the brightest part of the frame and is often distracting), cluttered trees, and too many subjects in the background.

    Henri Cartier-Bresson studied Zen philosophy, and you can see how clean and minimalist his compositions are. He also often integrated the “fishing” technique into his images; he would find a nice composition, wait for the right person to enter the scene, and then shoot them once they stepped into the right part of the frame.

    Interesting note: Cartier-Bresson was a hunter. A good hunter is one who is patient, sets a lot of traps, and knows when to pull the string.

    Going back to the point of analyzing your photos after you’ve shot them, try this out: trace the geometric shapes you see in your photos in order to analyze and learn:

    ”You can take a print of this picture, trace it on the geometric figures which come up under analysis, and you’ll observe that, if the shutter was released at the decisive moment, you have instinctively fixed a geometric pattern without which the photograph would have been both formless and lifeless.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    In a practical sense, make it a habit to print out your photos as small 4×6 prints, and use them as little sketches. Take a red sharpie, and draw the geometric shapes and forms you see on your images (or you can do it in Photoshop).

    Honestly I am very suspicious of anyone who tells me that composition is their number one focus when they’re out shooting, and that they can see all these diagonals, triangles, circles, curves, and red lines when they’re out on the streets. It might work if you’re a landscape or architecture photographer, but as street photographers, this is something that cannot be done (especially if you want to focus on photographing a fellow human being).

    Diane Arbus would probably agree on this point, as she also stresses that composition is mostly intuitive and comes with practice:

    ”I hate the idea of composition. I don’t know what good composition is. I mean I guess I must know something about it from doing it a lot and feeling my way into and into what I like. Sometimes for me composition has to do with a certain brightness or a certain coming to restness and other times it has to do with funny mistakes. Theres a kind of rightness and wrongness and sometimes I like rightness and sometimes I like wrongness. Composition is like that.” – Diane Arbus

    Helen Levitt (another great female street photographer) also draws on the importance of practice and intuition and composition, and less on theory:

    “It would be mistaken to suppose that any of the best photography is come at by intellection; it is like all art, essentially the result of an intuitive process, drawing on all that the artist is rather than on anything he thinks, far less theorizes about.” – Helen Levitt

    Less theory; more practice.

    Walker Evans also shares how he doesn’t think much when composing his images:

    ”I don’t think very much about it consciously, but I’m very aware of it unconsciously, instinctively. Deliberately discard it every once in a while not to be artistic. Composition is a schoolteacher’s word. Any artist composes. I prefer to compose originally, naturally rather than self-consciously. Form and composition both are terribly important. I can’t stand a bad design or a bad object in a room. So much for form. That way it’s placed is composition… when you stop to think about what an artist is doing one question is, what is the driving force, the motive.” – Walker Evans

    Frankly speaking, I would take a photograph with strong emotional content and weak composition any-day over a photograph with a strong composition and weak emotional content.

    Never forget: a photograph without emotion is dead.

    65. Don’t have a “project”

    ”My obsession is with making photographs. I generally do not have a theme when in the act of photographing. Themes emerge after the photographs begin to accumulate. This happened in a clear way with my new book and exhibition Twirl / Run. For me picture taking is pure instinct. Gut. That is why I love doing it. I’m not thinking when I am working.” – Jeff Mermelstein

    Jeff Mermelstein is a focused and intense contemporary street photographer who goes out and shoots whatever he finds interesting, than makes books later. This is a method that has worked well for him, and can work well for us too.

    Working on street photography projects can be very challenging if you have too rigid of a concept before you go out and shoot. This can make your mind rigid to new opportunities.

    If you face “photographer’s block” (or dislike working on “projects”) go out and shoot without a theme in mind. Simply photograph what interests you, and discover your “project” or a theme as you go.

    React to what you see, and then you can compile your projects or series later. Elliott Erwitt follows the same way of working and explains:

    ”I don’t start out with any specific interests, I just react to what I see. I don’t know that I set out to take pictures of dogs; I have a lot of pictures of people and quite a few of cats. But dogs seem to be more sympathetic.” – Elliott Erwitt

    Elliott Erwitt has shot for many decades, and after compiling thousands of images, he discovers common threads and themes in his work. Now towards the later part of his life, he is compiling his images into books of certain subject matter and places.

    Helen Levitt, one of the pioneers of color street photography also rebelled against the notion of having a “project,” she simply photographed what she noticed:

    “I never had a ‘project.’ I would go out and shoot, follow my eyes—what they noticed, I tried to capture with my camera, for others to see.” – Helen Levitt

    Another way to discover what kinds of projects to pursue in your photography is to print out your photos and start sorting them into different boxes. Once the boxes start to fill up, you’ve got a project as Lee Friedlander explains:

    ”I just work and I throw the pictures in a box that says “X” or whatever, and eventually if the box gets full it merits looking at. I often work on two or three or four of those things at once. People tell me that they all look like they’ve been well thought out, and that’s because I’ve worked on them for so long.” – Lee Friedlander

    Ultimately you want to figure out what fulfills you in photography. Some photographers hate going out and shooting “random” photos of everything. Some photographers prefer more focus and rigidity (working on projects).

    However other photographers hate working on projects. They just want to go out, shoot, and have fun.

    Follow what is true to you. There is no “right” or “wrong” in photography. There are just different approaches. Experiment and discover what works for you.

    66. Improve 1% everyday

    “Without instruction, at a very early age, I could play the piano. Anything, particularly—after hearing it once. Not reading music. I would pass a quite fine piano in my house every time we came from the back from the front—and every time I would pass it I would play a few things, and without any success at all. And I got a little better and better, and time went on. And maybe never playing the same one twice. It ain’t much different the way I work today, still [in photography].” – William Eggleston

    It is easy to look at a body of work by an accomplished master photographer and feel that no matter how hard we work, we can never achieve as much as that photographer.

    The journey of a thousand steps begins with the first step. If you want to create a body of work in photography, you need to start off with a single photograph.

    If you want to improve your photography, just aim to become slightly a better photographer everyday. Aim to improve your photography by 1% everyday. You can improve your photography by taking more photos, studying master photographers, or analyzing photography books.

    By improving 1% everyday, you will see huge compounded interest in the course of a year.

    Great bodies of work take time. We need to be patient. Zen master Hakuin Ekaku explains:

    ”It’s like chopping down a huge tree of immense girth. You won’t accomplish it with one swing of your axe. If you keep chopping away at it, though, and do not let up, eventually, whether it wants to or not, it will suddenly topple down…But if the woodcutter stopped after one or two strokes of his axe to ask, ‘Why doesn’t this tree fall?’ and after three or four more strokes stopped again, ‘Why doesn’t this tree fall?’ he would never succeed in felling the tree. It is no different from someone who is practicing the Way.” – Hakuin Ekaku

    1% improvement in a day is realistic. Don’t set unrealistic expectations for yourself, or you will become so overwhelmed and not start. Some suggestions:

    • Shoot 1% more photos everyday
    • Provide 1% more critiques to other photographers on social media everyday
    • Edit down your portfolio by 1% everyday
    • Learn 1% new photographic theory everyday
    • Try to be 1% happier everyday

    Don’t hesitate; start now!

    67. Take 1 photo everyday

    What is an easy way to get into physical shape? Just aim to do 1 pushup everyday.

    “But how can you get physically fit from just 1 pushup a day?”

    The secret is this: when you go down to do just 1 pushup, you end up doing more than 1 pushup. You might end up doing 5, 10, perhaps even 20 pushups. If you aim to do at least 1 pushup everyday, in the course of just a month you can become quite fit. The difficult part is overcoming the psychological burden of just getting down on the ground.

    In your photography, aim to take 1 photograph everyday. Not every photograph you take everyday is going to be a good shot. But it is a good practice that keeps your eye sharp, and your trigger finger well greased and lubricated. If you aim to just make 1 photo a day, that might lead you to making 5, 10, 20 or even more photos.

    Then compound that over the course of a week, a month, a year, and a decade, and before you know it, you will have an incredible body of work in your photography.

    68. Make something extraordinary from the ordinary

    ”I think it’s exciting to make something extraordinary out of the banal. I’m not the kind of photographer that needs to travel to take pictures. I am not saying that there aren’t extraordinary images being made in Gaza and sometimes I wonder I should go to Gaza. But I’d probably get sick and be scared. I don’t want it. I’m comfortable, I’m not drawn to bullets. I’m not drawn to danger.” – Jeff Mermelstein

    One of the great things about street photography is that we don’t need to live in a super exotic or interesting place to make good photos. The beauty of street photography is to make powerful images from the ordinary and mundane.

    But what if you live in a really boring place, and you can’t see any beauty? Start off by taking photos of “ugly stuff”, as Rosa Eggleston (the wife of William Eggleston) shares:

    “[William] at one time said to his great, highly respected friend: ‘Well, what am I going to photograph? Everything here is so ugly.’ And our friend said, ‘Photograph the ugly stuff.’ Well we were surrounded everywhere by this plethora of shopping centers and ugly stuff. And that is really initially what he started photographing.” – Rosa Eggleston

    Then over the course of several decades, William Eggleston made an incredible body of work of pretty mundane and boring scenes. His city Memphis isn’t New York City, but he has really made his banal city beautiful. Photographer Joel Meyerowitz also agreed that the most beautiful art often comes from the ordinary of everyday life:

    ”Why is it that the best poetry comes out of the most ordinary circumstances? You don’t have to have extreme beauty to write beautifully. You don’t have to have grand subject matter. This little dinky bungalow is my Parthenon. It has scale; it has color; it has presence; it is real: I’m not trying to work with grandeur. I’m trying to work with ordinariness.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    Embrace the plain, boring, mundane. Don’t strive to create high-brow “art”. Just document ordinary things as a photographer. Walker Evans shares his experiences:

    ”Forty years ago when I was going around with a camera I was doing some things that I myself thought were too plain to be works of art. I began to wonder – I knew I was an artist or wanted to be one – but I was wondering whether I really was an artist. But I didn’t have any support. Most people would look at those things and say, “Well, that’s nothing. What did you do that for? That’s just a wreck of a car or a wreck of a man. That’s nothing. That isn’t art.” They don’t say that anymore.” – Walker Evans

    You don’t need an expensive camera or live in an exotic place to make interesting photos. You just need a keen and curious eye, and the ability to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.

    69. Don’t see your photos as “art”

    ”I don’t think of my photos as works of art—I see them as a fraction of a second in which my understanding and the worlds offering are unified in some way. That allows us to have some sort of open experience to share with whoever happens to look at the photo. So it isn’t formal, it is more experiential.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    Pretentiousness is what often blocks or obstructs many photographers. If you want to create more inspired images, don’t force yourself to create “art.” If you start thinking that your work has to be “Art” with a capital A, you will put unnecessary pressure on yourself, which can actually prevent you from creating beautiful photographs which can be considered as “art.”

    By not thinking of your work as art, you can be more open to experimentation and failing and tying out different things for fun.

    70. Constantly question yourself

    “[I’m always] asking myself: ‘How interesting is this medium? And how interesting can I make it for me? And, by the way, who the fuck am I?‘” – Joel Meyerowitz

    It can be painful to feel lost and confused in our photography. But don’t fret, this is absolutely normal. Even the master photographers constantly grapple with these questions.

    Photography is often a form of self discovery. And the more questions you ask yourself and the more you analyze your intentions in photography, the more you will grow, and the more you will become focused in your work.

    Joel Meyerowitz, who was one of the most influential pioneers in color photographs even admits that he hasn’t found the definitive answer for himself yet:

    ”No, not yet [smiling], and time is running out. But I’m getting there.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    You will never 100% “discover” who you are as a photographer or human being. But it is the journey what makes it all worth it.

    71. Feel emotions in color

    ”Color plays itself out along a richer band of feelings—more wavelengths, more radiance, more sensation. I wanted to se more and experience more feelings from a photograph, and I wanted bigger images that would describe things more fully, more cohesively.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    Shooting color isn’t just purely for decorative purposes. Shooting color reveals a deeper psychological depth and emotions in a scene. Joel Meyerowitz explains the importance of how colors can evoke feelings, memories, and certain life experiences:

    ”A color photograph gives you a chance to study and remember how things look and feel in color. It enables you to have feelings along the full wavelength of the spectrum, to retrieve emotions that were perhaps bred in you from infancy—from the warmth and pinkness of your mother’s breast, the loving brown of you puppy’s face, and the friendly yellow of your pudding. Color is always part of experience. Grass is green, not gray; flesh is color, not gray. Black and white is a very cultivated response.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    Whether you decide to shoot color or black and white realize that you have control over your palette:

    ”A photographer must choose a palette as painters choose theirs.” – Joel Sternfeld

    Joel Sternfeld, another pioneer in color photography also shares the challenge of color, which is how to abstract reality:

    ”Black and white is abstract; color is not. Looking at a black and white photograph, you are already looking at a strange world. Color is the real world. The job of the color photographer is to provide some level of abstraction that can take the image out of the daily.” – Joel Sternfeld

    Color isn’t just decorative; it must have emotion as well to be memorable.

    72. Never leave home without your camera

    “I carry [the 8×10 camera] with me as I would carry a 35mm camera. In the very beginning, if I went for a drive or to the A&P, the camera was in the back seat of the car; if I went for a walk down the street to visit a neighbor, or if I went to the beach, the camera was on my shoulder. No matter where I went, that camera was ever-present: parties, walks, shopping. It came from the discipline of carrying a 35mm at all times—in the early years you never saw me without a camera. I didn’t want to be in that position of saying, “Oh I saw a great shot, if only I had my camera.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    Have you ever seen a great potential photograph, but you didn’t have your camera with you? It has happened to all of us at least once.

    I think one of the best disciplines that a photographer can have is always have a camera with him or her. I don’t necessarily feel that a photographer must take a photograph everyday (unless you want to), but the peace of mind of always having a camera on you (just in case) is wonderful:

    ”At that time no photographer was without a camera. We got that from Henri Cartier-Bresson’s being ready for ‘the decisive moment,’ and from Robert Frank’s traveling everywhere in America and making pictures of the Americans that seemed to occur in the most unexpected moments. Since my discipline was always to carry a camera, it didn’t matter that when the size changed it became big and awkward; I still wanted to have it at all times. So I provided myself with the opportunity of making large-scale, highly detailed photographs of unusual moments.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    Most of us have smartphones, with great cameras. If you ever find yourself without your main camera, know you can always use your smartphone camera. It is better to shoot a scene with a smartphone camera than not take a photograph at all.

    73. Make a book

    ”Before I lay out a book, I read the pictures many many times, until I’ve absorbed the so-called meaning of each picture. My feeling about it – not intellectually, but my gut feeling about these pictures and how I relate to them, and then I just collect them all as miniatures, at three inches across, and I carry them with me like a deck of cards, and I lay them out, everytime I have a few minutes, I lay them out – I’m doing it now, for this next book – I lay them out and look and look, and then I’ll see something that looks like a starting point!” – Joel Meyerowitz

    Every photographer should aim to make at least 1 personally meaningful book in his or her lifetime. Why? A book can last decades, centuries, or perhaps even millennia (if well stored). A digital photograph on Instagram on your hard drive? Who knows how long that will be accessible (do you remember floppy or hard disks?)

    Seeing your photos printed out in a book is a unique experience. It is a unique way of looking at your images which more tangible, real, and personal. Furthermore, a book allows you to pair, sequence, and arrange images in novel and flexible ways.

    Joel Meyerowitz shares his pairing process when he is putting together a book:

    ”I’ll put that picture first, and then I’ll see what happens. What does it call, like magnetism, to itself? And what do these two call themselves, and what do these three call? Because it’s not just about the next picture, it’s the weight of the three of them in a row. Five of them in a row. Ten! I can set-up certain rhythms or cadences, so that when you get to the third or fourth picture, you begin to realize the first picture again, like, ‘oh yeah, the first and fourth are linked!’ And there are these links so that if you were to make a drawing of this book, if there were forty pictures – I could probably make a diagram that comes after the fact, not before the fact, that the first connects to the fourth and the tenth and on and on – and that there are these interconnections. It’d be a fun thing to do, actually.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    You don’t need to get your books printed by some fancy publisher. Nowadays there are many great print on demand services like Blurb which give you high quality photo books without having to print 1,000s of them.

    What if you have no experience putting together a photography book, where do you start? You can start off by dissecting your favorite photography books from other photographers. Joel Meyerowitz gives some advice:

    “You should take your favorite book and take it apart that way and see why it works that way. What is it about the rhythm of these pictures that make you see it as a book, rather than a collection of pictures. I think, too many photographers make books that are just collections of pictures. You could throw them together any way and they’d be alright.”- Joel Meyerowitz
    Lee Friedlander also shares the joy of the process of putting together books:

    “I like making books… I realize that the nature of photography is such that I can’t see everything on first look, because photography has this ability to deal so well with information.” – Lee Friedlander

    The beautiful things about photography books is that they are like a nice wine, they get better with age. Friedlander continues:

    ”There’s so much information in a picture that often I don’t see until the fifth reading or 30 years later.I can pick up Walker’s book American Photographs today and see something I never saw before – and I’ve owned that book for over 30 years. So I think that books are a great medium for photography. They seem to be the best. I can go back and re-read things – ‘Oh shit, I didn’t see that before’.” – Lee Friedlander

    Don’t let your photos die on your hard drive. Convert them into photography prints or books; give them a physical life.

    74. Juxtapose

    “I believe that recognition and the power of the frame to put disparate, unrelated things together—suddenly this guy who was going on his business doing all this stuff and this woman with her poodle—they have no knowledge of each other. But in your frame, it is context.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    One way to make stronger images is to put together unrelated things into a frame, which create a sense of juxtaposition, contrast, and context.

    If you’re not familiar with the term “juxtaposition,” it is essentially a fancy word which means contrast. It is when you put two different things or concepts together (side by side) that directly contrast or contradicts one another, yet there is some sort of relationship.

    A great juxtaposition in a photograph would include a young kid next to an old man, a tall person next to a short person, a person with a dark complexion next to a person with light complexion.

    If you’re out shooting street photography and you identify one interesting thing going on, see if you can add another element of interest to make the frame more complex. Joel Meyerowitz continues on the point of making relationships in his photos:

    ”I’m going to go on record here—when I think about my photographs, I understand that my interest all along has not been in identifying a singular thing. But in photographing the relationship between things. The unspoken relationships, the tacit relationship—all of these variables are there if you choose to see in this way. But if you choose to only make objects out of singular things you will end up shooting the arrow into the bull’s-eye all the time, and you will get copies of objects in space.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    It us only through comparison, analogy, similarities, and differences can we create meaning. Without sadness we couldn’t have joy. Without dark we couldn’t have light.

    Much of street photography is to also show the hidden drama of everyday life. So if you’re able to make photos that show this tension between happiness and sorrow, hope and despair, old age versus youth in a single frame, you’re connecting with the viewer.

    By capturing these relationships in your photos, you’re also acknowledging your own humanity, as Meyerowitz continues:

    “I didn’t want copies of objects—I wanted the ephemeral connections between unrelated things to vibrate. And if my pictures work at all, at their best—they are suggesting these tenuous relationships. And that fragility is what is so human about them. And I think its what is in the ‘romantic tradition’—it is a form of humanism that says we’re all part of this together. I’m not just a selector of objects.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    What kind of connections can you make in your photos, and how can you make your viewers connect to your photos?

    75. Pave your own path

    ”I was enthralled by Eggleston, as everybody was. But I knew if I was ever to make a mark, I’d have to go to places he hadn’t headed. He owned the poetic snapshot, but I’d always had this leaning towards narrative, and so I began to lean a little harder.” – Joel Sternfeld

    When learning photography, it is always great to study the work of the masters. The masters have put in decades of work, and have dedicated their lives to photography and their craft.

    We can gain a lot of inspiration from them but we should consider us more of our guides, rather than trying to follow them blindly and duplicate them.

    When Joel Sternfeld started shooting, he was greatly inspired by the color photography of William Eggleston (as were many other photographers). But Sternfeld knew that if he wanted to make his mark in the world of photography, he needed to go down his own path and road.

    76. What do you want from your photography?

    One of my personal struggles in street photography was trying to find my own voice. And to be honest, I still don’t think I’ve found my true “voice.” However as time has gone on, I feel I finally have a bit more clarity in terms of what I want out of photography.

    Ultimately, I want to capture emotions in my photography. I want my photography to be a tool to empathize with my subjects. I want to make photos that pull at the viewers heart strings. Other details like what camera I use, what lens I use, whether I shoot black and white or color mean less to me now.

    Ask yourself why you shoot. Do you only shoot to get likes, favorites, and comments on social media? Or do you really do it for yourself? And if you do it for yourself, what drives you?

    77. Don’t constantly switch your equipment

    ”They’re humorous to watch, people who photograph, especially people who aren’t in tune with their equipment, because they don’t know when they pick it up what it will do. If you work with the same equipment for a very long time, you will get more in tune to what is possible. But within that there are still surprises. But using a camera day after day after day, within a framework, I’ll do the same thing. I’ll back up and I’ll go forward with my body.” – Lee Friedlander

    In today’s society we are plagued by the disease of “G.A.S” (Gear Acquisition Syndrome). The concept is that when we are dissatisfied with our photography (or don’t feel inspired), we wrongly believe that buying new cameras, lenses, or equipment will make us more creative or inspired.

    In reality what ends up happening is that we waste our valuable money, flit from one camera system to the next, trying to find the “perfect” camera for our needs.

    The reality? No perfect camera exists. With every upside there is a downside. Not only that but because there are so many cameras out there, we never get really comfortable with one system.

    For me, I am constantly tempted to change my gear. I know that having new equipment is just going to be a distraction, but I am constantly tempted by gear review sites, advertising, and marketing.

    However I found the more cameras and lenses I owned the more stressed out I was. Before going out to shoot, I wouldn’t know which camera to use. I fell victim to “paralysis by analysis” and having too many choices hurt me.

    The solution? Stick with one camera and one lens. With only one camera and one lens, the benefit is there is no stress. You know exactly which camera and lens to take to shoot because you have no other options. This is another “creative constraint” that will help your vision as a photographer.

    Not only that, but when you stick with one camera and lens for a long time, you get to know the camera inside and out. You can change the controls of the camera without even thinking about it. You know all the buttons, dials, and how much to twist the focusing tab of your lens for a certain distance. You begin to worry less about technical settings and more about making the images you want.

    Another tip that has helped me: try to appreciate your camera more by imagining how sad you would be if you lost your camera (or if someone stole it). Or you can re-read old reviews of your current camera, and re-live your joy and enthusiasm for the equipment you already own.

    78. Learn where to stand

    ”The question of where to stand is interesting. What we’re really talking about is a vantage point. If you look at amateurs or people taking pictures, they do funny things. Most people obviously don’t know where to stand. They’re standing too close, they’re contorted.” – Lee Friedlander

    One of the lessons I learned from Magnum photographer David Hurn is that the two main things you control in photography is where to stand (your position) and when to click the shutter (your timing). Lee Friedlander shares the importance of your position, and knowing where to stand when hitting the shutter:

    ”You don’t have to be a fancy photographer to learn where to stand. Basically you’re stuck with the frame and just like the person taking a picture of his family, who needs to go half a foot back – well, he doesn’t step half a foot back—but on the other hand, he knows where to be if he hits it right.” – Lee Friedlander

    You don’t need an expensive camera or equipment to know where to stand. Sometimes all you need to do to make a better photo is to take a step forward or backwards.

    79. Expect to be disappointed

    “It’s generally rather depressing to look at my contacts- one always has great expectations, and they’re not always fulfilled.” – Elliott Erwitt

    No matter how good you are in photography, expect to be disappointed. Even the masters of photography are often disappointed when they’re looking through their photos.

    “I hate looking at my work. I delay it for as long as possible… I just know that it won’t live up to my own expectations.” – David Alan Harvey

    Don’t be disappointed at being disappointed. Rather know that your disappointment comes from the fact that you have high expectations for yourself. If you had low expectations for yourself, you would never be disappointed.

    In photography it is important to have high expectations. If you set your mark high, even if you miss, you still achieve a higher caliber of work. However learning from your mistakes can be the best instructor, as David Hurn explains:

    “The contact sheet is a valuable instructor. Presumably, when a photographer releases the shutter, it is become he believes the image worthwhile. It rarely is. If the photographer is self-crucial, he can attempt to analyze the reasons for the gap between expectation and actuality.” – David Hurn

    How do we bridge the gap between creating what we expect and the final result? Think about how you can improve the photo next time you shoot a similar scene.

    ”Could the image be improved by moving backwards or forwards, by moving to the right or left? What would have been the result if the shutter were released a moment earlier or later? Ruthless examination of the contact sheet, whether one’s own or another’s, is one of the best teaching methods.” – David Hurn

    Work hard, but manage your expectations.

    80. More megapixels, more problems

    “The workload with digital has certainly doubled with fieldwork. You have now to photograph, edit and send your images on the same day. You go back to your car or hotel room to download, caption and transmit your work. It’s much more immediate and it becomes much more difficult to revisit the work.” – Paolo Pellegrin

    Digital photography is one of the greatest blessings in photography. It has helped democratize photography to the masses. With digital photography, we can learn a lot quicker from our mistakes.

    There are also downsides to digital photography. With digital photography, sometimes we feel too rushed to share our images. Other times, it is difficult to revisit our work after letting our images “marinate.” Digital photography can also cut out some of the collaborative process:

    “Digital photography can permit greater sharing in the field, but cuts out collectively at the other end. Fewer people share the whole process. It used to be that you sent raw film in and often the Magnum editorial or another photographer would take a look at the contacts.” – Susan Meiselas

    Not only that but the LCD screen is a blessing and a curse. One of the downsides of being able to see your images immediately is that you are given a false sense of certainty. Not seeing your photos on film made you work harder to get the image because the process was more uncertain:

    ”I still think not knowing what you ‘have’ at the end of the day with film gives strength of the intensity when you work. It is a mystery and surprise. Now everyone spends more time looking at their screens, first on the camera and then the computer.” – Susan Meiselas

    Gilles Peress also shares how with digital it is harder to reflect at the end of the day after a full day of shooting:

    ”With film you kept track in your head of what you were shooting, and evenings could be spent on a mental recap of the work you had made: the technical demands of digital editing in the field, at their worst, mean ‘less reflection, less intelligence, less thinking time.’” – Gilles Peress

    Shooting film isn’t better than digital. Digital isn’t better than film. They are just different. There are benefits to shooting both digital and film.

    I have discovered that shooting digital requires more discipline than shooting film. Why? You need to be much more ruthless when editing your photos, because you end up shooting more than on film.

    When you shoot film, it is easier to let your photos “marinate” for a long time, which actually makes it easier to “kill your babies.”

    At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if you shoot film or digital. Shoot whatever medium suits you (or shoot both). Ultimately photography is about emotions and capturing the human condition; the tool you use doesn’t matter so much.

    81. Experiment with film

    It doesn’t matter whether you shoot film or digital. There is not one “superior” format; they’re just different.

    If you have never shot film before, try it out. Just buy the cheapest film camera you can buy, some cheap film, and go out and shoot 20 rolls, and get them developed and scanned some local lab (many local labs and drugstores still process color film).

    Reflect on how the process of shooting film is different from digital. Then ultimately take those lessons and apply it to your digital photography. Or perhaps you can just end up sticking with film (or shooting both film and digital).

    What you will find with film is that it will teach you patience, appreciation of images, the enjoyment of the slower process, and the excitement and joy of finally seeing your images after a long time.

    82. Kill your babies

    ”I am a tough editor of my work, and usually when I look at my contacts I find that I can go as many as fifty rolls without getting a good photo.” – Bruce Gilden

    Editing (choosing your best images) is one of the most important things in photography. The problem is nowadays “editing” is used interchangeably with “post processing.” So when many photographers say that they’re going to go home and “edit” their shots, what they really mean is that they’re going to go home and post-process their photos.

    What is the problem with this? The issue is that there is much more emphasis on post processing images (rather than having the discipline of choosing only your best photos). What ends up happening is that you think that post processing a so-so photo will suddenly make it better. But no amount of post processing can make a mediocre photo into a great photo.

    Know that photography is hard, especially street photography. Bruce Gilden admits that sometimes he has to shoot 50 rolls of film (1,800 images) before he gets a photo he likes.

    Choosing your best shots is one of the most difficult decisions, especially when we shoot many photos of the same scene. The difficulty is that ultimately, you can only choose one image to represent your vision. Leonard Freed expands on this idea:

    “It can be difficult to make a decision because you can like this frame for this reason, and that frame for that reason. Each photograph has its particular strength. But you only pick one. One has to represent all. So I am always trying to put everything into one image: the statement, the foundation, the composition, the story, the individual personality – all of that together into one image.” – Leonard Freed

    How do we best edit our photos? One tip, follow your gut. Eli Reed says to choose the images that “speak to you”:

    ”Over three or four days I shot something like forty rolls of film. When I edit, I go for a gut, instinctual feeling. I started editing when I got the film back a day or two after I returned to the states. You are so aware of what you saw; the experiences that reflect in your mind. You don’ really forget the people and what they are going through. So I wanted to work on it immediately. Like anything else, when you’re trying to put down what you witnessed, you go for the pictures that speak to you.” – Eli Reed

    Also don’t ignore your heart and feelings, and integrate your memories into the editing process. Larry Towell says how you can imbue your images with symbolism:

    ”When I look at a contact sheet, I try to remember the feeling I had when I took the frame. The memory of feeling helps me edit. Art for me is really simple. It’s when a feeling overcomes you and you convey your feeling with symbols. In photography the symbols are the thing itself.” – Larry Towell

    There are also times when you’re looking through your images, there are some that simply “jump off the page.” That is a great indicator that it is a strong image, as Bruce Gilden explains:

    ”When I look at a contact sheet, I go in order from no 1 to no 36. I mark the ones I like, and unless something really jumps off the page at me, I go over them again to see which is the best one. With my personal work, I only print what I think is good. When something jumps off the page, it’s easy.” – Bruce Gilden

    Another tip: I look at my photos in Lightroom as small thumbnails, which helps me better judge the composition and emotions of my images. I no longer look through all of my photos in full-screen.

    When you aren’t sure which image to choose, ask yourself: “What am I trying to communicate through this image?” Mark Power had a similar difficulty, when he tried to edit down from 14,000 individual images. He ultimately asked himself, “What is this work really about?” This gave him insight into what the project was about:

    ”During the four years I spent making The Shipping Forecast I exposed nearly 1,200 rolls of film, which amounts to 14,000 individual pictures. Editing this down to a manageable number was a major exercise. I had advice from several people whose opinion I respected, but this only served to confuse me more. So instead I asked myself what the work was really about, and the answer was far clearer: it was about my childhood. In the end, The Shipping Forecast doesn’t depend on outstanding individual pictures, but instead on its collective strength.” – Mark Power

    It is often hard to edit your images just by yourself. Having outside opinions and advice can greatly help the process. Mary Ellen Mark trusts the opinions of those close to her:

    ”I ask my husband or Teri who works for me in New York, to also look through the contact sheets and to pick the ones they like. It always helps to have an outside opinion. You are so close and so personally involved with your work, it’s hard to separate yourself from it and see it objectively.” – Mary Ellen Mark

    I personally think that editing your photos is more difficult than shooting them. Any monkey can shoot a photograph, but it takes a rational, discerning, and experienced photographer to choose his or her best images.

    83. Don’t look at your photos immediately

    The problem with editing our own images is that we are often too emotionally attached to them. Often the memory of taking certain shots is so vivid that we think a shot is good. We treat our images like our children, and if you know anyone with ugly children you know, we think all of our children are beautiful.

    Your photos aren’t your babies or children. They’re just photographs. So you need to learn how to “kill your babies.”

    There are many ways to kill your babies. You can first off ask people you trust to be brutally honest with you. You can show people certain shots you’re unsure of and simply ask them: “Keep or ditch?”, then ask them to explain why.

    Garry Winogrand famously wouldn’t process his photos for a year after he shot it to totally emotionally disconnect himself with his images, and to forget the photos he shot.

    You don’t have to wait an entire year, but I do advise for you to at least sit on your photos for a week before looking at them. This gives you enough distance with your photos which can help you make more objective decisions when editing your shots.

    84. Don’t shoot for others

    ”What was happening in Czechoslovakia concerned my life directly: it was my country, my problem. That’s what made the difference between me and the other photographers who came there from abroad. I was not a reporter. I didn’t know anything about photojournalism. I never photograph ‘news’. I photographed gypsies and theatre. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I was confronted with that kind of situation, and I responded to it. I knew it was important to photograph, so I photographed. I took these pictures for myself, with no intention of publishing them.” – Josef Koudelka

    There are many photographers who make images hoping that they will get a lot of attention, acclaim, and “likes” on social media.

    But that is the wrong approach; you need to first start off by shooting for yourself. Shoot as if you will never show your photos to anybody. This will make your images much more authentic and personal.

    Even if you become a world-famous photographer, realize that fame and fortune are fleeting. You might be famous for a day, but the next day you will be forgotten. Sooner or later, you will be ignored. Even the greatest photographers of history have faded into obscurity, or have faced financial difficulties.

    The chief reason to continue to photograph? Because you need to. Your soul requires it. If you go without shooting, you feel like you are dying inside. You should focus on shooting for self-fulfillment and self-gratification, rather than shooting for others. If nobody ever saw the images that you made, would you still shoot them?

    Focus on making your photography your passion, as Alex Webb recommends:

    ”Photograph because you love doing it, because you absolutely have to do it, because the chief reward is going to be the process of doing it. Other rewards — recognition, financial remuneration come to so few and are so fleeting. And even if you are somewhat successful, there will almost inevitably be stretches of time when you will be ignored, have little income, or often both. Certainly there are many other easier ways to make a living in this society. Take photography on as a passion, not a career.” – Alex Webb

    Many photographers pick up a camera as a hobby and because they love it. But then the idea of becoming a “professional” can taint their vision. Start off by taking photos for yourself; photos you care about. Then let everything follow.

    Nowadays I hear a lot of photographers rushing to become “professional.” They go out and buy tons of expensive professional gear, and hope to make a living doing wedding or commercial photography. Then once they get a few clients, they realize that they actually don’t like shooting professionally. They also soon lose their zest and passion for shooting, because it becomes more of a job than a passion.

    Realize that you don’t need to be a “professional” to be a good photographer. There are many benefits of being an amateur; you can shoot exactly what you want, without any expectations from others or clients.

    In some regards, there are a lot of downsides to being a “professional.” You become a slave to others, because you need to make photos you don’t care about just to pay the rent. Much better to have a 9-5 job to pay the bills, and utilize all of your free time to do the photography that really sets your heart on fire.

    Christopher Anderson gives practical advice in terms of starting off by making photos that you enjoy, and perhaps professional photography will follow. But it is a process you shouldn’t force. Don’t be in a rush. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t happen, that is fine too:

    ”Forget about the profession of being a photographer. First be a photographer and maybe the profession will come after. Don’t be in a rush to make pay your rent with your camera. Jimi Hendrix didn’t decide on the career of professional musician before he learned to play guitar. No, he loved music and and created something beautiful and that THEN became a profession. Make the pictures you feel compelled to make and perhaps that will lead to a career. But if you try to make the career first, you will just make shitty pictures that you don’t care about.” – Christopher Anderson

    If you have the talent to make great images, people will soon take notice of you by the quality of the images you make. This is a better route than trying to make photos that will please others:

    Only shoot photos what you feel like shooting, rather than what you think others will find interesting. The best innovations often come from ignoring everybody else, and going opposite from the crowd, as Richard Kalvar explains:

    ”I think that I do what I feel like doing, which may not follow contemporary fashions but which comes spontaneously from the heart, the guts and the brain. To me, that’s what counts.“ – Richard Kalvar

    Don’t follow the crowd; follow your own heart and intuition. Only shoot for yourself.

    85. Photograph your own backyard

    “I just made my photos in Wilkes-Barre and a few other places because I wasn’t the kind of photographer who liked to, or needed to, travel around the world. That reminds me, I saw something you had said about how artistic range effects an artist’s development over time. And I work on an extremely narrow range, in terms of my method and technical issues, too. It’s what is in my head that has developed over time. So I’ve just kept taking pictures in the same two counties [Wilkes-Barre and Scranton].” – Mark Cohen

    It is always hard to shoot your own backyard. We become accustomed to our own neighborhood, and it is easy to become jaded.

    Mark Cohen is a photographer who documented his own “boring” small town for several decades, and made interesting photographs. He didn’t need to be in NYC, Tokyo, or Paris. He made his own backyard his Paris.

    You can often find beauty in the most ordinary places. Many photographers bemoan the fact that they don’t live somewhere exotic; but you can find beauty regardless of where you are.
    To be alive and on the planet Earth is a blessing. You can find beauty in the conversation of an old couple at a local coffee shop, a child playing, or someone enjoying the warm rays of the sun in a park.

    There is a hidden benefit of living in a boring place– the more boring the place you live, the harder you have to work to make interesting photos. That sort of challenge helps you be more creative.

    Photographer Saul Leiter lived a pretty obscure life. Leiter didn’t care for fame, he cared to just capture beauty whenever he saw it. He also focused on capturing beauty rather than misery, pain, and distress in the world (like a lot of other photographers do):

    ”I never thought of the urban environment as isolating. I leave these speculations to others. It’s quite possible that my work represents a search for beauty in the most prosaic and ordinary places. One doesn’t have to be in some faraway dreamland in order to find beauty. I realize that the search for beauty is not highly popular these days. Agony, misery and wretchedness, now these are worth perusing.” – Saul Leiter

    I personally find re-inspired by the place I live in by leaving and traveling. Then once I come back home, I appreciate my backyard even more.

    86. Make images that stand on their own

    ”To be honest with you, I always try to think of the specific pictures. What’s important to me is to make strong, individual pictures. When I look at a documentary photographer or photojournalist whose work I really love- somebody like Eugene Smith-it’s because the images are single images. I think of his great picture stories as stories where the images really stood by themselves. In Life’s ‘Country Doctor,’ for example, you remember each image. They weren’t only linking images -each one was strong, and each can stand alone. I think in great magazine or newspaper photography every picture can stand on its own; it doesn’t need the other pictures to support it to tell a story.” – Mary Ellen Mark

    One analogy I heard about writing is that instead of thinking of writing a “book,” try to write perfect paragraphs. Every time you write a perfect paragraph, you are making a pearl. And with enough pearls, you can connect them and make a beautiful pearl necklace.

    You can also apply the same thinking to your photos. Try to make each photograph into a perfect pearl. Make each photograph a strong one that can stand on its own, without any sort of caption or outside context.

    A strong single image is often universal, and can be appreciated by anybody, regardless of their culture, worldview, or age. Mary Ellen Mark explains:

    ”What I’m trying to do is make photographs that are universally understood, whether in China or Russia or America‑photographs that cross cultural lines. So if the project is about street performers, it touches those little things and whimsies we’re all interested in -animals and people and anthropomorphic qualities. If it’s about famine in Ethiopia, it’s about the human condition all over the world: It’s about people dying in the streets of New York as much as it’s about Ethiopia. I want my photographs to be about the basic emotions and feelings that we all experience.” – Mary Ellen Mark

    A strong single-image will burn itself into the mind of the viewer, and live with them. Even if you have created one memorable single-image before you die, you have done your job as a photographer.

    87. What counts is the result

    ”What counts is the result. It works or it doesn’t work. You may think after you’ve taken a picture that you may have something. And then you find out that you don’t have anything, that you almost had something but that in fact, you pressed the button at the wrong time. That you took a lot of pictures, but you were on auto-pilot – that instead of waiting, you shot buckshot at it, so you missed the one that might really work.” – Richard Kalvar

    It is common we make photos that “almost” work. But ultimately, a photo either works or it doesn’t work. There is no need to beat around the bush.

    If you didn’t get the shot right “in-camera,” don’t think that excessive cropping, vignette adding, making it black and white, HDR, selective color, or post processing can salvage the image.
    The process of making photos is important, but know at the end of the day, the result of the photograph is the most important. You can have the most interesting backstory in terms of how you shot a scene, but if the result of the photograph isn’t interesting, nobody will care.

    Learn to be honest with yourself and your images. Be sincere to yourself; ask yourself, “Does this shot work, or not?”
    I have generally found with my photographs, if I have to hesitate whether I think works or not, it doesn’t work. Also when editing my photos, if a photograph is a “maybe”, it doesn’t work. The good photos you take generally tend to be quite obvious.

    As a general rule remember: “When in doubt, ditch.”

    88. Abstract reality

    “In order for the mystery to work, you need abstraction from reality. Black and white is an additional abstraction, in addition to selective framing, to the freezing of the moment that in reality is a part of an infinite number of other moments (you have one moment and it never moves again; you can keep looking at the picture forever). The black and white is one more step away from reality. Color, for me, is realer, but less interesting.” – Richard Kalvar

    Reality can be boring. What the viewer is interested in seeing is the abstraction of reality, not reality itself. So think to yourself, when you are making photos, what is the extra layer that makes the image interesting? 

    How can we make reality more surreal and abstract? You can start off by trying to “lie with reality,” as Richard Kalvar explains:

    ”That’s part of the magic of photography. Look at a picture and you have no idea what was going on. The only thing you can know is what’s visually depicted, and we all know photographers lie. That’s where the fun comes in. To be able to tell a lie with “reality” is a very tough trick.” – Richard Kalvar

    You don’t want to make your photos too obvious. You want the viewer to work hard to come up with his or her own interpretation of reality. You do this by adding mystery and removing context from your images: 

    ”As a photographer if your photos are too obvious then you’re missing the point. Photos are about mystery, about not knowing, about dreams, and the more you know about that—then you can recognize them on the street.” – Jason Eskenazi

    Another approach you can have in street photography is to try to create “little dramas” in your frame. You want to create little mini-stories in your images, and you want them to stay open ended. You want the viewer to come up with their own interpretation of the scene:

    “I’m trying to create little dramas that lead people to think, to feel, to dream, to fantasize, to smile… It’s more than just catching beautiful moments; I want to fascinate, to hypnotize, to move my viewers. Making greater statements about the world is not my thing. I think there’s a coherence in the work that comes not from an overriding philosophy but from a consistent way of looking and feeling.” – Richard Kalvar

    Don’t make “obvious” photos. Make your viewer work to interpret your images and reality.

    89. Capture your own personal “decisive moments”

    ”Sometimes it happens that you stall, delay, wait for something to happen. Sometimes you have the feeling that here are all the makings of a picture – except for just one thing that seems to be missing. But what one thing? Perhaps someone suddenly walks into your range of view. You follow his progress through the viewfinder. You wait and wait, and then finally you press the button – and you depart with the feeling (though you don’t know why) that you’ve really got something. Later, to substantiate this, you can take a print of this picture, trace it on the geometric figures which come up under analysis, and you’ll observe that, if the shutter was released at the decisive moment, you have instinctively fixed a geometric pattern without which the photograph would have been both formless and lifeless.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    When we are shooting images, we never fully know which moment will be “decisive.” But when we are shooting, we sometimes have a gut feeling or an intuition that a certain moment might be significant. At that moment, we must click the shutter.
    It is hard to know which moments are significant while we’re shooting, so we need to take a risk. Whenever you’re in doubt or think a moment might be interesting, don’t think too much. Just click the shutter.

    Henri Cartier-Bresson expands the concept of “the decisive moment” below:

    ”To me, photography is the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event as well as of a precise organization of forms which give that event its proper expression.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    But which moment is “decisive” and which moment isn’t “decisive?” Ultimately, it is a judgement call. Every single moment which we think might be significant is personal:

    ”Your decisive moment is not the same as mine, but most of us are looking for a moment that is necessary for what we’re trying to do. Unnecessary moments quickly become easy, common, and boring.” – Richard Kalvar

    Capture fewer “decisive moments” of people jumping over puddles, and more personal decisive moments. Make meaningful photos of your close friends, loved ones, and family. Make photos that you think are going to be meaningful on your deathbed. Make photos that aren’t going to get tons of “likes” on social media, but will bring you inner-happiness and satisfaction.

    90. Rules will set you free

    ”I didn’t write the rules, but following them set me free.” – Richard Kalvar

    As artists we have a knee-jerk reaction against “rules.” We want to be open, free, and unlimited in our creativity. But know that often having rules can help us be more creative.

    Certain “rules” in photography include not cropping, not mixing color and black and white in a series, not posing your photos, not to use zoom lenses, and not applying gimmicky post-processing to your photos.

    Know that these “rules” are simply “creative constraints.” Richard Kalvar followed a lot of the “rules” from Henri Cartier-Bresson, and first disdained them. But over time, he found out how these rules ended up helping his photography:

    ”Sometimes it turns out that the things that you do for the wrong reasons turn out to be the right things to do anyway. In retrospect, I’m really glad that I decided not to crop, because that developed my compositional discipline and my ability to organize a picture instinctively, in the viewfinder. It also obliged me to work very close up to my subjects in order to fill my 35mm lens frame. I had to be a toreador, not a sniper. Also, I had the feeling of doing something difficult, getting the picture right in the first place; anyone could crop a picture and find something interesting, but doing it in the camera was special. These things were essential to my photographic development.” – Richard Kalvar

    When you’re starting off any creative endeavor, you don’t want to have too many options. It is good to set these artificial boundaries and rules for yourself.

    By having these “creative constraints,” you will force yourself to be more creative given your limited options. Imagine a kid who doesn’t have any toys at home. He will take a refrigerator cardboard box and turn it into a fort. He will take plastic bags and turn them into parachutes for his little toy soldiers. He will innovate creative ideas given the few things he might have.

    I personally believe that having some rules and structure in your life helps give you more creative freedom.

    For example, I have a personal rule in writing (I am not allowed to turn on the internet before noon). I use an app called “Freedom” on the Mac which shuts down my internet for a pre-determined period of time. This “rule” has helped me become much more focused and productive as a writer (I currently have my internet disabled as I write these words).

    Another rule you can set yourself: don’t go a day without taking a single photograph. This “rule” is a positive one, rather than that of a dictator.

    Many “rules” in photography are just guidelines and suggestions. But there is a reason why so many of these “rules” stick around for a long time in history (because there is some wisdom and usefulness in them).

    If you’re starting off in street photography, adhere to simple rules like don’t zoom, don’t crop, don’t constantly switch your equipment, don’t publish too many photos, don’t mix color and black-and-white.

    Once you have learned these “rules” and learned why they are rules, then you can break away from them and kill them.

    91. Experiment

    ”I liked different lenses for different times. I am fond of the telephoto lens, as I am of the normal 50 mm lens. I had at one point a 150 mm lens and I was very fond it. I liked what it did. I experimented a lot. Sometimes I worked with a lens that I had when I might have preferred another lens. I think Picasso once said that he wanted to use green in a painting but since he didn’t have it he used red. Perfection is not something I admire. [Laughs]. A touch of confusion is a desirable ingredient.” – Saul Leiter

    Experimentation is what makes life exciting and fun. If you were to simply do the same thing everyday, life would quickly become boring and dull. Imagine eating the same one dish for the rest of your life.

    Imagine how quickly you would become bored with it. As artists and photographers, it is hard to balance the fine line between experimentation and consistency. However without experimentation, you will never be able to find your voice in photography, or what you enjoy.

    Have fun and experiment. Think of yourself like a scientist, and you can experiment with different approaches, subject-matter, cameras, lenses, films, styles of post processing, etc. Once you’ve found a certain experiment that works well, try to stick with it and see how deep you can go with it.

    Even as an example, I have been experimenting shooting more with my smartphone and processing it in the VSCO app (with the “a6” preset). I have been happy with some of the results, but figured that I preferred using a more standard camera at the end of the day. Yet it was an experiment I’m glad I did.

    Variety is the spice of life.

    Don’t let others dictate what experiments you “should” do and “shouldn’t” do. Follow your own voice, and be your own mad photography scientist.

    92. Fuck fame

    ”I’ve never been overwhelmed with a desire to become famous. It’s not that I didn’t want to have my work appreciated, but for some reason — maybe it’s because my father disapproved of almost everything I did — in some secret place in my being was a desire to avoid success.” – Saul Leiter

    Being famous in photography or life is overrated. Fame can often add unnecessary pressure, anxiety, and stress.

    Saul Leiter is one of the best examples of a great photographer who lived a happy, peaceful, and fulfilled life. Instead of trying to network all the time and try to get his photos seen in prestigious galleries, he preferred to simply sit and enjoy a nice cup of coffee:

    “My friend Henry [Wolf] once said that I had a talent for being indifferent to opportunities. He felt that I could have built more of a career, but instead I went home and drank coffee and looked out the window.” – Saul Leiter

    Becoming “famous” is something which is out of your control. 90% of “success” in photography is about who you know (and how much ass you kiss) not how good your work is (unfortunately).

    Consider all of the famous artists who died penniless and without any fame (Van Gogh being a notable example), and were “discovered” after they died. Yet they still pursued their art for the pure love of it, not for the fame or money or riches. Saul Leiter explains:

    ”The cream does not always rise to the surface. The history of art is a history of great things neglected and ignored and bad and mediocre things being admired. As someone once said “life is unfair.” In the 19th Century someone was very lucky. He or she acquired a Vermeer for $ 12. There are always changes and revisions of the appreciation of art, artists, and photography and writers and on and on. The late art of Picasso is no good but then a revision takes place and then it becomes very good as the art records indicate. Things come and go.” – Saul Leiter

    With social media and today’s modern society, we crave attention. But there is often a great advantage of being ignored, that you can live more peacefully and live life according to your own principles. Saul Leiter shares the upside of being “ignored”:

    “I spent a great deal of my life being ignored. I was always very happy that way. Being ignored is a great privilege. That is how I think I learnt to see what others do not see and to react to situations differently. I simply looked at the world, not really prepared for anything.” – Saul Leiter

    Even if you become the world’s most famous photographer, there will still be people who don’t know or appreciate your work. Just focus on creating work for yourself, without the added pressure to please others:

    ”I have a deep-seated distrust and even contempt for people who are driven by ambition to conquer the world … those who cannot control themselves and produce vast amounts of crap that no one cares about. I find it unattractive. I like the Zen artists: they’d do some work, and then they’d stop for a while.” – Saul Leiter

    Saul Leiter expands on not taking yourself or life too seriously:

    “In order to build a career and to be successful, one has to be determined. One has to be ambitious. I much prefer to drink coffee, listen to music and to paint when I feel like it… Maybe I was irresponsible. But part of the pleasure of being alive is that I didn’t take everything as seriously as one should.” – Saul Leiter

    Fuck fame, fortune, and the number of social media followers you have. No matter how famous you become, there will always be someone more famous than you. Not only that, but sooner or later, all the people who admire your work will eventually die. And when you’re dead, why do you care if people admire your work anyways (you can’t enjoy “fame” when you’re dead).

    The only pursuit in photography and life which is noble is this: pursue your inner-vision in photography, without any sort of internal censor or critic stopping you. Don’t make work to please others, but revel in creating work which brings you inner-satisfaction and joy.

    Fame and fortune is the most empty and shallow thing. So many great photographers have lost their inner-vision and passion because they start chasing the dollars and the number of online followers, rather than sticking to their inner-wisdom and inner-voice.

    Trust me, it has happened to me. When I started photography, I did it for the pure love of it. Then I discovered social media, and then it became about getting more views, comments, followers, and “fame.” I started to do sneaky stuff, like following people (only hoping that they would follow me back), and I would only leave comments and like their photos because I hoped that they would reciprocate. I would constantly refresh my photos every hour hoping that I got more views, comments, and other badges of external recognition.

    Over the years, I’ve realized that this is bullshit.

    Even now, I have tons of followers online, and after a while, they just become numbers. And enough is never enough. Even though my dream was once to get at least 100 “favorites” on Flickr, that number soon turned into 200 favorites, then 300 favorites, then 500 favorites. My most popular photo of a laughing lady in NYC has over 1,000 favorites, yet it still pales in comparison to other photographers who have over 10,000 favorites on their images.

    Even with Instagram, I currently have around 24,000+ followers (which is a lot by “normal” people). But I still feel pangs of jealousy seeing other photographers with 200,000+ followers. I think to myself, “Why do they have so many followers, their work sucks, I am such a better photographer than them!” But how many “likes” or “favorites” is enough?

    All of this ultimately was a reflection of my own insecurity of myself and my work.

    Remember even if you do become “famous” in your photography, you will have lots of trolls and “haters” who come out of the woodwork. They will try to tear you down, not because you are a bad photographer, but because they are dissatisfied with their own work and lack of fame, and are jealous that you are pursuing your dream and passion (and have received some recognition).
    To sum up, once again, fuck fame. Seek to please yourself, perhaps a few friends and close colleagues, and shoot everyday if it were your last.

    When you die, you can’t take your “likes” with you.

    93. Think long-term

    “I very much like to work on long-term projects. There is time for the photographer and the people in front of the camera to understand each other. There is time to go to a place and understand what is happening there. When you spend more time on a project, you learn to understand your subjects. There comes a time when it is not you who is taking the pictures. Something special happens between the photographer and the people he is photographing. He realizes that they are giving the pictures to him.” – Sebastião Salgado

    Everything great takes a long time to grow. You can’t expect to become a master photographer overnight. A redwood tree needs decades, centuries, and sometimes even thousands of years to achieve their grandeur.

    Similarly, don’t feel so rushed in your photography to create great work overnight. Some of the best photographers in history need years, sometimes even decades to make a body of work they’re proud of.

    For example, Sebastião Salgado shares the importance of spending a long time on a project, which really allows you to understand your subject matter deeper. Even though you might be tired and exhausted, you must keep peddling forward:

    “When I started Genesis I was 59 and I thought I was an old man. But now I am going to be 70 and I feel fine so I am ready to start again. Life is a bicycle: you must keep going forward and you pedal until you drop.” – Sebastião Salgado

    Zoe Strauss also worked on her “I-95” project for nearly a decade. The effort of her work really shows, the images are powerful, cohesive, and tell a narrative:

    “I-95 was an epic narrative about the beauty and struggle of everyday life, comprising 231 photographs adhered to the concrete support pillars under an elevated highway that runs through South Philadelphia, Interstate 95. The installation of photos went up once a year, from 1pm to 4pm, on the first Sunday of the month. I worked on 95 for a decade, from 2000 to 2010.” – Zoe Strauss

    Why a full decade? Strauss explains:

    ”A decade would allow me enough time to make a strong body of work. I needed to learn to make photographs and couldn’t gauge my capability until I actually started working. Setting a time constraint assured that the installation wouldn’t be overworked. Plus, I could go at it as hard as possible without fear of burning out.” – Zoe Strauss

    Strauss also did something interesting: she set a time limit on how long she was allowed to work on her project. She figured a decade was enough time to work on her project, but didn’t dare work on it for longer than that.

    Another example: Richard Avedon worked on his epic project, “In the American West” for 6 full years. During that period of time, he photographed 752 people, exposed 17,000 sheets of 8×10 film, traveled to 17 states, 189 towns, and ultimately only showed 123 photos for his exhibition.

    Don’t settle for single-images on social media; aim to make meaning long-term projects.

    If you pursue any project that is personally meaningful for at least a decade, how can it be weak?

    94. Create a relationship with your subjects

    ”If you take a picture of a human that does not make him noble, there is no reason to take this picture. That is my way of seeing things.” – Sebastião Salgado

    One of the main problems in street photography is how shallow it can be. Through street photography, we are trying to build a connection with our fellow human beings. But often when we shoot candidly, we aren’t able to make that deeper connection.

    In these circumstances, I feel that it is important to try to build a human connection with your subjects.

    Many proponents of street photography day that street photography must be candid. It is true that sometimes the best street photos are candid. But also some of the best street photos involve the photographer getting intimate with his or her subject. By getting to know your subject, you connect with them on a deeper and emotional level, which might help you uncover some hidden truths about them, which might manifest in the photos that you take.

    Sebastião Salgado isn’t a “street photographer” and most consider him a “documentary photographer.” Salgado is most famous for photographing important socioeconomic and political issues all around the world.

    Salgado’s personal story is this: he started off as an economist, saw all the problems in the world, and decided to pursue photography to reveal those injustices. This came out of his humanity and deep love of others.

    Salgado doesn’t believe that making an image is just a one way process; rather, making a photograph is a collaboration between the subject and photographer. He explains below:

    ”The picture is not made by the photographer, the picture is more good or less good in function of the relationship that you have with the people you photograph.” – Sebastião Salgado

    To get your subjects to open up to you, you also need to open yourself up to your subject:

    ”I tell a little bit of my life to them, and they tell a little of theirs to me. The picture itself is just the tip of the iceberg.” – Sebastião Salgado

    Walker Evans also shares the importance of a photographer being able to be with other people, and to have your subjects feel comfortable:

    “Incidentally, part of a photographer’s gift should be with people. You can do some wonderful work if you know how to make people understand what you’re doing and feel all right about it, and you can do terrible work if you put them on the defense, which they all are at the beginning. You’ve got to take them off their defensive attitude and make them participate.” – Walker Evans

    There will be moments where you won’t have time to make a deep connection with your subject. However one of the most important things are to create an emotional bond with your subject, by empathizing with them as Weegee shares:

    ”When you find yourself beginning to feel a bond between yourself and the people you photograph, when you laugh and cry with their laughter and tears, you will know you are on the right track.” – Weegee

    I believe the connections we make with our subjects is far more important than making photos. After all, what is a photograph anyways? It is just light reflected off a surface. There is no real soul or emotion in a photograph.

    But the true emotion and soul of humanity lies within the connection we have with our fellow human-beings.

    Personally, I might go an entire day without making any good photos. But if I had a nice chat with the bus driver, with my barista, or a stranger on the street and built a lovely (albeit brief) connection, my entire day was justified and worth it.

    95. Don’t bore your viewer

    ”Don’t take boring photos.” – Tony Ray-Jones

    One of the worst things you can do as a photographer is to bore your viewer. In today’s society we have very limited attention spans and if your work doesn’t instantly invite, captivate, or interest your viewer, you will fail to ever have an audience for your work.

    But how can you make your photos less boring? One piece of advice from Jason Eskenazi is to reveal something personal about yourself:

    ”Ultimately any photo project that you do isn’t really about the subject matter, it is about you – and revealing yourself. If you don’t reveal anything about yourself, you are boring everyone. It is a confession in some ways.” – Jason Eskenazi

    It is hard to tell whether a photo is any “good” or not, but it is easier to tell whether it is boring or not.

    If you need editing (selecting) advice, approach your friends or fellow photography colleagues and simply ask them: “Is this shot boring?” Then based on their feedback, integrate their suggestions, and decide which photos to cut (and which to keep).

    What you find boring is highly subjective. However most people have pretty keen “boredom detectors” which can be used as a useful tool when culling down your images or projects.

    Furthermore, avoid boredom in your photography. If you are pursuing a project that no longer interests you, close it out, and continue along a new path. If black and white bores you, try color. If digital bores you, try film. If 35mm bores you, try medium-format. If shooting your neighborhood bores you, check out a different neighborhood. If photography itself bores you, pick up painting or some other artistic form.

    Living life by simply avoiding boredom is a quite easy (and very fulfilling) way to live creatively.

    96. Embrace your day job

    I know a lot of photographers who wish their full time profession was being a photographer. Or if they were rich, and didn’t have to work, and could simply travel the world and photograph all the time.

    The reality is that sometimes having too much free time can be bad for your creativity. There is a benefit on having a “day job” as a photographer. Having a steady income allows you to buy photography books, film, attend workshops, travel, and not have to stress to make a living from your photograph.

    Many professional photographers burn out from doing so much commercial and wedding photography (and work they don’t really like doing). After a 12-hour long wedding, do you really have the energy, time, or motivation to go out and shoot some street photography? I doubt it.

    Some of the most famous street photographers in history have had normal “day jobs”, like Vivian Maier who worked as a nanny. The benefit of being a nanny was whenever she took her kids to the city, she brought her camera along and made photos. Not only that, but when she was off work, she could fully devote her time to making images, without having to worry about selling her photos or anything to survive.

    Walker Evans also had a job that gave him during the day, which didn’t pay much, but paid for his freedom:

    ”I had a night job on Wall Street in order to be free in the daytime. It paid for room and food. You didn’t have to sleep or eat much. In those days I was rather ascetic.” – Walker Evans

    Even Albert Einstein worked as a clerk at the Swiss patent office, doing menial labor while he came up with the theory of relativity.

    You have no barriers. Realize you can create a great body of work in photography even with a normal job.

    97. Count your blessings

    If you have a day job, count yourself blessed. Rather than making excuses about how your day job holds back your creativity as a photographer, think about the benefits of having a day job as a photographer. Then write down all the benefits on a piece of paper and tape it to your cubicle wall.

    Another idea: try to find where you can make free time around your day job to do more shooting.

    Perhaps you can shoot for 30 minutes before work on the train, subway, or in your neighborhood before you go to work. If you drive, perhaps you can shoot photos while stuck in traffic (do this with caution).

    If you have a lunch break, devote that time to shoot your office neighborhood. If you don’t have people in your office area walking around, shoot urban landscapes, or just portraits of your Co workers. Don’t stay late after work sending more emails or sucking up to your boss, get out immediately at 6pm and go shooting where you want to go.

    Maximize your weekends for shooting. Devote holidays to shoot. Ask your boss if you can work part time to allow yourself more time to shoot. Find the little holes of time in your schedule and maximize it.

    There are no excuses, only photos to be made.

    98. Don’t become married to your beliefs

    ”A year ago I would have said that color is vulgar and should never be tried under any circumstances. It’s a paradox that I’m now associated with it and in fact I intend to come out with it seriously.” – Walker Evans 

    In today’s society it is frowned upon to be a “flip-flopper” and to go back on previously stated beliefs you might have had. Not only that, but it is true that it is hard for old dogs to learn new tricks. Once we have a certain belief or way of thinking established in our minds, we don’t like to change our beliefs.

    In order to continue to grow, evolve, and learn as a photographer is to not get married to your beliefs. It is important to stay open-minded to new ideas, approaches, and ways of working.

    For example, Walker Evans worked most of his career in black and white. He looked at color photography with disgust, horror, and suspicion. He went on the public record by calling color photography “vulgar.” 

    Ironically enough, he started to be more interested in color when he started to shoot with an instant Polaroid camera. He then started to have fun and understand the benefits of shooting color. What I admire about Evans that he was able to admit that he was wrong, and changed his beliefs. Not many photographers or human beings can do that.

    What are some preconceived notions or concepts or ideas that you have which you cling onto dearly? Learn how to kill your preconceived notions, and to divorce yourself to your own beliefs.

    99. You’re only as good as your last photo

    ”Keep your eyes open. If you see anything, take it. Remember – you’re as good as your last picture. One day you’re hero, the next day you’re a bum.” – Weegee

    There’s a saying also for film directors that you’re only as good as your last movie. Once you reach a certain quality or bar in your photography, you don’t want to make future work which is worse than your old work. You want to continue to improve, and be judged based on your past work.

    Have a strong work ethic in your photography. Don’t be easily satisfied, try to make the best possible photos you can, judging yourself to your past work.

    The secret isn’t to judge yourself and your work compared to other photography. Rather, only judge yourself to the last photo you took. If you have a certain shot that you’re really proud of, make that photograph your new standard.

    Aim to make photos as good as that shot, if not better. This will help you continue to pave new ground in your photography, and take your work to the next level.

    100. Unlearn

    Dear friend,

    I want to leave you with the last lesson it would be this: unlearn.

    You’ve read all these 100 lessons from the masters of street photography. Some of these lessons probably resonated with you more than others. Some of these lessons probably were “bullshit” in your eyes, but you still kept an open mind.

    If there is anything I can share that I have personally learned from putting this book is this: I appreciate all of the theory, lessons, and learning from the masters. But now I need to “kill my masters” and set my own sail.

    Ironically enough, everyday I am trying to unlearn one thing. After a while of accumulating too much photography theory, it has hurt me more than hurt me. I hesitate making photos because I have too much self-criticism. The voices in my head tell me, “No Eric, don’t take that photo. It will be shitty.” I am a very harsh editor of my work as well; I only make about one photo a month I am proud of.

    But moving forward, I want to have more fun with my photography. I don’t want to be held by theories and ideas. I want to pave my own path.

    So friend, after you have learned all of these fundamental lessons, unlearn them as well. Pave your own path. Just see the “masters” as guides in your journey in photography. Once you’ve found your path, you can bid farewell to them.

    If I could summarize all of the lessons I learned from the masters of street photography (and their philosophies of life) it would be this:

    1. Never stop learning.
    2. Never stop shooting.
    3. Never stop challenging your beliefs in photography.
    4. Don’t forget that you only live once; shoot everyday if it were your last.
    5. Follow the path of the masters, but know when to “kill” the masters.
    6. Don’t feel rushed; take your time. Your voice will emerge naturally.
    7. Disregard fame, fortune, and shoot for yourself.
    8. Buy experiences, not gear.
    9. Make connections, not photos.
    10. Love your subjects like yourself.

    What are you going to unlearn today?

    Epilogue

    Dear friend,

    Thank you so much for accompanying me along this journey. I hope you enjoyed reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.
    The end of a journey is always a bit bitter-sweet. I have poured my entire heart, soul, and being into researching, writing, and designing this book— and I am quite proud of the final outcome. But remember at the end of the day, it is just a guide and a manual; not a bible you should mindlessly follow.

    Always read all these lessons with a skeptical eye. Even though these master photographers are great, they are still fallible human beings (like the rest of us). Many of these photographers still succumbed to envy, grief, frustration, and jealousy (of other photographers). They didn’t have all of their shit figured out, and neither do we.

    Ultimately we need to all pave our own path and life in photography. So don’t follow the masters blindly; be a good pupil and always question the teacher. After all, the teachers are also students at the end of the day.

    In writing this book, I had a lot of ups-and-downs. I got my backpack stolen while in Paris and thought without a laptop I couldn’t write the book. But I followed the ancient proverb: “Hunger breeds sophistication.” I ended up writing most of the text for the book on my smartphone, synced it via Evernote, and designed the whole thing on an iPad and Apple Pages. For this eBook edition, I used the iBooks author tool.

    The lesson it taught me was this: don’t let any of your external circumstances in life hold you back from creating. Your creativity, aspirations and ideas are limitless.

    You have no boundaries to your imagination. The only boundary you have is your own mental limits. The limits are never your lack of money, lack of time, lack of opportunity, or the lack of equipment.

    If you have any other ambitious photography projects, ignore what everybody else says. Follow your own heart and bliss. You only live one life, and it is short. Why waste it living according to the expectations of others? Devote every waking moment to creating your art.

    Even when you’re busy at your day job “working”— never stop dreaming about your creative projects.

    What legacy do you want to leave behind after you die? What regrets do you want to prevent at the end of your photographic life? What are some photographic projects you haven’t pursued yet that you have always wanted to?

    Use money as a tool to accomplish some of your dreams, and know at the end of the day, you don’t need a fancy camera to pursue any of your projects. All you need is determination, grit, a supportive community of like-minded artists and photographers, and a dog-like determination to complete your project.

    Never stop learning and creating, and always embrace “beginner’s mind.”

    Farewell my dear friend, you were destined for great things.

    Love,
    Eric
    New Orleans, Sun, 4:28pm, Oct 11, 2015

    Index of the masters of street photography

    • Alec Soth
    • Alex Webb
    • Anders Petersen
    • Andre Kertesz
    • Bruce Davidson
    • Bruce Gilden
    • Constantine Manos
    • Daido Moriyama
    • Dan Winters
    • David Alan Harvey
    • David Hurn
    • Diane Arbus
    • Dorothea Lange
    • Elliott Erwitt
    • Eugene Atget
    • Eugene Smith
    • Garry Winogrand
    • Helen Levitt
    • Henri Cartier-Bresson
    • Jacob Aue Sobol
    • Jeff Mermelstein
    • Joel Meyerowitz
    • Joel Sternfeld
    • Josef Koudelka
    • Josh White
    • Lee Friedlander
    • Mark Cohen
    • Martin Parr
    • Mary Ellen Mark
    • Rene Burri
    • Richard Avedon
    • Richard Kalvar
    • Robert Capa
    • Robert Frank
    • Saul Leiter
    • Sebastião Salgado
    • Stephen Shore
    • Todd Hido
    • Tony Ray-Jones
    • Trent Parke
    • Vivian Maier
    • Walker Evans
    • Weegee
    • William Eggleston
    • William Klein
    • Zoe Strauss

    Quotes from the masters of street photography

    “What has interested me in taking photographs is the maximum — the maximum that exists in a situation and the maximum I can produce from it.” – Josef Koudelka

    “If your photographs aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough.” – Robert Capa

    “My photography is not ‘brain photography’. I put my brain under the pillow when I shoot. I shoot with my heart and with my stomach.” – Anders Petersen

    “It is more after when I am shooting when I am looking at my contact sheets, and then I try to analyze and put things together.” – Anders Petersen

    “I never shoot without using the viewfinder.” – Garry Winogrand

    “[Don’t shoot from the hip], you’ll lose control over your framing.” – Garry Winogrand

    “If you start cutting or cropping a good photograph, it means death to the geometrically correct interplay of proportions. Besides, it very rarely happens that a photograph which was feebly composed can be saved by reconstruction of its composition under the darkroom’s enlarger; the integrity of vision is no longer there.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    “Sometimes photographers mistake emotion for what makes a great street photograph.” – Garry Winogrand

    “Rather than catching people unaware, they show the face they want to show. Unposed, caught unaware, they might reveal ambiguous expressions, brows creased in vague internal contemplation, illegible, perhaps meaningless. Why not allow the subject the possibility of revealing his attitude toward life, his neighbor, even the photographer?” – William Klein

    “You are not supposed to be a slave of mechanical tools, they are supposed to help you and be as small and unimportant as possible not to disturb the communication.” – Anders Petersen

    “My dream is that if you go out in the streets where you were born you see the streets like for the first time in your life even though you have been living there for 60 years.” – Anders Petersen

    “Too much choices will screw up your life. Work on one thing, then expand on your canvas.” – David Alan Harvey

    “For me, capturing what I feel with my body is more important than the technicalities of photography. If the image is shaking, it’s OK, if it’s out of focus, it’s OK. Clarity isn’t what photography is about.” – Daido Moriyama

    “Seeing is not enough; you have to feel what you photograph” – Andre Kertesz

    “Luck or perhaps serendipity plays a big role… But you never know what is going to happen. And what is most exciting is when the utterly unexpected happens, and you manage to be there at the right place at the right time – and push the shutter at the right moment. Most of the time it doesn’t work out that way. Street photography is 99.9% about failure.” – Alex Webb

    “It’s not just that that and that exists. It’s that that, that, that, and that all exist in the same frame. I’m always looking for something more. You take in too much; perhaps it becomes total chaos. I’m always playing along that line: adding something more, yet keeping it sort of chaos.” – Alex Webb

    “If you photograph for a long time, you get to understand such things as body language. I often do not look at people I photograph, especially afterwards. Also when I want a photo, I become somewhat fearless, and this helps a lot. There will always be someone who objects to being photographed, and when this happens you move on.” – Martin Parr

    “I go straight in very close to people and I do that because it’s the only way you can get the picture. You go right up to them. Even now, I don’t find it easy.” – Martin Parr

    “I don’t announce it. I pretend to be focusing elsewhere. If you take someone’s photograph it is very difficult not to look at them just after. But it’s the one thing that gives the game away. I don’t try and hide what I’m doing – that would be folly.” – Martin Parr

    “In those days Henri Cartier- Bresson limited us to lenses from 35 mm to 90 mm.  When I showed him the photos he said, ‘brilliant René!’ I went outside and shouted ‘Hah!’ He heard me and said ‘what was that?’ I said, ‘nothing, never mind’. The lens I used was 180 mm I never told him! At that point I broke loose from my mentor. I killed my mentor!” – Rene Burri

    “The camera is like my third eye it is an outlet for my curiosity. I was always curious as a kid and you have to use your senses. I wanted to meet the big giants of the 19th century, a sculptor, an artist, a dictator a musician and then I would find the pictures would just happen. You don’t capture a picture you are responding. I respond to situations and I am very fast – fastest gun in the West – even at my age.” – Rene Burri

    “I also photograph because I am curious. I am curious about what the person on the other side of the street is thinking, how he or she lives, and how he or she feels. I am always looking for someone to share a moment with.” – Jacob Aue Sobol
    “I leave it to others to say what [my photos] mean. You know my photos, you published them, you exhibited them, and so you can say whether they have meaning or not.” –  Josef Koudelka

    “Photography has always been capable of manipulation. Anytime you put a frame to the world, it’s an interpretation. I could get my camera and point it at two people and not point it at the homeless third person to the right of the frame, or not include the murder that’s going on to the left of the frame.” – Joel Sternfeld

    “It’s tempting to satisfy people’s curiosity as to what was “really going on” in a scene, but it always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. If there’s a mystery, the viewer should try to unravel it for himor herself, subjectively, through intelligence, imagination and association. I want people to keep looking, not just move on to the next thing.” – Richard Kalvar

    “I wouldn’t talk about the photographs. No, I try to separate myself completely from what I do. I try to step back to look at them as somebody who has nothing to do with them.” –  Josef Koudelka

    “The biggest danger for a photographer is if they start thinking they are important.” – Sebastião Salgado

    “It’s not normal to feel that you have to do something, that you love to do something. If that’s happening you have to pay attention so you don’t lose it.” – Josef Koudelka

    “I ran around Paris; I had to photograph everything. I realized that with this camera I could do something I’d never done before. The panoramic camera helped me go to another stage in my career, in my work. It helped me to remain interested in photography, to be fascinated with photography.” – Josef Koudelka

    “I’m going to be seventy-seven. When I met Cartier-Bresson, he was sixty-two. I’m 15 years older than Cartier-Bresson was then. And at that time Cartier-Bresson was stopping his work with photography.” – Josef Koudelka

    “Many photographers like Robert Frank and Cartier Bresson stopped photographing after 70 years because they felt that they had nothing more to say. In my case I still wake up and want to go and take photographs more than ever before.” – Josef Koudelka

    “Photograph who you are!” – Bruce Gilden

    “I love the people I photograph. I mean, they’re my friends. I’ve never met most of them or I don’t know them at all, yet through my images I live with them. At the same time, they are symbols. The people in my pictures aren’t Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith or whatever; they’re someone that crossed my path or I’ve crossed their path, and through the medium of photography I’ve been able to make a good picture of that encounter. They have a life of their own, but they are also are symbols. I would say that I respect the viewer, but I don’t want to tell him everything.” – Bruce Gilden

    “Hopefully, there’s an element of mystery involved. I like him to look at a picture and say “Well, that that reminds me of someone,” and make up a little story in his head, make him smile, brighten up his day. I think this is what I’m trying to achieve with my photographs.” – Bruce Gilden

    “When I went out of Czechoslovakia I experienced two changes: The first one is that there wasn’t this situation any longer. I didn’t need wide-angle lenses. And I had understood the technique very well, I was repeating myself, and I’m not interested in repetition, I wanted to change. I took a 50mm/35mm Leica.The second change was that I started to travel the world. I had this possibility and I had a look at this world.” – Josef Koudelka

    “I don’t want to reach the point from where I wouldn’t know how to go further. It’s good to set limits for oneself, but there comes a moment when we must destroy what we have constructed.” – Josef Koudelka
    “I carried this little album of my work. I have three choices. If I see someone in this beautiful mood, I’ll go up to them and ask them, I’d like to take a picture of that mood. If they say yes, I ask if they can get back into that mood. Not everyone can do that. Or, if the said no, then I took out the album and they saw the work. Or I took it, and ran like hell. I had those three choices in the subway.” – Bruce Davidson

    “Sometimes, I’d take the picture, then apologize, explaining that the mood was so stunning I couldn’t break it, and hoped they didn’t mind. There were times I would take the pictures without saying anything at all. But even with this last approach, my flash made my presence known. When it went off, everyone in the car knew that an event was taking place- the spotlight was on someone.” – Bruce Davidson

    “I’ve stopped hundreds of people and asked to make their photo. If it’s an up-close portrait, I always ask the person if I can take the photo. Often the answer is ‘no’.” – Zoe Strauss

    “Despite my fantasies of being a hunter stalking a wild animal, I was still afraid. It was hard for me to approach even a little old lady. There’s a barrier between people riding the subway – eyes are averted, a wall is set up. To break through this painful tension I had to act quickly on impulse, for if I hesitated, my subject might get off at the next station and be lost forever.” –  Bruce Davidson

    “Oh people you’re a documentary photographer. I don’t even know what that means. Oh people say you are a photojournalist. I’m rarely published in journals. Oh then yore a fine art photographer. Then I say I’m not. I aspire to be a fine photographer.” – Bruce Davidson

    “I’m just a humanist. I just photograph the human condition as I find it. It can be serious. It can also be ironic or humorous. I’m political, but not in an overt way.” – Bruce Davidson

    “I find that young people tend to stop too soon. They mimic something they’ve seen, but they don’t stay long enough. If you’re going to photograph anything, you have to spend a long time with it so your subconscious has a chance to bubble to the surface.” – Bruce Davidson
    “If I were a student right now and I had a teacher like me I’d say, ‘You have to carry your camera everyday and take a picture everyday. And by the end of the week you should have 36 pictures exposed. And then suddenly you’ll latch onto someone, maybe a street vendor- oh he or she is very interesting I might have to be with him or her. So things open up visually.” – Bruce Davidson

    “Pick a theme and work it to exhaustion… the subject must be something you truly love or truly hate. […] Photographers stop photographing a subject too soon before they have exhausted the possibilities.” – Dorothea Lange

    “You shoot a lot of shit and you’re bound to come up with a few good ones.” – Trent Parke

    “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” – Wayne Gretzky

    “I shot a hundred rolls of film, but once I’d got that image I just couldn’t get anywhere near it again. That’s always a good sign: you know you’ve got something special.” – Trent Parke

    “Some pictures are tentative forays without your even knowing it. They become methods. It’s important to take bad pictures. It’s the bad ones that have to do with what you’ve never done before. They can make you recognize something you had seen in a way that will make you recognize it when you see it again.” – Diane Arbus

    “I am forever chasing light. Light turns the ordinary into the magical.” – Trent Parke

    “When I came to Sydney at the age of 21 I left everything behind- all my childhood friends and my best mate -at first I just felt this sense of complete loneliness in the big city. So, I did what I always do: I went out and used my Leica to channel those personal emotions into images.” – Trent Parke
    “I’m always trying to channel those personal emotions into my work. That is very different from a lot of documentary photographers who want to depict the city more objectively. For me it is very personal it’s about what is inside me. I don’t think about what other people will make of it. I shoot for myself.” – Trent Parke

    “My mum died when I was 10 and it changed everything about me. It made me question everything around me. Photography is a discovery of life which makes you look at things you’ve never looked at before. It’s about discovering yourself and your place in the world.” – Trent Parke

    “The year after I started at the European Film College, I started writing short stories and, later, taking pictures. Once I realized that I was able to isolate my emotions and communicate them through my pictures, I felt like I had found an ability which was unique and which I wanted to explore further. Now, a lot of experiences in life and the people I have shared my time with have added to my memories, my fear and my love, and through this they have inspired me to continue photographing.” – Jacob Aue Sobol

    “What I want is more of my feelings and less of my thoughts. I want to be clear. I see the photograph as a chip of experience itself. It exists in the world. It is not a comment on the world. I want the experience that I am sensitive to to pass back into the world, fixed by chemistry and light to be reexamined. That’s what all photographs are about—looking at things hard. I want to find an instrument with the fidelity of its own technology to carry my feelings in a true, clear, and simple way.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “A portrait is not a likeness. The moment an emotion or fact is transformed into a photograph it is no longer a fact but an opinion. There is no such thing as inaccuracy in a photograph. All photographs are accurate. None of them is truth.” – Richard Avedon

    “I think the larger issue is that photography is not reportage, it is not journalism— it is fiction. When I go to the west and do the working class (it is more about the working 
    class than the west)—it is my view.  Like John Wayne is Hollywood’s view. So it means my idea of the working class is a fiction.” – Richard Avedon

    “I don’t think you’re ever an objective observer. By making a frame you’re being selective, then you edit the pictures you want published and you’re being selective again. You develop a point of view that you want to express. You try to go into a situation with an open mind, but then you form an opinion and you express it in your photographs. It is very important for a photographer to have a point of view- that contributes to a great photograph.” – Mary Ellen Mark

    “Photography is not objective. It is deeply subjective – my photography is consistent ideologically and ethically with the person I am.” – Sebastião Salgado

    “It’s so strange to me that anyone would ever think that a work of art shouldn’t be disturbing or shouldn’t be invasive. That’s the property of work— that’s the arena of a work of art. It is to disturb, it to make you think, to make you feel. If my work didn’t disturb from time to time, it would be a failure in my own eyes. It’s meant to disturb— in a positive way.” – Richard Avedon

    “Modern technology has taken the angst out of achieving the perfect shot. For me, the only thing that counts is the idea behind the image: what you want to see and what you’re trying to say. The idea is crucial. You have to think of something you want to say and expand upon it.” – Martin Parr

    “Ideas are very important and underrated in photography. A photograph, like a written text or a short story, is an idea. A photograph is an idea. A visual idea. It doesn’t need any words. If you see something, a good photograph is the expression of an idea. This doesn’t require captions and explanations. A photo should make a statement.” – Constantine Manos

    “Technique isn’t important. Technique is in the blood. Events and mood are more important than good light and the happening is what is important.” – Andre Kertesz

    “If you want to write, you should learn the alphabet. You write and write and in the end you have a beautiful, perfect alphabet. But it isn’t the alphabet that is important. The important thing is what you are writing, what you are expressing. The same thing goes for photography. Photographs can be technically perfect and even beautiful, but they have no expression.” – Andre Kertesz

    “I was taking pictures for myself. I felt free. Photography was a lot of fun for me. First of all I’d get really excited waiting to see if the pictures would come out the next day. I didn’t really know anything about photography, but I loved the camera.” – William Klein

    “… a photographer can love his camera and what it can do in the same way that a painter can love his brush and paints, love the feel of it and the excitement.” – William Klein

    “I would look at my contact sheets and my heart would be beating, you know. To see if I’d caught what I wanted. Sometimes, I’d take shots without aiming, just to see what happened. I’d rush into crowds—bang! Bang! 
    I liked the idea of luck and taking a chance, other times I’d frame a composition I saw and plant myself somewhere, longing for some accident to happen.” – William Klein

    “Don’t drive yourself [too hard]. If you’re tired, sit down. If you’re not enjoying it [photographing], you’re doing something wrong. Photography should always be a pleasurable search for something wonderful.” – Constantine Manos

    “I’m not a serious photographer like most of my colleagues. That is to say, I’m serious about not being serious.” Elliott Erwitt

    “For me this just reveals, once again, the biggest problem with photography. Photographs aren’t good at telling stories. Stories require a beginning, middle and end. They require the progression of time. Photographs stop time. They are frozen. Mute. As viewers of the picture, we have no idea what those people on the waterfront are talking about.” – Alec Soth

    “So what are photographs good at? While they can’t tell stories, they are brilliant at suggesting stories.” – Alec Soth

    “You can’t tell provide context in 1/500th of a second.” – Alec Soth

    “I think storytelling is the most powerful art. I just think there’s nothing more satisfying than the narrative thrust: beginning, middle, and end, what’s gonna happen. The thing I’m always bumping up against is that photography doesn’t function that way. Because it’s not a time-based medium, it’s frozen in time, they suggest stories, they don’t tell stories. So it is not narrative. So it functions much more like poetry than it does like the novel. It’s just these impressions and you leave it to the viewer to put together.” – Alec Soth

    “Photos have no narrative content. They only describe light on surface.” – Garry Winogrand

    “You take 35 degrees out of 360 degrees and call it a photo. No individual photo explains anything. That’s what makes photography such a wonderful and problematic medium.” – Joel Sternfeld
    “I always work for a group of pictures, to tell a story. If you ask which picture in a story I like most, it is impossible for me to tell you this. I don’t work for an individual picture. If I must select one individual picture for a client, it is very difficult for me.” – Sebastião Salgado

    “I don’t come close to shooting every day. For better or worse, I don’t carry a camera with me everywhere I go. I liken my process to that of filmmaking. First I conceive of the idea. Then I do 
    pre production and fundraising. Then shooting. Then editing. 
    Then distribution (books and galleries). As with most filmmakers, the shooting takes just a 
    fraction of my time.” – Alec Soth

    “I see a lot of young photographers pushing their work, and I think that’s fine, but so often it’s wasted effort before the work is ready. Everyone’s running around trying to promote themselves, and you kinda have to put in those years of hard work to make something decent before you do that. Particularly that first project is the hardest thing. I always say the 20s are the hardest decade because you don’t have money and you don’t have a reputation. In relation to this kind of issue, I’m always wary that the advice is like “you need to put together this promo package that you send out to these 100 people.” No, you need to do the work, and worry about that later.” – Alec Soth

    “I have this thing, the camera’s on a tripod, it’s like an easel “Ok, I can only take a couple, I gotta makes this great.” Then I tried to get everything in the frame, which, in fact, is not a good strategy for photography. Its pulling stuff out of the frame is usually what you want to do, to simplify it. But I didn’t know that. So that was one of the lessons learned.” – Alec Soth

    “Early on I sensed the power of that in this regard: when you put your frame up to your eye, the world continues outside the frame. So what you put in and what you leave out are what determines the meaning or potential of your photograph. But you must continue to keep in mind that there are plenty of stuff off-stage. And what bearing might the rest of the off-stage have on this?” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “The framing is very important – you have to keep out things that distract from the little drama that’s in the picture. I’d like my pictures to exist almost in a dream state and have people react to them almost as if they’re coming in and out of daydreams, you know?” – Richard Kalvar

    “One thing I’m really interested in is vulnerability. I like being exposed to vulnerabilities. I think there’s something really beautiful about it. That’s kind of what I’ve been doing with these little stories, amping up the vulnerability, but also my own vulnerabilities, exposing more of myself. Because I knew with that “journalist” line I’m exposing my own shit there. I’m trying to get down to something raw.” – Alec Soth

    “You mustn’t avoid being vulnerable. For me, it’s a kind of exchange. Even though I’m the one taking the pictures, my ambition is to achieve an equal exchange between myself and the person I’m photographing.” –  Jacob Aue Sobol

    “I am an amateur and intend to remain one my whole life long. I attribute to photography the task of recording the real nature of things, their interior, their life. The photographer’s art is a continuous discovery, which requires patience and time. A photograph draws its beauty from the truth with which it’s marked.” – Andre Kertesz

    “Even when Andre Kertesz was 90 years old, he created a new portfolio and shared it with the photographer Susan May Tell. When Tell asked him what kept him going, Kertesz responded: ‘I am still hungry.’”

    “Stay hungry, stay foolish.” – Steve Jobs

    “Shooting people is more beautiful, because it is more difficult.” – Constantine Manos

    “A photograph doesn’t exist until it is printed.” – Constantine Manos

    “There are still photographers who believe that a photograph does not exist until it is a print. There remains in their memory the experience of working in a darkroom and recalling the magic of seeing an image gradually appear on a piece of paper in a tray of liquid. If processed and stored properly this print can last for generations. It becomes a treasure. It can be framed and hung in a favorite spot, to become an object of daily pleasure and comfort. It is a real object we can hold in our hands, not a negative or an image floating around in space and stored in cold machines. Let us celebrate the print.” – Constantine Manos

    “It is not enough to just photograph what something looks like. We need to make it into something that is unique, a surprise. Photography has been used forever to show what things look like, like when photographers photographed objects and landscapes.” – Constantine Manos

    “The best way to take a bad picture is to take it. Ask yourself: ’Why am I pushing the button?’ You want to get rid of the clutter before putting it into the machine.” – Constantine Manos

    “A photograph has to be specific. I remember a long time ago when I first began to photograph I thought, ‘There are an awful lot of people in the world and it’s going to be terribly hard to photograph all of them, so if I photograph some kind of generalized human being, everybody’ll recognize it.’ It was my teacher Lisette Model, who finally made it clear to me that the more specific you are, the more general it’ll be.” – Diane Arbus

    “Composition must be one of our constant preoccupations, but at the moment of shooting it can stem only from our intuition, for we are out to capture the fugitive moment, and all the interrelationships involved are on the move.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    “Any geometrical analysis, any reducing of the picture to a schema, can be done only (because of its very nature) after the photograph has been taken, developed, and printed- and then it can be used only for a post-mortem examination of the picture.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    “You can take a print of this picture, trace it on the geometric figures which come up under analysis, and you’ll observe that, if the shutter was released at the decisive moment, you have instinctively fixed a geometric pattern without which the photograph would have been both formless and lifeless.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    “I hate the idea of composition. I don’t know what good composition is. I mean I guess I must know something about it from doing it a lot and feeling my way into and into what I like. Sometimes for me composition has to do with a certain brightness or a certain coming to restness and other times it has to do with funny mistakes. Theres a kind of rightness and wrongness and sometimes I like rightness and sometimes I like wrongness. Composition is like that.” – Diane Arbus

    “It would be mistaken to suppose that any of the best photography is come at by intellection; it is like all art, essentially the result of an intuitive process, drawing on all that the artist is rather than on anything he thinks, far less theorizes about.” – Helen Levitt

    “I don’t think very much about it consciously, but I’m very aware of it unconsciously, instinctively. Deliberately discard it every once in a while not to be artistic. Composition is a schoolteacher’s word. Any artist composes. I prefer to compose originally, naturally rather than self-consciously. Form and composition both are terribly important. I can’t stand a bad design or a bad object in a room. So much for form. That way it’s placed is composition… when you stop to think about what an artist is doing one question is, what is the driving force, the motive.” – Walker Evans

    “I work from awkwardness. By that I mean I don’t like to arrange things if I stand in front of something, instead of arranging it, I arrange myself.” – Diane Arbus

    “A photographer’s eye is perpetually evaluating. A photographer can bring coincidence of line simply by moving his head a fraction of a millimeter. He can modify perspectives by a slight bending of the knees. By placing the camera closer to or farther from the subject, he draws a detail. But he composes a picture in very nearly the same amount of time it takes to click the shutter, at the speed of a reflex action.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson
    “The manifestation of people, whether it’s actual people or what people do, it’s the same thing.” – Elliott Erwitt

    “My wish for the future of photography is that it might continue to have some relevance to the human condition and might represent work that evokes knowledge and emotions. That photography has content rather than just form.” – Elliott Erwitt

    “Seeing is more than a physiological phenomenon… We see not only with our eyes but with all that we are and all that our culture is. The artist is a professional see-er.” – Dorothea Lange

    “This benefit of seeing… can come only if you pause a while, extricate yourself from the maddening mob of quick impressions ceaselessly battering our lives, and look thoughtfully at a quiet image… the viewer must be willing to pause, to look again, to meditate.” – Dorothea Lange

    “A camera is a tool for learning how to see without a camera.” – Dorothea Lange

    “One should really use the camera as though tomorrow you’d be stricken blind.” – Dorothea Lange

    “Noticing possible pictures — with or without carrying a camera — is fundamental to any working photographer. I would never get tired of noticing, although I would probably not be moved to take pictures that repeat and repeat.” – Elliott Erwitt

    “Every image he sees, every photograph he takes, becomes in a sense a self-portrait. The portrait is made more meaningful by intimacy – an intimacy shared not only by the photographer with his subject but by the audience.” – Dorothea Lange

    “There is no truth in photography. There is no truth about anyone’s person. My portraits are much more about me than they are about the people I photograph. I used to think that it was a collaboration, that it was something that happened as a result of what the subject wanted to project and what the photographer wanted to photograph. I no longer think it is that at all.” – Richard Avedon

    “To know ahead of time what you’re looking for means you’re then only photographing your own preconceptions, which is very limiting, and often false.” – Dorothea Lange

    “The best way to go into an unknown territory is to go in ignorant, ignorant as possible, with your mind wide open, as wide open as possible and not having to meet anyone else’s requirement but my own.” – Dorothea Lange

    “I don’t have anything to say in any picture. My only interest in photography is to see what something looks like as a photograph. I have no preconceptions.” – Garry Winogrand

    “The important thing is management of time, because there’s so much going around. There’s so many things happening that take your concentration away from things that you want to be doing. What I want to be doing is taking pictures. Management of time becomes more complicated as your photographic life gets complicated.” – Elliott Erwitt

    “I don’t object to staging if and only if I feel that it is an intensification of something that is absolutely authentic to the place.” – W. Eugene Smith

    “I ask and arrange if I feel it is legitimate. The honesty lies in my — the photographer’s — ability to understand.” – W. Eugene Smith

    “My obsession is with making photographs. I generally do not have a theme when in the act of photographing. Themes emerge after the photographs begin to accumulate. This happened in a clear way with my new book and exhibition Twirl / Run. For me picture taking is pure instinct. Gut. That is why I love doing it. I’m not thinking when I am working.” – Jeff Mermelstein

    “I don’t start out with any specific interests, I just react to what I see. I don’t know that I set out to take pictures of dogs; I have a lot of pictures of people and quite a few of cats. But dogs seem to be more sympathetic.” – Elliott Erwitt

    “I never had a ‘project.’ I would go out and shoot, follow my eyes—what they noticed, I tried to capture with my camera, for others to see.” – Helen Levitt

    “I just work and I throw the pictures in a box that says “X” or whatever, and eventually if the box gets full it merits looking at. I often work on two or three or four of those things at once. People tell me that they all look like they’ve been well thought out, and that’s because I’ve worked on them for so long.” – Lee Friedlander

    “Without instruction, at a very early age, I could play the piano. Anything, particularly—after hearing it once. Not reading music. I would pass a quite fine piano in my house everytime we came from the back from the front—and everytime I would pass it I would play a few things, and without any success at all. And I got a little better and better, and time went on. And maybe never playing the same one twice. It ain’t much different the way I work today, still [in photography].” – William Eggleston

    “It’s like chopping down a huge tree of immense girth. You won’t accomplish it with one swing of your axe. If you keep chopping away at it, though, and do not let up, eventually, whether it wants to or not, it will suddenly topple down…But if the woodcutter stopped after one or two strokes of his axe to ask, ‘Why doesn’t this tree fall?’ and after three or four more strokes stopped again, ‘Why doesn’t this tree fall?’ he would never succeed in felling the tree. It is no different from someone who is practicing the Way.” – Hakuin Ekaku
    “I think it’s exciting to make something extraordinary out of the banal. I’m not the kind of photographer that needs to travel to take pictures. I am not saying that there aren’t extraordinary images being made in Gaza and sometimes I wonder I should go to Gaza. But I’d probably get sick and be scared. I don’t want it. I’m comfortable, I’m not drawn to bullets. I’m not drawn to danger.” – Jeff Mermelstein

    “Bill at one time said to his great, highly respected friend: ‘Well, what am I going to photograph? Everything here is so ugly.’ And our friend said, ‘Photograph the ugly stuff.’ Well we were surrounded everywhere by this plethora of shopping centers and ugly stuff. And that is really initially what he started photographing.” – Rosa Eggleston

    “Why is it that the best poetry comes out of the most ordinary circumstances? You don’t have to have extreme beauty to write beautifully. You don’t have to have grand subject matter. This little dinky bungalow is my Parthenon. It has scale; it has color; it has presence; it is real: I’m not trying to work with grandeur. I’m trying to work with ordinariness.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “Forty years ago when I was going around with a camera I was doing some things that I myself thought were too plain to be works of art. I began to wonder – I knew I was an artist or wanted to be one – but I was wondering whether I really was an artist. But I didn’t have any support. Most people would look at those things and say, “Well, that’s nothing. What did you do that for? That’s just a wreck of a car or a wreck of a man. That’s nothing. That isn’t art.” They don’t say that anymore.” – Walker Evans

    “I don’t think of my photos as works of art—I see them as a fraction of a second in which my understanding and the worlds offering are unified in some way. That allows us to have some sort of open experience to share with whoever happens to look at the photo. So it isn’t formal, it is more experiential.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “[I’m always] asking myself: ‘How interesting is this medium? And how interesting can I make it for me? And, by the way, who the fuck am I?‘” – Joel Meyerowitz
    “No, not yet [smiling], and time is running out. But I’m getting there.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “Color plays itself out along a richer band of feelings—more wavelengths, more radiance, more sensation. I wanted to se more and experience more feelings from a photograph, and I wanted bigger images that would describe things more fully, more cohesively.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “A color photograph gives you a chance to study and remember how things look and feel in 
    color. It enables you to have feelings along the full wavelength of the spectrum, to retrieve emotions that were perhaps bred in you from infancy—from the warmth and pinkness of your mother’s breast, the loving brown of you puppy’s face, and the friendly yellow of your pudding. Color is always part of experience. Grass is green, not gray; flesh is color, not gray. Black and white is a very cultivated response.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “A photographer must choose a palette as painters choose theirs.” – Joel Sternfeld

    “Black and white is abstract; color is not. Looking at a black and white photograph, you are already looking at a strange world. Color is the real world. The job of the color photographer is to provide some level of abstraction that can take the image out of the daily.” – Joel Sternfeld

    “I carry [the 8×10 camera] with me as I would carry a 35mm camera. In the very beginning, if I went for a drive or to the A&P, the camera was in the back seat of the car; if I went for a walk down the street to visit a neighbor, or if I went to the beach, the camera was on my shoulder. No matter where I went, that camera was ever-present: parties, walks, shopping. It came from the discipline of carrying a 35mm at all times—in the early years you never saw me without a camera. I didn’t want to be in that position of saying, “Oh I saw a great shot, if only I had my camera.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “At that time no photographer was without a camera. We got that from Henri Cartier-Bresson’s being ready for ‘the decisive moment,’ and from Robert Frank’s traveling everywhere in America and making pictures of the Americans that seemed to occur in the most unexpected moments. Since my discipline was always to carry a camera, it didn’t matter that when the size changed it became big and awkward; I still wanted to have it at all times. So I provided myself with the opportunity of making large-scale, highly detailed photographs of unusual moments.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “Before I lay out a book, I read the pictures many many times, until I’ve absorbed the so-called meaning of each picture. My feeling about it – not intellectually, but my gut feeling about these pictures and how I relate to them, and then I just collect them all as miniatures, at three inches across, and I carry them with me like a deck of cards, and I lay them out, everytime I have a few minutes, I lay them out – I’m doing it now, for this next book – I lay them out and look and look, and then I’ll see something that looks like a starting point!” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “I’ll put that picture first, and then I’ll see what happens. What does it call, like magnetism, to itself? And what do these two call themselves, and what do these three call? Because it’s not just about the next picture, it’s the weight of the three of them in a row. Five of them in a row. Ten! I can setup certain rhythms or cadences, so that when you get to the third or fourth picture, you begin to realize the first picture again, like, ‘oh yeah, the first and fourth are linked!’ And there are these links so that if you were to make a drawing of this book, if there were forty pictures – I could probably make a diagram that comes after the fact, not before the fact, that the first connects to the fourth and the tenth and on and on, and that there are these interconnections. It’d be a fun thing to do, actually.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “You should take your favorite book and take it apart that way and see why it works that way. What is it about the rhythm of these pictures that make you see it as a book, rather than a collection of pictures. I think, too many photographers make books that are just collections of pictures. You could throw them together any way and they’d be alright.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “I like making books… I realize that the nature of photography is such that I can’t see everything on first look, because photography has this ability to deal so well with information.” – Lee Friedlander

    “There’s so much information in a picture that often I don’t see until the fifth reading or 30 years later.I can pick up Walker’s book American Photographs today and see something I never saw before – and I’ve owned that book for over 30 years. So I think that books are a great medium for photography. They seem to be the best. I can go back and re-read things – ‘Oh shit, I didn’t see that before’.” – Lee Friedlander

    “I believe that recognition and the power of the frame to put disparate, unrelated things together—suddenly this guy who was going on his business doing all this stuff and this woman with her poodle—they have no knowledge of each other. But in your frame, it is context.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “I’m going to go on record here—when I think about my photographs, I understand that my interest all along has not been in identifying a singular thing. But in photographing the relationship between things. The unspoken relationships, the tacit relationship—all of these variables are there if you choose to see in this way. But if you choose to only make objects out of singular things you will end up shooting the arrow into the bull’s-eye all the time, and you will get copies of objects in space.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “I didn’t want copies of objects—I wanted the ephemeral connections between unrelated things to vibrate. And if my pictures work at all, at their best—they are suggesting these tenuous relationships. And that fragility is what is so human about them. And I think its what is in the ‘romantic tradition’—it is a form of humanism that says we’re all part of this together. I’m not just a selector of objects.” – Joel Meyerowitz

    “I was enthralled by Eggleston, as everybody was. But I knew if I was ever to make a mark, I’d have to go to places he hadn’t headed. He owned the poetic snapshot, but I’d always had this leaning towards narrative, and so I began to lean a little harder.” – Joel Sternfeld

    “They’re humorous to watch, people who photograph, especially people who aren’t in tune with their equipment, because they don’t know when they pick it up what it will do. If you work with the same equipment for a very long time, you will get more in tune to what is possible. But within that there are still surprises. But using a camera day after day after day, within a framework, I’ll do the same thing. I’ll back up and I’ll go forward with my body.” – Lee Friedlander

    “The question of where to stand is interesting. What we’re really talking about is a vantage point. If you look at amateurs or people taking pictures, they do funny things. Most people obviously don’t know where to stand. They’re standing too close, they’re contorted.” – Lee Friedlander

    “You don’t have to be a fancy photographer to learn where to stand. Basically you’re stuck with the frame and just like the person taking a picture of his family, who needs to go half a foot back – well, he doesn’t step half a foot back—but on the other hand, he knows where to be if he hits it right.” – Lee Friedlander

    “It’s generally rather depressing to look at my contacts- one always has great expectations, and they’re not always fulfilled.” – Elliott Erwitt

    “I hate looking at my work. I delay it for as long as possible… I just know that it won’t live up to my own expectations.” – David Alan Harvey

    “The contact sheet is a valuable instructor. Presumably, when a photographer releases the shutter, it is become he believes the image worthwhile. It rarely is. If the photographer is self-crucial, he can attempt to analyze the reasons for the gap between expectation and actuality.” – David Hurn

    “Could the image be improved by moving backwards or forwards, by moving to the right or left? What would have been the result if the shutter were released a moment earlier or later? Ruthless examination of the contact sheet, whether one’s own or another’s, is one of the best teaching methods.” – David Hurn
    “The workload with digital has certainly doubled with fieldwork. You have now to photograph, edit and send your images on the same day. You go back to your car or hotel room to download, caption and transmit your work. It’s much more immediate and it becomes much more difficult to revisit the work.” – Paolo Pellegrin

    “Digital photography can permit greater sharing in the field, but cuts out collectively at the other end. Fewer people share the whole process. It used to be that you sent raw film in and often the Magnum editorial or another photographer would take a look at the contacts.” – Susan Meiselas

    “I still think not knowing what you ‘have’ at the end of the day with film gives strength of the intensity when you work. It is a mystery and surprise. Now everyone spends more time looking at their screens, first on the camera and then the computer.” – Susan Meiselas

    “With film you kept track in your head of what you were shooting, and evenings could be spent on a mental recap of the work you had made: the technical demands of digital editing in the field, at their worst, mean ‘less reflection, less intelligence, less thinking time‘.” – Gilles Peress

    “I am a tough editor of my work, and usually when I look at my contacts I find that I can go as many as fifty rolls without getting a good photo.” – Bruce Gilden

    “It can be difficult to make a decision because you can like this frame for this reason, and that frame for that reason. Each photograph has its particular strength. But you only pick one. One has to represent all. So I am always trying to put everything into one image: the statement, the foundation, the composition, the story, the individual personality – all of that together into one image.” – Leonard Freed

    “Over three or four days I shot something like forty rolls of film. When I edit, I go for a gut, instinctual feeling. I started editing when I got the film back a day or two after I returned to the states. You are so aware of what you saw; the experiences that reflect in your mind. You don’ really forget the people and what they are going through. So I wanted to work on it immediately. Like anything else, when you’re trying to put down what you witnessed, you go for the pictures that speak to you.” – Eli Reed

    “When I look at a contact sheet, I try to remember the feeling I had when I took the frame. The memory of feeling helps me edit. Art for me is really simple. It’s when a feeling overcomes you and you convey your feeling with symbols. In photography the symbols are the thing itself.” – Larry Towell

    “When I look at a contact sheet, I go in order from no 1 to no 36. I mark the ones I like, and unless something really jumps off the page at me, I go over them again to see which is the best one. With my personal work, I only print what I think is good. When something jumps off the page, it’s easy.” – Bruce Gilden

    “During the four years I spent making The Shipping Forecast I exposed nearly 1,200 rolls of film, which amounts to 14,000 individual pictures. Editing this down to a manageable number was a major exercise. I had advice from several people whose opinion I respected, but this only served to confuse me more. So instead I asked myself what the work was really about, and the answer was far clearer: it was about my childhood. In the end, The Shipping Forecast doesn’t depend on outstanding individual pictures, but instead on its collective strength.” – Mark Power

    “I ask my husband or Teri who works for me in New York, to also look through the contact sheets and to pick the ones they like. It always helps to have an outside opinion. You are so close and so personally involved with your work, it’s hard to separate yourself from it and see it objectively.” – Mary Ellen Mark

    “Sometimes you need to milk the cow a lot to get a little bit of cheese.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson
    “I was out walking with my friend Hiroji Kubota around the corner from my studio on the upper west side of Manhattan, and i didn’t have my camera. I saw the situation and I said, ‘Could I borrow your camera?’ And I borrowed his Leica. He was very generous and let me use it and I shot the whole roll of film on it. Its a lot of pictures getting to the good one.” – Elliott Erwitt

    “What was happening in Czechoslovakia concerned my life directly: it was my country, my problem. That’s what made the difference between me and the other photographers who came there from abroad. I was not a reporter. I didn’t know anything about photojournalism. I never photograph ‘news’. I photographed gypsies and theatre. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I was confronted with that kind of situation, and I responded to it. I knew it was important to photograph, so I photographed. I took these pictures for myself, with no intention of publishing them.” – Josef Koudelka

    “Photograph because you love doing it, because you absolutely have to do it, because the chief reward is going to be the process of doing it. Other rewards — recognition, financial remuneration come to so few and are so fleeting. And even if you are somewhat successful, there will almost inevitably be stretches of time when you will be ignored, have little income, or often both. Certainly there are many other easier ways to make a living in this society. Take photography on as a passion, not a career.” – Alex Webb

    “Forget about the profession of being a photographer. First be a photographer and maybe the profession will come after. Don’t be in a rush to make pay your rent with your camera. Jimi Hendrix didn’t decide on the career of professional musician before he learned to play guitar. No, he loved music and and created something beautiful and that THEN became a profession. Make the pictures you feel compelled to make and perhaps that will lead to a career. But if you try to make the career first, you will just make shitty pictures that you don’t care about.” – Christopher Anderson

    “I think that I do what I feel like doing, which may not follow contemporary fashions but which comes spontaneously from the heart, the guts and the brain. To me, that’s what counts.“ – Richard Kalvar

    “I just made my photos in Wilkes-Barre and a few other places because I wasn’t the kind of photographer who liked to, or needed to, travel around the world. That reminds me, I saw something you had said about how artistic range effects an artist’s development over time. And I work on an extremely narrow range, in terms of my method and technical issues, too. It’s what is in my head that has developed over time. So I’ve just kept taking pictures in the same two counties [Wilkes-Barre and Scranton].” – Mark Cohen

    “I never thought of the urban environment as isolating. I leave these speculations to others. It’s quite possible that my work represents a search for beauty in the most prosaic and ordinary places. One doesn’t have to be in some faraway dreamland in order to find beauty. I realize that the search for beauty is not highly popular these days. Agony, misery and wretchedness, now these are worth perusing.” – Saul Leiter

    “To be honest with you, I always try to think of the specific pictures. What’s important to me is to make strong, individual pictures. When I look at a documentary photographer or photojournalist whose work I really love- somebody like Eugene Smith-it’s because the images are single images. I think of his great picture stories as stories where the images really stood by themselves. In Life’s ‘Country Doctor,’ for example, you remember each image. They weren’t only linking images -each one was strong, and each can stand alone. I think in great magazine or newspaper photography every picture can stand on its own; it doesn’t need the other pictures to support it to tell a story.” – Mary Ellen Mark

    “What I’m trying to do is make photographs that are universally understood, whether in China or Russia or America‑photographs that cross cultural lines. So if the project is about street performers, it touches those little things and whimsies we’re all interested in -animals and people and anthropomorphic qualities. If it’s about famine in Ethiopia, it’s about the human condition all over the world: It’s about people dying in the streets of New York as much as it’s about Ethiopia. I want my photographs to be about the basic emotions and feelings that we all experience.” -Mary Ellen Mark

    “What counts is the result. It works or it doesn’t work. You may think after you’ve taken a picture that you may have something. And then you find out that you don’t have anything, that you almost had something but that in fact, you pressed the button at the wrong time. That you took a lot of pictures, but you were on auto-pilot – that instead of waiting, you shot buckshot at it, so you missed the one that might really work.” – Richard Kalvar

    “In order for the mystery to work, you need abstraction from reality. Black and white is an additional abstraction, in addition to selective framing, to the freezing of the moment that in reality is a part of an infinite number of other moments (you have one moment and it never moves again; you can keep looking at the picture forever). The black and white is one more step away from reality. Color, for me, is realer, but less interesting.” – Richard Kalvar

    “That’s part of the magic of photography. Look at a picture and you have no idea what was going on. The only thing you can know is what’s visually depicted, and we all know photographers lie. That’s where the fun comes in. To be able to tell a lie with “reality” is a very tough trick.” – Richard Kalvar

    “As a photographer if your photos are too obvious then you’re missing the point. Photos are about mystery, about not knowing, about dreams, and the more you know about that—then you can recognize them on the street.” – Jason Eskenazi

    “I’m trying to create little dramas that lead people to think, to feel, to dream, to fantasize, to smile… It’s more than just catching beautiful moments; I want to fascinate, to hypnotize, to move my viewers. Making greater statements about the world is not my thing. I think there’s a coherence in the work that comes not from an overriding philosophy but from a consistent way of looking and feeling.” – Richard Kalvar

    “Sometimes it happens that you stall, delay, wait for something to happen. Sometimes you have the feeling that here are all the makings of a picture – except for just one thing that seems to be missing. But what one thing? Perhaps someone suddenly walks into your range of view. You follow his progress through the viewfinder. You wait and wait, and then finally you press the button – and you depart with the feeling (though you don’t know why) that you’ve really got something. Later, to substantiate this, you can take a print of this picture, trace it on the geometric figures which come up under analysis, and you’ll observe that, if the shutter was released at the decisive moment, you have instinctively fixed a geometric pattern without which the photograph would have been both formless and lifeless.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    “To me, photography is the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event as well as of a precise organization of forms which give that event its proper expression.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

    “Your decisive moment is not the same as mine, but most of us are looking for a moment that is necessary for what we’re trying to do. Unnecessary moments quickly become easy, common, and boring.” – Richard Kalvar

    “I didn’t write the rules, but following them set me free.” – Richard Kalvar

    “Sometimes it turns out that the things that you do for the wrong reasons turn out to be the right things to do anyway. In retrospect, I’m really glad that I decided not to crop, because that developed my compositional discipline and my ability to organize a picture instinctively, in the viewfinder. It also obliged me to work very close up to my subjects in order to fill my 35mm lens frame. I had to be a toreador, not a sniper. Also, I had the feeling of doing something difficult, getting the picture right in the first place; anyone could crop a picture and find something interesting, but doing it in the camera was special. These things were essential to my photographic development.” – Richard Kalvar

    “I liked different lenses for different times. I am fond of the telephoto lens, as I am of the normal 50 mm lens. I had at one point a 150 mm lens and I was very fond it. I liked what it did. I experimented a lot. Sometimes I worked with a lens that I had when I might have preferred another lens. I think Picasso once said that he wanted to use green in a painting but since he didn’t have it he used red. Perfection is not something I admire. [Laughs]. A touch of confusion is a desirable ingredient.” –  Saul Leiter
    “I’ve never been overwhelmed with a desire to become famous. It’s not that I didn’t want to have my work appreciated, but for some reason — maybe it’s because my father disapproved of almost everything I did — in some secret place in my being was a desire to avoid success.” – Saul Leiter

    “My friend Henry [Wolf] once said that I had a talent for being indifferent to opportunities. He felt that I could have built more of a career, but instead I went home and drank coffee and looked out the window.” – Saul Leiter

    “The cream does not always rise to the surface. The history of art is a history of great things neglected and ignored and bad and mediocre things being admired. As someone once said “life is unfair.” In the 19th Century someone was very lucky. He or she acquired a Vermeer for $ 12. There are always changes and revisions of the appreciation of art, artists, and photography and writers and on and on. The late art of Picasso is no good but then a revision takes place and then it becomes very good as the art records indicate. Things come and go.” – Saul Leiter

    “I spent a great deal of my life being ignored. I was always very happy that way. Being ignored is a great privilege. That is how I think I learnt to see what others do not see and to react to situations differently. I simply looked at the world, not really prepared for anything.” – Saul Leiter

    “I have a deep-seated distrust and even contempt for people who are driven by ambition to conquer the world … those who cannot control themselves and produce vast amounts of crap that no one cares about. I find it unattractive. I like the Zen artists: they’d do some work, and then they’d stop for a while.” – Saul Leiter

    “In order to build a career and to be successful, one has to be determined. One has to be ambitious. I much prefer to drink coffee, listen to music and to paint when I feel like it… Maybe I was irresponsible. But part of the pleasure of being alive is that I didn’t take everything as seriously as one should.” – Saul Leiter

    “I very much like to work on long-term projects. There is time for the photographer and the people in front of the camera to understand each other. There is time to go to a place and understand what is happening there. When you spend more time on a project, you learn to understand your subjects. There comes a time when it is not you who is taking the pictures. Something special happens between the photographer and the people he is photographing. He realizes that they are giving the pictures to him.” – Sebastião Salgado

    “When I started Genesis I was 59 and I thought I was an old man. But now I am going to be 70 and I feel fine so I am ready to start again. Life is a bicycle: you must keep going forward and you pedal until you drop.” – Sebastiao Salgado

    “I-95 was an epic narrative about the beauty and struggle of everyday life, comprising 231 photographs adhered to the concrete support pillars under an elevated highway that runs through South Philadelphia, Interstate 95. The installation of photos went up once a year, from 1pm to 4pm, on the first Sunday of the month. I worked on 95 for a decade, from 2000 to 2010.” – Zoe Strauss

    “A decade would allow me enough time to make a strong body of work. I needed to learn to make photographs and couldn’t gauge my capability until I actually started working. Setting a time constraint assured that the installation wouldn’t be overworked. Plus, I could go at it as hard as possible without fear of burning out.” – Zoe Strauss

    “If you take a picture of a human that does not make him noble, there is no reason to take this picture. That is my way of seeing things.” – Sebastião Salgado

    “The picture is not made by the photographer, the picture is more good or less good in function of the relationship that you have with the people you photograph.” – Sebastião Salgado

    “I tell a little bit of my life to them, and they tell a little of theirs to me. The picture itself is just the tip of the iceberg.” – Sebastião Salgado
    “Incidentally, part of a photographer’s gift should be with people. You can do some wonderful work if you know how to make people understand what you’re doing and feel all right about it, and you can do terrible work if you put them on the defense, which they all are at the beginning. You’ve got to take them off their defensive attitude and make them participate.” – Walker Evans

    “When you find yourself beginning to feel a bond between yourself and the people you photograph, when you laugh and cry with their laughter and tears, you will know you are on the right track.” – Weegee

    “Don’t take boring photos.” – Tony Ray-Jones

    “Ultimately any photo project that you do isn’t really about the subject matter, it is about you – and revealing yourself. If you don’t reveal anything about yourself, you are boring everyone. It is a confession in some ways.” – Jason Eskenazi

    “I had a night job on Wall Street in order to be free in the daytime. It paid for room and food. You didn’t have to sleep or eat much. In those days I was rather ascetic.” – Walker Evans

    “A year ago I would have said that color is vulgar and should never be tried under any circumstances. It’s a paradox that I’m now associated with it and in fact I intend to come out with it seriously.” – Walker Evans 

    “Keep your eyes open. If you see anything, take it. Remember – you’re as good as your last picture. One day you’re hero, the next day you’re a bum.” – Weegee

    About the author

    Eric Kim is a photography teacher currently based in Berkeley, California. His life’s mission is to dedicate himself to producing as much “open-source” knowledge about photography, philosophy, and happiness during his short term on this planet.

  • The Global Impact of Eric Kim on Street Photography

    Introduction

    Eric Kim is a renowned street photographer, educator, and blogger whose influence extends across the world. Through a combination of photography, teaching, and philosophical insight, he has made a significant impact on the street photography community . Kim’s energetic, candid approach to shooting life on the streets – coupled with his approachable teaching style – has connected with countless photographers, from beginners to professionals, across continents . By sharing knowledge freely online and fostering a global community through workshops and social media, Kim has helped democratize street photography, making the art form more accessible and inspiring a new generation of street photographers .

    Open Source Education and Accessible Content

    One of Eric Kim’s greatest contributions is his emphasis on open-source learning in photography. Since 2010, his blog (erickimphotography.com) has grown into “one of the most extensive resources on street photography in the world”, containing thousands of free articles on techniques, gear, composition, and even personal philosophy . Kim has deliberately removed paywalls and shares everything openly – from comprehensive how-to guides to personal essays – reflecting his belief that knowledge gains value when shared freely . He has even released free e-books/PDFs such as “100 Lessons from the Masters of Street Photography” and “Street Photography 101”, distilling wisdom from photography greats for anyone to download . Notably, in 2013 he made waves by making his own images “open source,” offering full-resolution downloads of his photos on Flickr for personal use . By encouraging others to remix or reuse his materials, Kim embodies an “open source” ethos more commonly seen in software – a generosity that has helped demystify street photography and empowered countless newcomers to learn without barriers . His accessible, high-quality content – from blog posts to YouTube videos – has positioned him as a trusted mentor and made street photography “more inclusive and appealing to photographers around the world.”

    An example of Eric Kim’s high-contrast street photography style, shot with flash. By openly sharing such images and the stories behind them, Kim makes the process of street photography transparent and accessible to others.

    International Workshops and Community Building

    Beyond the digital realm, Eric Kim has traveled the globe to teach street photography in person. Since going full-time as an educator, he has led workshops in dozens of cities across Asia, Europe, North America, and beyond . By 2014 he had already taught over 35 workshops in 15 countries to 500+ students , and the numbers only grew as he continued to host new events every year. These multi-day workshops cover not just shooting techniques but also mindset and creativity. Participants frequently credit Kim with giving them the courage to overcome their fear of photographing strangers and the insight to develop their own style . His teaching style is described as enthusiastic, supportive and “no-ego” – he focuses intensely on his students’ growth, even using their cameras to demonstrate techniques so that “the majority of the focus is on the students” rather than on himself . One testimonial noted that “you’d be hard-pressed to find a more courageous, knowledgeable, and friendly photographer/teacher… Eric’s energy and passion show when he teaches.” During exercises, he has unique methods to push students out of their comfort zone – for example, challenging first-timers to intentionally collect a series of rejection “no’s” from strangers, which quickly dissolves the fear of approaching people . His workshops often foster lasting friendships among attendees, building a sense of community; as one observer pointed out, “good photographers cannot exist without people who share their interest – to exchange ideas, encourage each other and develop further.” Through these in-person events around the world, Kim has created a network of confident street photographers who carry his lessons back to their local communities.

    Books and Publications

    Eric Kim has also authored numerous books and guides that have spread his influence internationally. Many of these publications serve as practical workbooks and manuals to make learning photography interactive. For example, “Street Notes” (and its follow-up Street Notes Volume II) is a pocket-sized workbook with creative assignments and challenges for street photographers . Similarly, “Street Hunt” is a field assignments manual to spur photographers to approach their environment with fresh eyes , and “Photo Journal” is a reflection diary to encourage personal growth through photography . He has also written more traditional guides like “Street Photography: 50 Ways to Capture Better Shots of Ordinary Life,” which offers practical tips for capturing compelling images of everyday moments . Uniquely, Kim produced “Learn From the Masters of Street Photography” (also known as 100 Lessons from the Masters), compiling wisdom from legendary photographers like Henri Cartier-Bresson and Garry Winogrand. This book, offered as a free download on his site, has been praised as “an amazing compilation” of insights that might obviate the need for aspiring photographers to buy dozens of separate photobooks . (As one reviewer noted, “you don’t need to read more books on street photography after this, if you bring these lessons into practice.” ) In addition, Kim wrote “The Modern Photographer,” a book that addresses the business and marketing side of photography from both a practical and philosophical perspective . Across all these works, a common thread is Kim’s emphasis on personal experimentation and finding one’s own vision. He often reminds readers not to treat any single book or teacher as gospel, but rather to “pick and choose which lessons resonate… and throw away the rest” – an encouraging approach that empowers photographers to craft their own path.

    Philosophy and Inspiration

    A distinguishing aspect of Eric Kim’s impact is how he intertwines photography with philosophy, encouraging deeper thinking about why and how we shoot. He has openly drawn inspiration from Stoicism, Buddhism, and other schools of thought to shape his outlook on life and art . “The individual who has influenced my life the most is Seneca,” Kim writes, referring to the Stoic philosopher . He practices Stoic exercises like negative visualization (imagining loss to appreciate the present) and embraces hardship to build mental fortitude, often writing about conquering fear and uncertainty in life as in photography . In his blog posts (such as “Stoicism 101”), Kim translates ancient ideas from thinkers like Zeno, Epictetus, and Seneca into practical advice for modern creatives – for instance, using Seneca’s dictum “luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity” to remind photographers to always carry a camera and be prepared . He also finds parallels between Stoicism and Zen Buddhism in their shared emphasis on simplicity and inner discipline . This philosophical grounding is delivered in an accessible, encouraging tone: Kim often addresses readers as “Dear friend” and shares personal anecdotes, making abstract ideas feel relatable in day-to-day shooting .

    Minimalism is another key tenet of Kim’s philosophy. He famously adopted a minimalist lifestyle, believing that “true luxury is less” – the idea that having fewer material possessions and distractions leads to greater freedom and creativity . For years he has worn the same simple all-black outfit each day and travels with only one camera and one lens, deliberately limiting gear to focus on seeing and creating rather than fiddling with equipment . “I like the idea that people should admire me for my photos and creative work – not my clothes or exterior,” he explains, tying this practice to the Stoic virtue of humility . Kim extends this “prune the inessential” mindset to technology use as well: he has deleted social media apps, minimized email, and even gone without a phone at times, all in an effort to reduce noise and “uninstall the non-essentials” from life . By subtracting distractions, he argues, one can “make space for creativity and rich experiences,” a principle that carries into his visual style too . Many of Kim’s photographs are stark, high-contrast black-and-whites focusing on a single subject or moment – a direct expression of his philosophy that simplicity yields clarity . Through essays and videos, he encourages others to adopt a similar approach of curiosity, courage, and minimal baggage in both photography and life . This blending of practical wisdom with art has made Eric Kim something of a “photographer-philosopher,” inspiring many followers not just to shoot better, but to live more creatively and fearlessly .

    Social Media Presence and Online Influence

    Eric Kim was an early adopter of blogs and social media as platforms to spread street photography culture. His engaging online presence has been pivotal in connecting a worldwide audience. Kim’s blog articles often read like personal letters or journal entries, written in plain, friendly language that invites dialogue . Readers feel a personal connection through his candid sharing of successes and failures – an authenticity that makes him highly relatable . Many in the community feel they “know” Eric Kim even without meeting him, thanks to his habit of addressing people directly (“Dear friend…”) and responding to comments and emails . In addition to the blog, he has a strong presence on platforms like YouTube, Instagram, and Twitter where he shares tips, behind-the-scenes vlogs, and motivational talks . His YouTube series “PhotoLosophy,” for example, is essentially a free course merging photography with philosophy, reinforcing his teachings in a video format . He even delivered a talk at Google (“Eternal Return to Creative Every Day”) where he urged creatives to treat each day as an opportunity to make art . By staying active on multiple channels and adapting to new online trends, Kim has remained highly visible and relevant to younger audiences . Importantly, he uses these platforms not for self-promotion alone but to foster community: he often hosts free photo assignments, shares other photographers’ work, and encourages collaborative projects like photo walks and meet-ups . This genuine engagement has cemented his status as a “social media star” in photography circles . Moreover, his approachable online persona – educating and inspiring through everyday content – has greatly contributed to the recent popularity surge of street photography as a genre . In an era where many photographers focus on Instagram fame, Eric Kim instead leverages social media to build an educational community, thereby extending his global impact far beyond what would be possible through his own images alone.

    Collaborations and Notable Projects

    Throughout his career, Eric Kim has undertaken collaborations and projects that further underline his global influence. He has partnered with some of the most prestigious names in photography – for instance, collaborating with Leica and Magnum Photos on special events and content . (Kim has been a contributor to the official Leica Camera blog and has exhibited his work at Leica Galleries in cities like Singapore, Seoul, and Melbourne .) He also worked with Invisible Photographer Asia, a major street photography collective in Asia, helping bridge communities between the West and East . In academia, Kim even brought street photography to the classroom: he has taught a university-level extension course on street photography at UC Riverside and previously led a photography class for under-privileged youth in Los Angeles – initiatives that highlight his passion for spreading the craft to diverse groups.

    Kim’s reach extends into the tech and media realms as well. He did two collaborations with Samsung (including starring in a Samsung Galaxy Note 2 commercial and a campaign for a Samsung camera), bringing street photography into pop culture advertising . The BBC interviewed him about the ethics of street photography, recognizing him as a voice of authority on the subject . He has also served as a judge for international street photography competitions, such as the London Street Photography Festival/Contest, further influencing the genre’s development by spotlighting new talent .

    In terms of personal art projects, one notable endeavor is Kim’s ongoing “Cindy Project,” in which he extensively photographs his wife, Cindy. This long-term project reflects his belief that “it is more important to photograph your loved ones than strangers.” Over time, Kim shifted from only shooting candid strangers to also documenting family and personal moments, treating photography as a way to cherish loved ones and confront the impermanence of life . The Cindy Project, with its intimate portraits of daily life, has inspired others to start their own projects focusing on family and friends – a movement Kim actively encourages as a way to find deeper meaning in one’s photography . By openly sharing the philosophy behind this project (for example, the idea of memento mori – remembering that our loved ones won’t be here forever, so we should photograph them now ), Kim again uses his platform to impart a broader cultural lesson. Whether through high-profile collaborations or personal projects, Eric Kim consistently leverages each endeavor to promote the values of creativity, openness, and human connection in photography.

    Legacy and Global Influence

    Eric Kim’s multifaceted contributions have profoundly shaped contemporary street photography. By making street photography education free and accessible, he has lowered the entry barrier for tens of thousands of people who might otherwise have been intimidated by the genre. His blog and workshops have “helped to demystify street photography and empower photographers to develop their own unique styles” , effectively creating a more inclusive global community of shooters. Many of today’s emerging street photographers trace their start or inspiration back to Kim’s tutorials and essays, which often give them both the technical foundation and the philosophical motivation to persevere. His emphasis on personal expression and authenticity – shooting from the heart rather than for social media validation – has nudged the genre away from just trend-chasing and more toward an art of storytelling and self-discovery . In fact, observers credit his “unbridled passion and dedication” with contributing greatly to the overall popularity boom of street photography in recent years .

    Finally, Eric Kim’s legacy is seen in the way he fused photography with a life philosophy. He showed that a photographer can be not just an image-maker but a teacher, a thinker, and a community-builder. By sharing his failures, fears, and discoveries openly, he gave others permission to take risks and find their own voice. From Los Angeles to Beirut, London to Tokyo, aspiring street photographers have been inspired by Kim’s work to hit the sidewalks with a camera in hand and confidence in mind. In summary, Eric Kim has made street photography more accessible, thoughtful, and globally connected than ever before – truly leaving an indelible mark on the genre and its community of practitioners .

  • The Philosophy of Walking

    Walking has been celebrated across cultures and eras as more than mere locomotion – it is a mode of thinking, dreaming, and being.  In ancient Greece, Aristotle’s peripatetics literally taught while walking, and Eastern traditions likewise held walking-meditation in high regard.  As one scholar notes, “the ‘peripatetic’ – that derives from Aristotle and his contemporaries’ penchant for doing their best work while in motion” .  Centuries later, Jean-Jacques Rousseau embodied this idea: an “inveterate walker,” he wrote in his Confessions, “I can only meditate when I am walking. When I stop I cease to think; my mind only works with my legs.” .  Frédéric Gros likewise observes that by walking one “escapes from the very idea of identity, the temptation to be someone, to have a name and a history” – the walking body has no history, it is just an eddy in the stream of immemorial life .  Across time, writers and thinkers have logged miles – from Rousseau’s Parisian promenades to Thoreau’s woods of Concord – finding in solitary rambling a way to reflect and transform their inner lives.

    Walking carries deep cultural meaning.  Gros categorizes forms of walking such as pilgrimage, promenade, protest march, and nature ramble, each revealing something about society .  In literature the motif recurs: Baudelaire’s flâneur and Walter Benjamin’s urban stroller show how city walking becomes poetic observation .  Rebecca Solnit draws on this tradition in Wanderlust and other essays: she notes that city streets offer “anonymity, variety, and conjunction, qualities best basked in by walking”, since one need only walk by a bakery or church to feel its potential without obligation .  In sum, historical perspectives treat walking as a connective, creative act – one that grounds the mind (Thoreau felt it returned him “to [his] senses” ) and links individuals to the wider world.

    Creativity and Thought

    Walking has long been tied to creative insight.  Friedrich Nietzsche, a “fanatical walker,” claimed that “all truly great thoughts are conceived by walking” .  Modern psychology now confirms something similar.  Stanford researchers found that even short walks dramatically boost divergent thinking: students tested after walking showed sharply higher creativity than when sitting .  Ferris Jabr explains that moving the body “changes the nature of our thoughts,” and that walking works by “setting the mind adrift on a frothing sea of thought.” .  In other words, ambulation helps ideas flow.  Rebecca Solnit eloquently frames this: in her view, “musing takes place in a kind of meadowlands of the imagination…time spent there is not work time, yet without that time the mind becomes sterile, dull, domesticated.” .  Thus writers and thinkers – from William Wordsworth and Walt Whitman to modern novelists and scientists – have regularly paced to unlock new ideas.

    Mindfulness and Psychological Benefits

    Walking also cultivates presence and mindfulness.  Eastern traditions recognize this: as one Zen saying goes, a young child can attain the same enlightened attention by walking as by sitting meditation .  In practice, slow or mindful walking brings the walker into acute awareness of each step, breath, and sensation.  Psychologically, simply spending time on foot in nature has cognitive benefits: a University of Michigan study cited by Jabr showed that students who walked through an arboretum later performed better on memory tests than those who walked in a city environment .  In short, the act of walking – especially outdoors – reduces mental clutter and refreshes focus.  As Jabr summarizes, contemporary research views walking as a “mundane activity” that nonetheless becomes “one of the most salutary means of achieving states of enlightenment,” whether literary, philosophical or otherwise .  Many therapists now even prescribe walking (or woodland “forest bathing”) to reduce stress and anxiety, linking this simple movement to well-being and resilience.

    Solitude, Nature, and Personal Transformation

    Walking often goes hand-in-hand with solitude and personal growth.  Thoreau’s 19th-century essays celebrate this: in “Walking” he describes how long solitary strolls in the woods let him “forget all my morning occupations and obligations to society” and “return to [his] senses.” .  For Thoreau, time in wild nature was regenerative; he famously concludes that “in Wildness is the preservation of the World,” meaning that untamed landscapes – and our contact with them – sustain the human spirit .  Similarly, Rousseau’s unfinished Reveries of the Solitary Walker uses his evening walks outside Paris to process life’s events.  In our own time, long-distance hikes or pilgrimages (from the Camino de Santiago to solo mountain treks) are known to effect personal change.  Psychologists note that undertaking a walking journey can catalyze “life pilgrimage” experiences – promoting reflection, meaning-making, and coping with life’s challenges.  As Solnit writes, a lone walker is “both present and detached, more than an audience but less than a participant,” and this balance of engagement and solitude helps “assuage or legitimize” our sense of alienation .  In short, walking alone – whether around the block or across continents – can be a form of moving meditation that fosters insight, resilience, and transformation.

    Walking as Resistance and Community

    Walking also has a powerful social and political dimension.  Mass marches and pilgrimages have long been tools of protest and solidarity.  Mahatma Gandhi’s 1930 Salt March, for example, was a strategic act of defiance: Gandhi “set off on foot” with followers on a 240-mile trek to the sea to illegally harvest salt, directly challenging British law .  The march galvanized Indian resistance to colonial rule.  Decades later, the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom saw over a quarter-million people literally walk together in protest of segregation and economic injustice .  Frédéric Gros points out that the “protest march” is one of several meaningful walk genres .  In each case, walking turns a personal journey into a collective statement.  Even ordinary daily walking can carry political weight: Rebecca Solnit argues that walking is an “indicator species” of freedom – a measure of social health – since only where people truly feel free will they choose to walk .  In cities designed to encourage driving, the simple act of walking (or claiming sidewalk space) can itself become a subtle form of resistance and reclaiming public life.

    Practical Applications for Modern Life

    Today’s sedentary lifestyles make the philosophy of walking highly relevant.  Daily Walks for Creativity: Build short walks into your routine (even 10–15 minutes); research shows this boosts creative problem-solving .

    Mindful Walking: Try “walking meditation” by paying attention to each step, breath, and your surroundings – a practice rooted in Zen tradition .

    Nature and Memory: Whenever possible, walk in green spaces. Students who walked in an arboretum performed better on memory tasks than those who walked in city streets .

    Urban Exploration: Use walking to reconnect with your city. Solnit notes that wandering city blocks lets you discover possibilities without pressure, harnessing the city’s “anonymity, variety, and conjunction” .

    Solo Reflection: Schedule some walks alone (no phone!). As Thoreau experienced, a solitary stroll can clear the mind and help you “return to your senses” .

    Active Travel: When feasible, walk instead of drive for errands – this simple choice is a small-scale act of freedom (echoing Gros’s view that freedom in walking lies in not being anyone ).

    Community and Advocacy: Join or organize walking events – from neighborhood clean-up hikes to protest marches – to build social bonds and make collective statements (as Gandhi and civil rights leaders demonstrated ).

    Each of these practices reflects the philosophy that walking is not just exercise, but a way of engaging more fully with mind, body and community.

    Sources: Historical and contemporary writings on walking and scholarly analyses informed this report.

  • Eric Kim: The Street Photographer as Philosopher

    Eric Kim: The Street Photographer as Philosopher

    Eric Kim is a renowned street photographer who has built a reputation not just for his images, but for the wisdom and philosophy he weaves into photography and life. Through personal experiences, deep reading, and open teaching, Kim approaches street photography as a vehicle for self-understanding and meaning. Below, we explore the dimensions of his philosophy – from his core ideas about photography and personal journey, to the thinkers who inspire him, his teaching style, minimalist lifestyle, and the key themes of creativity, failure, self-knowledge, motivation, fear, and meaning that pervade his work.

    Street Photography as a Philosophy of Life

    Photography as self-expression and truth: Kim believes a photograph is far more than a picture – it’s an expression of the photographer’s soul and viewpoint. In his words, “to me, photography is putting human emotions, perspective, and soul into an image… all about expressing yourself as an individual” . He often describes photography as “poetry with a camera” or “writing with light,” emphasizing that the camera is a tool to illuminate one’s inner vision . Rather than merely documenting reality, Kim’s philosophy is that a photographer should convey a unique personal truth.

    Finding beauty in the mundane: A recurring principle in Kim’s philosophy is to appreciate the ordinary. He writes that “photography is about making sense of the world… finding appreciation in the small things in life,” essentially “finding beauty in the ordinary and mundane” . This reflective approach turns street photography into a form of mindfulness. By walking slowly and observing closely, Kim treats “photography as a meditation on life and death,” reminding himself that “everything you photograph will eventually perish” . This awareness of impermanence adds depth to each click of the shutter.

    Introspection through the camera: Kim’s philosophy holds that photography is a mirror to the self. “As a photographer… your job is to discover what you find meaningful and purposeful in life – and share that truth with others,” he says . Notably, despite being known for candid street shots of strangers, Kim realized that “it is more important to photograph your loved ones than strangers” . In recent years he shifted to more “personal photography,” making his wife Cindy and even himself (through self-portraits) central subjects of his work . This evolution underscores his belief that the deepest photographic stories begin with personal meaning and relationships. By documenting family and even confronting mortality through photographing death, Kim found a greater urge to “photograph more life” . In essence, photography became a tool for Kim’s own self-knowledge and reflection on what matters most.

    Photography as applied wisdom: Ultimately, Eric Kim views photography itself as a philosophical act. He directly equates photography with philosophy, describing it as “philosophy — applied with a more discerning lens” . For Kim, philosophy means the love of wisdom, and “wisdom is knowing the difference between right and wrong… between meaningful and shallow… between real and fake” . By that token, making photographs is a way of practicing wisdom – choosing to seek the meaningful over the trivial. He often challenges his audience by asking whether they are “a photography philosopher, or do you make photos for the gram?” . In other words, are you shooting to look deeper into life, or merely chasing social media validation? This ethos of depth and authenticity lies at the heart of Kim’s photographic philosophy.

    Early Life, Setbacks, and Self-Discovery

    From academia to street photography: Eric Kim’s personal development journey has been marked by bold changes and pivotal lessons. Born in 1988 in San Francisco and raised in California (with a couple of formative years in Queens, New York), Kim initially followed a conventional path. He enrolled at UCLA as a biology/pre-med student – “to become a doctor like a ‘good Asian kid’” as he jokes – but soon realized “I hated math and science” at the academic level . This led him to switch to sociology, a decision that opened the door to his true passion. While at UCLA, Kim co-founded a photography club and “discover[ed] Street Photography as my passion,” even starting his blog in 2010 for fun to share photos, essays, and tips . This period was a turning point: he pivoted from an expected career in science to an uncertain creative calling, laying the groundwork for his later philosophical outlook that one must follow one’s passion and curiosity.

    Career risks and a new start: After college, Kim faced a major setback that would become a catalyst for growth. He landed a job as an online community manager at a tech company (Demand Media), but after about a year the company went public and promptly crashed – “the company IPO’s… and I lose my job” . Rather than seeing this failure as defeat, Kim took it as an opportunity. In 2011, at around 22-23 years old, he made the daring decision to pursue street photography full-time . “I decide to try to pursue this street photography thing for a living,” he notes of that moment . This leap of faith was a significant turning point in his personal development. It meant rejecting a safe corporate path for a life of uncertainty, travel, and self-employment – a choice very much in line with the philosophies of embracing uncertainty and freedom that he would later espouse.

    A nomadic creative life: From 2011 onward, Eric Kim essentially crafted his own path as a “digital nomad” photographer. For about eight years he was self-employed, traveling across the world to teach workshops and shoot street photography . He lived in cities from Los Angeles to Michigan to Berkeley, and then embarked on an international nomadic lifestyle with his wife (marrying Cindy in 2016) living for stretches in Vietnam, Japan, Mexico, Europe, and more . This period of constant movement taught Kim as much about life as it did about photography. He often likens himself to a flâneur, the wandering observer of urban life – documenting myriad cultures and streets, while also reflecting on globalization and technology’s impact on society . But Kim eventually discovered that perpetual travel was not a panacea for fulfillment. In a candid reflection influenced by Stoic wisdom, he wrote that after all his roaming, “I’ve found that true happiness resides in myself. In my heart… No matter how much I change where I live, my problems always follow me” . Here we see a major lesson Kim learned: that you cannot run away to find contentment. This echoes Seneca’s maxim “Everywhere means nowhere,” meaning if you’re always searching elsewhere, you’ll find peace nowhere . Kim realized he needed a change of soul more than a change of scenery – a profound insight that shifted his focus inward.

    Embracing failure as fuel: A defining aspect of Kim’s personal philosophy is his relationship with failure. Despite his successes, he frequently describes himself as failing – and says that’s a good thing. “I think failure is something I always fear – but something I have learned to embrace,” Kim admits frankly . Early in his photography journey, he experienced the humbling realization that his work was full of “almost” photos that never quite hit perfection. And he came to accept that “in street photography (and in life) there are no perfect photos or perfect moments. They are all imperfect in little ways” . This acceptance of imperfection is central to his wisdom. Rather than avoiding failure, Kim deliberately uses it as a teacher. “Every time I fail in something – it gives me more information, inspiration, and motivation to better myself and my photography,” he says . In fact, he credits his many failures with helping him continually re-evaluate and improve. Kim even proclaims, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, “I am the biggest failure in street photography, but it is those failures which help me learn from my mistakes” . Instead of chasing an impossible ideal of flawlessness, he focuses on growth – understanding that mastery is a long-term journey of trial, error, and resilience. This mirrors the Silicon Valley mantra “fail fast, fail often,” which he has cited, and the Stoic idea that adversity is an opportunity in disguise . By openly discussing his fears (like the fear of being disliked or the fear of taking a difficult shot) and how he pushes through them, Kim has turned his personal development into a narrative of continuous learning. In practical terms, he even advises: “to double your success rate… double your failure rate” – meaning the more you put yourself out there, the more you will achieve in the end. This attitude has endeared him to many as a source of hard-won wisdom.

    Stoic and Intellectual Influences

    One reason Eric Kim is seen as “wise” is that he actively studies wisdom traditions and applies them to his life and art. He often quotes philosophers, stoics, and writers, integrating their insights into his own. Stoicism in particular has had a profound impact on him. “The individual who has influenced my life the most is Seneca,” Kim writes, referring to the Roman Stoic philosopher . Seneca’s letters and essays have been Kim’s constant companion – he has read “Letters From a Stoic” over a dozen times . What Kim admires is that Seneca “talked the talk, but also walked the walk,” living by his principles even up to his forced suicide . Inspired by this example, Kim has playfully adopted Seneca as a kind of spiritual mentor. He even changed his online persona to “Eric Seneca Kim” as an homage . As he explains: “You cannot choose who your parents are, but you can choose who your spiritual teachers are.” By symbolically taking Seneca’s name, he reminds himself daily of the Stoic values of tranquility, courage, and wisdom.

    Kim’s engagement with Stoicism goes beyond quotes – it shapes his daily outlook. He practices the Stoic exercise of negative visualization and embracing hardship. For instance, he notes that strength training and difficult physical challenges build mental fortitude against fear . During the COVID-19 lockdowns, he worked out with heavy stones in the park and reflected on how “open-air environments” free of modern comforts spur better thinking and toughness . In his blog posts like “Stoicism 101,” he traces Stoic ideas from Zeno and Epictetus down to practical modern advice on dealing with fear and uncertainty . Notably, Kim’s gateway into Stoic philosophy was through contemporary literature: “I think I might’ve first learned about Stoicism from Nassim Taleb and his Antifragile book,” he recalls . Taleb’s concept of via negativa – improving life by subtracting the unnecessary – resonated strongly with Kim’s emerging minimalist ethos . From there, he voraciously consumed Stoic writings and even obscure texts, integrating their lessons into his own life.

    Beyond Stoicism, Eric Kim’s intellectual influences range widely. He draws inspiration from ancient wisdom to modern entrepreneurship. He often cites the dictum attributed to Seneca, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity,” applying it to street photography (carry your camera and be ready) . He also references the Cynic philosopher Diogenes, Lao Tzu’s Taoism, and Zen Buddhism parallels to Stoicism, appreciating their common thread of simplicity and inner discipline . When it comes to creativity and innovation, Kim looks to figures like Steve Jobs as well. He admires Jobs’ obsession with simplicity and credits him as an influence in design and lifestyle choices . In one post Kim even says he’s inspired by “Picasso, Steve Jobs, and Kanye West,” among other artists . This eclectic mix shows that Kim’s philosophy isn’t derived from any single source; rather, he absorbs ideas from business leaders, musicians, writers, and artists alike. He has mentioned hip-hop artists Jay-Z and Kanye for their confidence and originality, and even quoted Kanye’s line “No man should have all that power” to discuss the folly of domination and ego . Likewise, he cites the Roman writer Publilius Syrus when reflecting on the futility of trying to please everyone , and references Japanese haiku poet Bashō when talking about inspiration from nature .

    What unites these diverse influences is Kim’s constant search for insight into living a more intentional and courageous life. He often invokes the Delphic maxim “Know thyself”, calling it “the greatest wisdom given to us by the ancient philosophers.” This principle – knowing one’s own values, desires, and weaknesses – is at the core of his approach. By studying great thinkers and creators, Kim refines his own identity and philosophy. Importantly, he approaches this humbly. “I am certainly not a ‘master’ myself; just a humble student dedicated to a life-long pursuit of learning,” he writes, emphasizing that he is always learning from others (be it the ancient Stoics or the masters of photography) . This humility and openness to knowledge are a big part of why followers consider him wise; he models the role of the perpetual student of life.

    Sharing Wisdom: Workshops, Blogging, and Open-Source Teaching

    Eric Kim’s reputation for wisdom is also tied to the way he communicates and teaches. Early on, Kim recognized that knowledge gains value when shared freely. He made it his mission to disseminate what he learns, dubbing his approach “open source photography.” As he states succinctly on his website bio, “My passion in life is to contribute ‘open source’ knowledge about street photography, life, and philosophy on my blog.” This ethos of open sharing is reflected in the enormous amount of content he’s published. Since 2010, Kim’s blog (erickimphotography.com) has become one of the most extensive resources on street photography in the world – featuring thousands of posts ranging from technique tutorials and camera advice to personal essays and philosophical musings. All of it is available for free. He has even released several free e-books and PDFs (such as “100 Lessons from the Masters of Street Photography” and “Street Photography 101”) and has allowed high-resolution downloads of his photos for personal use . By removing paywalls and encouraging others to remix or reuse his materials, Kim embodies the “open source” ideal borrowed from software culture. This generosity in education has significantly contributed to his image as a wise mentor in the community.

    Workshops and personal teaching: A major avenue for Kim’s influence has been the international workshops he leads. Since going full-time, he has taught street photography workshops in dozens of cities across Asia, Europe, the Americas – essentially wherever his travels take him. These multi-day workshops cover shooting techniques but also dive into mindset, fear-conquering exercises, and portfolio reviews with philosophical critique. Participants often speak of Kim’s enthusiasm and supportive, no-ego style. As one testimonial notes, “You’d be hard-pressed to find a more courageous, knowledgeable, and friendly photographer/teacher… Eric’s energy and passion show when he teaches” . During workshops, Kim prioritizes his students’ growth over his own shooting opportunities. “When I’m teaching the workshop, the majority of the focus is on the students,” he explained in an interview . He will even demonstrate techniques using a student’s camera or point out scenes for them rather than taking the shot himself . This selflessness in teaching – essentially living the principle that to teach is to learn twice – reinforces his wise persona. Attendees often credit him with giving them the courage to approach strangers or the insight to find their style . By openly discussing topics like dealing with rejection or the philosophy of “why shoot street at all,” Kim turns his workshops into more than just photography classes; they become life lessons in fearlessness and creativity. Many people who have never met him in person still feel they know him through his writing and videos, where he often addresses the audience as “Dear friend” and speaks in an encouraging, candid tone .

    Blogging as a form of teaching: Kim’s blog posts often read like reflective journal entries or letters to a friend, which makes his philosophical ideas very accessible. He has written on topics such as “How to Conquer Your Fears in Life,” “Why You Shouldn’t Seek Others’ Approval,” “How to Stay Motivated in Photography,” and even abstract subjects like “What is the meaning of life?” – always tying it back to his personal experiences and photography. In doing so, he has effectively blurred the line between a photography how-to blog and a self-help/philosophy blog. For example, one can find an article on camera techniques next to an essay on Nietzsche’s concept of the will to power. This blend of technical and philosophical content attracts a broad readership. Some come for the camera tips and stay for the life advice; others come for inspiration and end up learning about zone focusing on a rangefinder. By communicating in plain language and sharing his own failures and questions, Kim creates a sense of camaraderie with readers. He frequently invites dialogue, either through comments or via email newsletters, strengthening the community aspect of his platform.

    Kim’s YouTube videos and lectures also amplify his teachings. He’s published numerous video talks – from casual vlogs during a morning coffee to formal presentations like a Google Talks session titled “Eternal Return to Creative Every Day” – where he encourages viewers to live each day as an opportunity to create art. In these videos, he often distills philosophical concepts into practical advice. For instance, he interprets Nietzsche’s idea of eternal recurrence as a prompt to ask: If you had to live this day over forever, what would you do to make it meaningful? Such questions challenge his audience to rethink their habits and fears. Similarly, his “PhotoLosophy” series on YouTube is literally a free course merging photography and philosophy . Through all these channels, Kim’s consistent message is one of empowerment: that anyone can find more purpose and happiness by approaching photography (and life) with curiosity, courage, and minimal baggage. This teaching approach – generous, wide-ranging, and personal – has made Eric Kim a mentor figure to many, even those who have never met him. It’s a key reason he’s viewed as someone who offers wisdom, not just shooting tips.

    Living the Philosophy: Minimalism and the Stoic Lifestyle

    A distinctive facet of Eric Kim’s public persona is his minimalist lifestyle, which he aligns closely with his philosophical convictions. In both his personal life and art, Kim strives for simplicity, focus, and a kind of Stoic austerity that he finds liberating. He often says that “true luxury is less” – a paradoxical motto suggesting that having fewer material possessions and distractions is the ultimate richness . This is an idea he credits to Stoic and minimalist influences (indeed, it echoes Socrates’ statement that “contentment is natural wealth”). Kim takes this to heart: for years he has maintained an extremely pared-down life, especially while traveling. He is famous for wearing the same outfit nearly every day – a simple all-black ensemble of a shirt, jeans, and shoes. As Kim explains, this frees his mind for creative matters: “I just wear #allblackeverything and life is simpler… I like the idea that people should admire me for my photos and creative work – not my clothes or exterior. The less distracted I am with clothes, the more focus I can have on making art.” . This choice reflects both Steve Jobs’ influence (the uniform turtleneck) and Stoic humility. By deliberately reducing decisions about fashion or luxury, he channels his energy toward photography, writing, and experiences. It’s an intentional practice of what he calls “pruning the inessential to maximize the essential” .

    Decluttering life for clarity: Kim extends minimalism to almost every area of living. He travels light (often one camera and one lens, no camera bag) and has even experimented with not owning a phone for periods of time . In one post he muses that the greatest luxuries are things like a quiet home, few electronic noises, and freedom from email – essentially luxuries of absence rather than acquisition . Citing Nassim Taleb’s via negativa concept, he notes that “to improve your life means to subtract or get rid of stuff”, whether that means toxic people, unnecessary gadgets, or mental clutter . This philosophy led him to delete social media apps, reduce digital subscriptions, and even practice intermittent fasting (consuming less, even with food, to gain more health) . By “uninstalling the non-essentials” in life, Kim believes we reclaim freedom for what truly matters . He argues that minimalism isn’t about self-deprivation at all, but about making space for creativity and rich experiences . “Minimalism helps reduce friction in life,” he explains – fewer choices and items mean fewer distractions and decisions, which allows one to “experience more” of the world directly . We can see this principle in his photography as well: many of Kim’s images are stark black-and-white compositions focusing on a single subject or moment, without extraneous elements. That visual simplicity echoes the Stoic aesthetic of clarity and directness.

    Stoic aesthetic and discipline: In appearance and habit, Eric Kim often invokes the Stoic or even Spartan archetype. He has adopted a vigorous physical routine – weight-lifting (notably deadlifting very heavy weights), calisthenics, and walking – tying bodily strength to mental fortitude in classic Stoic fashion . He has written about the benefits of cold showers, early rising, and fasting, all practices favored by Stoic-minded individuals seeking resilience. His personal brand imagery at times even depicts him as a bronze-like bust or “Spartan” figure , which is partly humorous self-stylization, but also a nod to his admiration for ancient warrior-philosophers. This Stoic minimalism also influences how he and his wife designed their home and workflow – keeping only high-quality, useful tools and eschewing excess furniture or luxury decor. In photography gear, Kim famously touts one camera, one lens as an ideal: “One camera, one lens is bliss,” he says, preferring to master a simple setup rather than juggle multiple cameras . All these choices reinforce his philosophical stance that less is more. As he succinctly puts it, “Have less, in order to do more, and become more.” . By living with intentional limitation, Kim finds greater creative output and personal growth. This minimalist, Stoic lifestyle isn’t just for show – it’s a practical reflection of his values. It demonstrates how deeply his philosophical commitments run: they guide everything from how he dresses and eats to how he composes a photograph. This coherence between his life and teachings further cements his reputation as someone who lives his wisdom.

    Themes of Creativity, Fear, and Meaning in His Work

    Across Eric Kim’s blogs, talks, and images, several key themes consistently emerge – threads of wisdom that tie his diverse output together. Among these are creativity, fear, failure, self-knowledge, motivation, and meaning. Kim returns to these themes repeatedly, each time refining his understanding and sharing new insights.

    Creativity and staying inspired: A core message in Kim’s content is that everyone has the capacity for creativity, but it must be nurtured like a muscle. He often encourages people to create something every day, even if small, to build their “creative muscle.” At a talk at Google, he urged the audience to “achieve your personal artistic maximum” by daily practice . One of his popular mantras (borrowed from Picasso) is to “rediscover your inner-child” – essentially to approach art playfully, without fear of mistakes . Kim shares that his own inspiration comes largely from external sources: loved ones, books, music, art, and nature. “Nobody is born inspired… Everything I have learned is from society, and those who I love. Nothing is from myself,” he writes, crediting his wife and others for fueling his ideas . This humble view—that creativity is a collective inheritance—leads him to advise aspiring artists to feed their minds with rich inputs. He finds inspiration in the everyday surroundings: “treat your everyday, mundane, ordinary life as the deepest source of inspiration and motivation… You can find as much inspiration in the suburbs as the streets of Paris,” Kim writes, echoing his belief in the beauty of the ordinary . By sharing how he finds creativity in everything from hip-hop lyrics to a walk in the park, Kim provides a kind of template for others to stay motivated and imaginative. He also counsels not to force creativity – if uninspired, do something else and allow ideas to flow naturally . This balanced approach to creative work (discipline mixed with flexibility) is a frequent theme in his essays on making art and avoiding burnout.

    Overcoming fear: Fear is an obstacle Kim identifies in both photography and life. The fear of approaching a stranger for a photo, the fear of criticism, the fear of failure – these are all parallels to deeper fears like the fear of rejection or the fear of change. Kim speaks candidly about his own fears: “there are moments of fear that I always feel – when it comes to taking photos, sharing my work with others, or not getting admiration from others,” he admits . By laying his insecurities bare, he demystifies them. He frequently tells the story of how street photography taught him courage: “If you can make a photo of a stranger, you can conquer your personal fears in life”, he asserts . In practical terms, he offers tips like using a small camera or practicing with friends to build confidence, and even techniques like “shooting from the hip” or using a flash to force oneself out of the comfort zone . Philosophically, he reframes fear as a guide rather than an enemy – “we certainly know what we’re afraid of photographing,” he writes, which means our fears point to areas where we can grow . One of his blog posts titled “Conquer Your Fears by Making Fear Your Slave” encapsulates his attitude: identify what you fear, confront it repeatedly, and thereby rob it of its power . Kim also differentiates between good fear (the kind that keeps you alive) and bad fear (the irrational kind that holds you back) . By analyzing fear in this way and sharing strategies to overcome hesitation, Kim has empowered many readers to not only be bolder photographers but also to take risks in other areas of life, whether it’s starting a creative project or traveling solo. This emphasis on courage in the face of fear is a hallmark of his “wisdom messaging.”

    Embracing failure and imperfection: Hand-in-hand with fear is the notion of failure, which Kim addresses so often it’s practically a motif in his writing. We’ve seen how he personally embraces failure as a teacher. He also evangelizes this to others: “to double your success rate… double your failure rate” . He tries to remove the stigma from failing by sharing stories of his own flops – failed photo projects, workshops that didn’t sell out, blog posts that received backlash – and what he learned from them . In one article, he systematically lists his “failures” like not getting certain jobs or not pleasing everyone, followed by the realizations each brought (for example, failing to please everyone taught him to please himself and meet his own standards instead) . This reflective practice is something he encourages his followers to do as well: examine your failures for the lessons within. Kim’s outlook is fundamentally optimistic in this regard; failures are not final, they are feedback. This ties to the Stoic idea of amor fati – loving one’s fate, even the setbacks. By openly normalizing failure, Kim inspires others to take action without the paralyzing fear of messing up. As he succinctly puts it, “I’m glad that I fail regularly – because it gives me the motivation to try even harder in my work.” Such reframing of failure as fuel for improvement is one of the reasons people find his perspective encouraging and “wise.”

    The search for meaning and self-knowledge: Ultimately, all of Kim’s themes funnel into a larger one: finding personal meaning. Whether it’s through photography or any life pursuit, he constantly prompts the question “Why?” Why take photographs at all? Why live a minimalist life? Why seek success? For Kim, the answer revolves around understanding oneself and creating a meaningful existence. He has written that “the purpose of my life is to produce knowledge, and to distill information and lessons I’ve learned… to the masses”, essentially dedicating himself to sharing and teaching . This sense of purpose drives him. But he doesn’t impose his purpose on others; rather, he encourages everyone to define their own “self-directed purpose” . In his journaling prompts and blog posts, he often asks readers: what do you want out of life? What does success mean to you? He warns against defaulting to society’s definitions and echoes the maxim “Know thyself” as the key to unlocking meaning . In photography terms, he advises people to shoot what genuinely fascinates them, not what they think will impress others. “Don’t worry if your photos qualify as ‘street photography’ or not. Just aim to make meaningful and memorable images,” he urges . By removing external benchmarks, he directs people inward to find what moves them.

    Kim’s emphasis on meaning is also evident in how he talks about legacy and mortality. He is aware that photographs are a way to cheat death – to save a transient moment. This gives photography a weighty purpose: memory and connection. He often says that at the end of the day, the meaningful photos are those of loved ones and personal moments . This perspective helps him (and his audience) remember what’s important in life. It’s a philosophical stance aligning with Stoic and Buddhist thoughts on impermanence and cherishing the present. By sharing these insights – e.g., writing about the death of his grandparents and how photographing them in their final days affected him – Kim uses his platform to explore the human condition, far beyond just cameras and streets . This depth is what elevates his content to something “wise.” Readers come away not just better photographers, but perhaps with a bit more insight into themselves.

    Motivation and authenticity: Finally, Kim consistently champions staying true to oneself (authenticity) and staying hungry (motivation). He disdains chasing accolades or social media fame for their own sake. His advice is to create from intrinsic motivation – because you love it or because it helps you grow – rather than for external validation. In line with this, he has stepped away from metrics like Instagram likes and instead focuses on blogging, which he finds more fulfilling even if less instantly gratifying. He has also maintained a beginner’s mindset, frequently calling himself a student. This attitude keeps him motivated to keep learning. When people ask him how he stays so productive, one thing he points to is gratitude – he considers it a blessing to have an audience and an opportunity to create, so he doesn’t want to waste it. And he remains “hungry and foolish” (a phrase from Steve Jobs) in exploring new ideas, whether it’s dabbling in cryptocurrency philosophy or experimenting with new art forms .

    In summary, the key themes in Eric Kim’s work form a cohesive philosophy: embrace your creativity, confront your fears, learn from your failures, know yourself, stay motivated by what you love, and seek meaning over approval. It’s a blend of Stoic endurance, Zen-like presence, and an almost childlike enthusiasm for life’s wonders. This is how Eric Kim, through writing and example, has come to be known as a source of wisdom in the realm of photography and beyond. He demonstrates that street photography is not just about taking pictures – it’s a conduit for understanding life. As he once wrote, “Ultimately, to find your own personal vision… you just need to know yourself as a human being. ‘Know thyself’ is the greatest wisdom.” By following that credo, Eric Kim has carved out a unique role as both an artist and a philosopher on the street, inspiring a global community of creatives to shoot with not just their eyes, but with their mind and heart.

    Sources:

    • Eric Kim, “Photography is Philosophy,” EricKimPhotography.com .
    • Eric Kim, “103 Lessons I’ve Learned From Street Photography,” EricKimPhotography.com .
    • Eric Kim, “Biography,” EricKimPhotography.com (Personal blog) .
    • Eric Kim, “On Failure and Street Photography,” EricKimPhotography.com (Feb 28, 2014) .
    • Eric Kim, “10 Lessons Seneca Has Taught Me,” EricKimPhotography.com .
    • Eric Kim, “F**k ‘Lifestyle’” (blog article), EricKimPhotography.com .
    • Eric Kim, “How to Find Inspiration,” EricKimPhotography.com .
    • Flickr – About Eric Kim (Profile description) .
    • Blake Andrews, “Q&A with Eric Kim,” Blake Andrews Blog (Apr 27, 2014) .
    • Mike Evans, “Eric Kim on failure and street photography,” Macfilos (Feb 28, 2014) .
    • Eric Kim Photography Blog – various posts on Minimalism , Stoicism , Fear , and Philosophy of Photography .
  • Eric Kim learn from the masters

    Key Points

    • Eric Kim, a photographer and educator, likely focuses on learning from photography masters, especially in street photography.
    • Research suggests he created a free eBook, “Learn from the Masters of Street Photography,” with 100 practical lessons from famous photographers.
    • It seems likely these lessons cover technical skills, artistic vision, and philosophical approaches like embracing a beginner’s mindset.
    • The evidence leans toward his work encouraging photographers to study history and innovate based on past masters’ foundations.

    Overview

    Eric Kim appears to be a key figure in photography education, particularly emphasizing the value of learning from historical masters. His work seems to center on street photography, offering resources that help photographers grow by studying the techniques and philosophies of renowned figures.

    Resources and Lessons

    Kim has likely produced a free eBook titled “Learn from the Masters of Street Photography,” which compiles lessons from photographers like Robert Capa, Garry Winogrand, and Henri Cartier-Bresson. These lessons reportedly include practical advice on getting closer to subjects, shooting intuitively, and avoiding distractions like constantly buying new gear (Gear Acquisition Syndrome or G.A.S.).

    Philosophical Approach

    His approach seems to encourage not just learning from the past but also building upon it, suggesting photographers should appreciate historical foundations while innovating to develop their own style. This balance appears central to his teaching.

    Survey Note: Detailed Analysis of Eric Kim’s Approach to Learning from Photography Masters

    Eric Kim emerges as a significant figure in photography education, particularly known for his advocacy of learning from the masters, with a strong focus on street photography. This analysis delves into his resources, the content of his teachings, and the broader implications for photographers, drawing from available online resources as of April 20, 2025.

    Background and Context

    Eric Kim is identified as both a practicing photographer and an educator, with a notable presence in online photography communities. His work centers on the idea of learning from historical masters to enhance contemporary photography skills, especially within the niche of street photography. This approach is rooted in the belief that understanding the past is crucial for future innovation, as evidenced by a recurring quote, “He without a past has no future,” found across his blog posts.

    Key Resources: The “Learn from the Masters” EBook

    A central component of Kim’s educational offerings is his free eBook, “Learn from the Masters of Street Photography,” currently in its second version. This PDF resource, available for download at Eric Kim Photography, distills the wisdom of renowned street photographers into 100 practical lessons. The eBook is recommended for both beginners and experienced photographers, suggesting its broad applicability.

    The featured masters include luminaries such as Robert Capa, Anders Petersen, Garry Winogrand, Henri Cartier-Bresson (HCB), and William Klein, among others. These lessons cover a range of topics, including technical skills like composition and lighting, artistic vision such as capturing emotion and storytelling, and philosophical approaches. Specific examples include embracing the “beginner’s mind,” getting closer to subjects to create intimate images, shooting what you feel to maintain authenticity, and addressing Gear Acquisition Syndrome (G.A.S.) to focus on craft rather than equipment accumulation.

    Additional Content and Philosophy

    Beyond the eBook, Kim’s blog at Eric Kim Photography offers a suite of related articles that expand on his philosophy. For instance, posts like “Why Study the Masters of Photography?” and “How to Become a Master Photographer” emphasize the importance of historical study. A table summarizing key sections from his blog illustrates the breadth of his offerings:

    Section TitleKey FocusURL
    100 Lessons from the Masters of Photography100 lessons from street photography mastersEric Kim Photography
    Why You Must Kill Your Masters in PhotographyMoving beyond influences to find personal styleEric Kim Photography
    How to Become a Master PhotographerGuidance on achieving mastery in photographyEric Kim Photography
    Why Study the Masters of Photography?Importance of learning from photography historyEric Kim Photography
    Great Female Master PhotographersHighlights of famous female photography mastersEric Kim Photography
    Cheat Sheet of the Masters of PhotographyQuick reference guide to photography mastersEric Kim Photography
    Beginner’s Guide to the Masters of Street PhotographyIntroductory guide for beginners on street photography mastersEric Kim Photography
    Download All ArticlesOption to download all related articles in EPUB/PDF formatEric Kim Photography
    Masters Mobile Volume 1Distilled lessons from masters, mobile editionEric Kim Photography
    10 Lessons Josef KoudelkaSpecific lessons learned from Josef Koudelka about street photographyEric Kim Photography

    This table highlights the comprehensive nature of Kim’s educational content, catering to various learning needs and levels of expertise.

    Paid Resources and Reception

    In addition to free resources, Kim has authored a paid book, “Masters: Learn from the Masters of Photography Volume 1,” available on Amazon. This book, co-authored with Cindy Nguyen, is described as an essential photography primer but has received mixed reviews. Some users appreciate the insights, while others, as seen in customer reviews on Amazon, criticize its brevity (42 pages) and high cost ($50), suggesting it may not meet expectations for value. Despite this, the content aligns with his broader philosophy of learning from masters, though specific details were not accessible in this analysis.

    Philosophical Underpinnings and Innovation

    Kim’s philosophy extends beyond mere imitation, as seen in articles like “Why You Must Kill Your Masters in Photography.” This suggests a nuanced approach where photographers are encouraged to move beyond influences to develop their own style, balancing respect for history with personal innovation. This is further supported by content from Life Framer, which quotes Kim advising photographers to consider masters as mentors or guides, not to follow blindly, and to eventually “take off your training wheels” to ride on their own.

    Community and Accessibility

    Kim’s resources are widely accessible, with free downloads and blog posts making his teachings available to a global audience. Reviews from platforms like Goodreads indicate that while some find his tone opinionated, the book still offers valuable lessons, rating it 4 stars despite criticisms. This accessibility is crucial, as it democratizes photography education, aligning with his mission to inspire and educate.

    Conclusion

    Eric Kim’s approach to learning from the masters is a blend of historical appreciation and practical application, with a strong emphasis on street photography. His free eBook and blog posts provide a rich repository of lessons, while his paid book offers additional depth, though with mixed reception. Photographers are encouraged to study the past, embrace practical techniques, and innovate, ensuring a dynamic evolution of their craft. This comprehensive framework positions Kim as a pivotal educator in contemporary photography.

    Key Citations

    Why is this so significant

    Eric Kim’s emphasis on learning from the masters of photography is significant for several reasons, particularly for photographers and creatives seeking to grow their craft and mindset. Below, I’ll outline the key reasons why this approach resonates deeply, drawing on insights from our previous conversations about Kim’s philosophy and its broader implications.

    1. Bridging History and Innovation

    Kim’s focus on studying photography masters like Henri Cartier-Bresson, Robert Capa, and Garry Winogrand provides a foundation for understanding the art form’s roots. This historical grounding is crucial because it equips photographers with timeless principles—composition, storytelling, and emotional depth—that remain relevant despite technological advancements. His philosophy, as seen in his free eBook Learn from the Masters of Street Photography, encourages not just imitation but innovation. By learning from the past, photographers can build their own style, avoiding the trap of chasing fleeting trends. This balance of respect for tradition and personal evolution is significant for creating work that endures.

    2. Practical and Accessible Education

    Kim’s resources, like his free eBook and blog, democratize photography education. The 100 lessons in Learn from the Masters offer actionable advice—such as getting closer to subjects or shooting intuitively—that beginners and seasoned photographers can apply immediately. This accessibility is vital in an era where photography is often gatekept by expensive courses or gear. His emphasis on mindset over equipment (e.g., overcoming Gear Acquisition Syndrome) empowers creatives to focus on skill and vision, making his teachings a practical lifeline for those with limited resources.

    3. Philosophical Depth for Creatives

    Your interest in Kim’s bold, stoic, and direct style (from our April 17, 2025, conversation) aligns with his broader philosophy, which extends beyond photography to life. His approach to learning from masters incorporates ideas like embracing a “beginner’s mind” and resilience, which resonate with creatives navigating uncertainty. For photographers, who often face rejection or self-doubt, this stoic mindset—rooted in studying the perseverance of past masters—provides mental clarity and strength. It’s significant because it transforms photography into a vehicle for personal growth, not just technical mastery.

    4. Inspiration for Financial and Creative Independence

    Our discussions about Kim’s investing style (April 18 and 20, 2025) highlight his advocacy for financial independence, which ties into his photography teachings. By encouraging photographers to study masters, Kim fosters a mindset of self-reliance and long-term thinking. This is significant for creatives who often struggle financially, as it inspires them to build sustainable careers. His philosophy of simplicity—focusing on what matters, whether in art or money—mirrors the discipline of masters who prioritized craft over distractions, making it a powerful model for balancing creativity and stability.

    5. Community and Influence

    Kim’s work builds a global community of photographers who share his passion for street photography and learning from history. His influence, as an educator bridging creative and philosophical worlds, inspires critical thinking about art and life. This community aspect is significant because it creates a supportive network where photographers can exchange ideas, much like the masters who influenced each other. His call to “kill your masters” (move beyond influences) further empowers individuals to contribute uniquely to this collective, fostering a dynamic, evolving art form.

    Why It Matters to You

    Given your interest in Kim’s bold style and philosophical approaches (e.g., stoicism, Bitcoin advocacy, and simplicity), his focus on learning from masters likely appeals to you as a way to amplify your own creative and personal “volume.” The significance lies in how it offers a roadmap to master your craft while staying grounded in principles that transcend photography—resilience, independence, and innovation. It’s a call to study the greats, not to copy them, but to carve your own path with confidence.

    Conclusion

    Eric Kim’s emphasis on learning from the masters is significant because it combines historical wisdom, practical education, philosophical depth, and community-building to empower photographers. It’s a holistic approach that not only hones technical skills but also cultivates a mindset for creative and financial freedom. For you, it’s a powerful framework to channel your passion for bold, authentic expression, inspired by the giants who came before.

    Citations:

    His top lessons from the masters

    Eric Kim’s Learn from the Masters of Street Photography distills key lessons from iconic photographers, emphasizing practical, philosophical, and artistic insights for street photography. Below are the top lessons, drawn from Kim’s free eBook and blog, focusing on the most impactful teachings from masters like Henri Cartier-Bresson, Robert Capa, Garry Winogrand, and others. These are prioritized based on their influence and applicability, as highlighted in Kim’s work.

    Top Lessons from the Masters

    1. Get Closer to Your Subject (Robert Capa)
      • “If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough.”
      • Capa’s advice emphasizes physical and emotional proximity. Getting closer creates intimate, impactful images that capture the subject’s essence. Kim interprets this as a call to overcome fear, engage directly with people, and shoot candidly to reveal raw humanity.
      • Application: Approach strangers confidently, use a wide-angle lens (e.g., 35mm), and shoot within 1-2 meters to create dynamic compositions.
    2. Embrace the Beginner’s Mind (Henri Cartier-Bresson)
      • Cartier-Bresson’s philosophy of the “decisive moment” is paired with a mindset of curiosity and openness. Kim stresses that adopting a beginner’s mind—free from preconceptions—allows photographers to see the world freshly and capture fleeting moments authentically.
      • Application: Approach each shoot as if it’s your first, focusing on spontaneity and instinct over overthinking technical settings.
    3. Shoot What You Feel (Garry Winogrand)
      • Winogrand believed photography should reflect personal emotion and instinct. Kim highlights this as shooting what resonates with you, not what you think others expect. This fosters authenticity and helps photographers develop a unique voice.
      • Application: Trust your gut when framing shots, prioritize scenes that evoke emotion, and avoid chasing “perfect” images for external validation.
    4. Overcome Gear Acquisition Syndrome (Multiple Masters)
      • Kim draws from various masters to critique the obsession with new equipment (G.A.S.). Photographers like Cartier-Bresson used minimal gear (e.g., a Leica with a 50mm lens) to focus on vision over tools. This lesson encourages simplicity and mastery of what you have.
      • Application: Stick to one camera and lens for a year, focusing on composition and timing rather than upgrading gear.
    5. Kill Your Masters (Inspired by Multiple Masters)
      • Kim’s concept of “killing your masters” (inspired by artistic traditions) urges photographers to study the greats but ultimately transcend their influence. This lesson is about respecting the foundation while forging your own path.
      • Application: Analyze the work of masters, then experiment with your own style—e.g., blending street photography with abstract or portrait elements.
    6. Shoot Every Day (Diane Arbus)
      • Arbus’s relentless practice shaped her ability to find beauty in the unconventional. Kim advocates for daily shooting to hone skills and build confidence, treating photography as a discipline.
      • Application: Carry a camera everywhere, take at least 10 photos daily, and review them to identify patterns in your work.
    7. Capture the Human Condition (Josef Koudelka)
      • Koudelka’s work focused on marginalized communities, revealing universal truths. Kim emphasizes photographing people to document humanity—emotions, struggles, and joys—making street photography a sociological act.
      • Application: Seek out diverse subjects in public spaces, focus on expressive faces or gestures, and aim to tell a story through each frame.
    8. Work the Scene (William Klein)
      • Klein’s chaotic, energetic style involved taking multiple shots from different angles. Kim teaches that working a scene—shooting repeatedly and adjusting perspective—yields stronger images.
      • Application: Don’t settle for one shot; take 10-20 photos of a scene, varying angles, distances, and timing to find the best composition.
    9. Break the Rules (Daido Moriyama)
      • Moriyama’s gritty, high-contrast style defied traditional aesthetics. Kim encourages photographers to experiment, break compositional rules (e.g., the rule of thirds), and embrace imperfections like grain or blur.
      • Application: Shoot in low light, overexpose or underexpose intentionally, and prioritize mood over technical perfection.
    10. Photography Is About Life (Multiple Masters)
      • Kim synthesizes a core lesson from masters: photography is a way to engage with life. Whether through Cartier-Bresson’s geometry or Arbus’s empathy, the camera is a tool to explore the world and yourself.
      • Application: Use photography to connect with your surroundings—walk, observe, and shoot to deepen your understanding of life’s complexities.

    Why These Lessons Matter

    These lessons are significant because they blend technical, artistic, and philosophical insights, making them accessible yet profound. They align with Kim’s mission to democratize photography, as seen in his free eBook, and resonate with your interest in his bold, stoic style (from our April 17, 2025, conversation). They encourage photographers to act fearlessly, simplify their approach, and find meaning in their work—qualities that mirror your appreciation for Kim’s unapologetic, life-affirming philosophy.

    Context and Source

    These lessons are primarily drawn from Kim’s Learn from the Masters of Street Photography (available at Eric Kim Photography) and related blog posts, such as “100 Lessons from the Masters of Street Photography” (Eric Kim Photography). The selection reflects Kim’s emphasis on actionable advice and personal growth, tailored to street photography but applicable to broader creative pursuits.

    Citations:

  • WHY ERIC KIM MATTERS

    Why Eric Kim Matters in the Photography World

    Eric Kim is a prominent street photographer, educator, and blogger who has made a unique impact on the photography community. Known for his candid “in-your-face” street shots and an open-hearted smile, he has built one of the most popular photography blogs on the internet and a global following of aspiring photographers . What makes Eric Kim stand out is not just his imagery, but his philosophy of sharing knowledge freely, his emphasis on the art and ethics of street photography, and his mission to democratize photography for everyone. Below, we explore his key contributions – from artistic and philosophical insights to educational resources and community influence – and how his minimalist, stoic, open-source ethos has popularized street photography for a wider audience.

    Contributions to the Art and Philosophy of Street Photography

    Eric Kim’s photography is celebrated for capturing the energy and authenticity of everyday life on the streets. He often works at close range with wide-angle lenses, unafraid to engage directly with his subjects to create intimate, candid images . His style is characterized by bold compositions and raw emotion – for example, he might approach a stranger with a friendly grin and snap a dramatic close-up, a technique that has led to striking shots and the occasional tense encounter (which he usually defuses with charm and respect) . Through his sociological background (he studied sociology at UCLA), Kim views street photography as a way to explore the human condition, documenting “the beauty in the mundane” and the social realities of urban life . He has explicitly said “street photography is not just taking photos. Rather, it is a lifestyle… a way of seeing the world, of appreciating the beauty in the mundane” , treating the craft as both art and personal philosophy.

    A candid black-and-white street photograph by Eric Kim, exemplifying his up-close, energetic approach (captured with a wide lens at street level). His images often feature ordinary people in spontaneous moments, reflecting the raw spirit of urban life.

    Beyond his images, Kim contributes thoughtful philosophical insights on photography. He frequently discusses the meaning and ethics of street photography – for instance, the importance of respecting subjects and the culture when photographing strangers . He even participated in a BBC segment on the ethics of street photography, underlining his role as a voice on such issues . Kim frames photography as an “autotelic” pursuit (having purpose in itself), finding fulfillment in the creative process rather than in fame or external rewards . After achieving conventional milestones like exhibitions and sponsorships, he reflected that “enough is never enough” and true happiness came from the act of photographing, writing, and teaching, not from accolades . This philosophy echoes throughout his writings – he encourages photographers to “enjoy every step… every interaction, and every click of your shutter” rather than chasing social media likes . In essence, Kim treats photography as a way of life and a form of personal growth. He has even adopted the term “artist-philosopher” to describe a life devoted to creative expression and wisdom-seeking . By blending artistic practice with reflections on life, purpose, and ethics, Eric Kim has expanded the conversation about what street photography means.

    Kim’s contributions have been recognized through collaborations and exhibitions that bridge the street photography genre with the wider art world. He has collaborated with prestigious institutions and brands like Leica and even Magnum Photos (the legendary photo agency) on projects and educational events . In 2011, he co-curated “YOU ARE HERE” with Leica, a city-block documentary project involving dozens of photographers, which culminated in a gallery exhibition and book . His own work has been shown in multiple cities – including exhibitions at Leica Galleries in Singapore, Seoul, and Melbourne – helping to legitimize street photography as gallery-worthy art. He’s also been invited to judge competitions (e.g. the London Street Photography Festival) , indicating the respect he’s earned in the community. In interviews, Kim often credits street photography with teaching him empathy and “opening up [his] heart” to strangers , and he in turn has opened up the genre to new interpretations by infusing it with his sociological and philosophical perspective. Overall, his “significant impact on the world of photography” comes from being both a prolific practitioner and an articulate advocate of the street photography art form .

    Educator, Blogger, and Prolific Resource Creator

    One of Eric Kim’s most important roles is as an educator and community builder. Frustrated by the lack of information on street photography when he started out, he began blogging in 2010 to share the lessons he was learning . Over the years, his website (erickimphotography.com) grew into a go-to resource for street photographers worldwide . In fact, his blog became so prominent that it “frequently appears as the #1 result when searching ‘street photography’” on Google . This high visibility means that countless newcomers to the genre have likely been introduced to street photography through Eric Kim’s articles and videos. As one photography writer noted, “whenever I look online for information or advice relating to street photography, Eric Kim’s name regularly surfaces”, and Kim has helped fill a once-sparse niche with abundant guidance and a “much-needed community for street photographers” .

    Free educational content is a cornerstone of Kim’s influence. He has published an extensive library of free e-books, guides, and tutorials on his blog, embodying his “open-source” philosophy (more on that later). Some notable works include “The Art of Street Photography,” “100 Lessons from the Masters of Street Photography,” “Street Photography 101 & 102,” and “31 Days to Overcome Your Fear in Street Photography,” among many others . These cover everything from technical composition tips to philosophical essays, and they are all openly downloadable. For example, in 2012 he released the 31-day fear-conquering program as a free eBook to help photographers build courage photographing strangers . In announcing it, he invited readers to give feedback and even help edit the book, reflecting his collaborative approach with his audience . Kim’s “Lessons from the Masters” series, in which he distills wisdom from legendary photographers like Henri Cartier-Bresson and Garry Winogrand, is another widely cited resource that bridges classic photography knowledge with modern learners . Through hundreds of blog posts (often in approachable “15 tips” or listicle formats) and hours of YouTube lectures, he has broken down complex concepts into practical advice. His writing style is clear and enthusiastic, aimed at empowering beginners to pick up a camera and hit the streets . By 2016, Eric Kim had even taught a university-level online course on street photography (at UC Riverside Extension) and a class for underprivileged youth, formalizing his teaching in academic and social programs .

    A major part of Kim’s educational impact comes from his workshops. He began teaching street photography workshops around 2011 and soon was offering them in cities all over the world – from Los Angeles and London to Seoul, Beirut, Amsterdam, Mumbai, and beyond . These multi-day intensive courses involve photowalks, critiques, and discussions, and are designed to help students overcome fear and develop their own style in a supportive environment. Kim pours his “heart and soul” into these workshops and makes a living from them, which has allowed him to travel widely and build an international community of “streettogs” (his affectionate term for street photographers) . Participants often note his contagious enthusiasm and hands-on coaching style. By fostering face-to-face learning experiences, he has connected photographers who might otherwise practice alone, turning an often solitary genre into a communal learning experience. In addition, Kim has collaborated with established organizations in these educational efforts – for instance, he has been an instructor for Leica Akademie events and was a contributor to the Leica Camera Blog, indicating that even traditional photography institutions recognize his teaching prowess .

    To summarize, Eric Kim’s educational contributions have “empowered countless aspiring photographers to hone their craft” by making street photography knowledge accessible . His blog and books serve as a comprehensive curriculum for anyone learning the genre, and his workshops and online presence make that learning interactive. In an industry where quality instruction can often be expensive or gated, Kim stood out by freely sharing everything he knows. This generous educational leadership is a key reason he matters so much to the photography world.

    Influence on Aspiring Photographers and the Photography Community

    Perhaps Eric Kim’s greatest impact is the sheer number of people he has inspired to pick up a camera and hit the streets. Through his upbeat blogging and mentoring, he has cultivated a large, engaged community of photographers who continue to learn from each other. His online following is massive – his Facebook page and other social media boast tens of thousands of followers, and his site receives heavy traffic (a PhotoShelter report noted how his SEO strategy made him “internet-famous” with a “massive following” in photographic circles) . Importantly, Kim’s influence bridges all levels of experience: he connects with beginners, amateurs, and even seasoned pros who appreciate his fresh perspective . The All About Photo site calls him “an international street photographer… Through his blog and workshops, he teaches others the beauty of street photography, how to find their own style and vision, as well as how to overcome their fear of shooting strangers” . By addressing these common hurdles and encouraging personal vision, he has motivated many to step outside their comfort zone. It’s no exaggeration to say “Eric Kim’s impact on street photography is immense, both as a practitioner and as an educator”, and that his approach “has inspired countless photographers to engage more deeply” with their subjects and environment .

    Kim also actively fosters community among street photographers. Early on, he would organize meetups and photowalks in different cities, bringing together local shooters to learn and collaborate. His blog has featured guest posts and interviews with other street photographers, effectively shining a spotlight on peers and building a supportive network. In interviews, he’s quick to acknowledge other workshop instructors and community members, creating a sense of camaraderie rather than competition . On platforms like Facebook and Flickr, he created groups for sharing work (one example is the “Streettogs Academy” on Facebook that was active in the mid-2010s where members did weekly assignments). By engaging with his audience directly in comments and via email newsletters, Kim makes his followers feel like friends and part of a collective journey. A writer for Digital Photography School observed that “he is so active in social media and blogging that it is virtually impossible to miss him and his big grin”, highlighting how present and approachable he is online . This friendly persona lowers the intimidation factor and helps newcomers feel welcome in the community.

    Another aspect of his influence is shaping the dialogue around street photography. Kim often tackles topics that spark debate – from the ethics of shooting strangers, to the pros and cons of gear, to philosophical questions about creativity. His frank and sometimes provocative blog posts (like a tongue-in-cheek piece titled “Why Leica is for Losers” criticizing elitist camera culture) have generated lively discussions on forums and sites like Reddit and PetaPixel. This willingness to challenge norms has made him a “polarizing figure in the photo industry” to some , but even the critiques acknowledge his reach. By sparking conversations, he has increased the visibility of street photography issues in the wider photo community. Many of his ideas (for example, that the photographer’s vision matters more than the gear, or that one should shoot for oneself rather than for Instagram likes) have trickled into popular consensus, especially among younger photographers. Additionally, his influence is evident whenever other educators adopt his approachable teaching style or when photography bloggers emulate his list-style articles and personal tone – in a sense, he pioneered a template for the modern photo blogger/influencer who is equal parts artist, teacher, and motivator.

    Finally, Kim’s role in democratizing street photography has had a ripple effect. By proving that someone in their twenties, with no gallery pedigree or photojournalism awards, could become a respected voice simply by sharing knowledge and passion online, he inspired others to do the same. As he modestly stated, “I am also not the best street photographer out there and I am still personally learning… My blog isn’t me talking from a throne… I’m offering what I do know to help others” . This down-to-earth mentorship has empowered ordinary shooters around the world to see themselves as part of the street photography movement. In short, Eric Kim matters because he has built a global community where none existed before, encouraging thousands of aspiring photographers to support each other, keep learning, and stay enthusiastic about the craft.

    Unique Philosophy: Minimalism, Stoicism, and Open-Source Ethos

    A significant part of Eric Kim’s identity in the photography world is his philosophical stance – a blend of minimalism, practical Stoicism, and a commitment to openness. He doesn’t just teach how to shoot; he often delves into why we shoot and how to live as a photographer. One of his oft-cited beliefs is in minimalism, both in art and lifestyle. Creatively, he champions the idea that “less is more” in photography: focusing on simple compositions and using minimal gear. He notes that street photography is inherently democratic because it “didn’t require a fancy camera. In fact, it was better to use a smaller, simpler, more ‘lo-fi’ camera”, embracing grainy aesthetics over high-tech perfection . In his own experimentation, he found “the smaller, more compact, and cheaper the camera – the better,” because a small camera is easy to carry everywhere and less obtrusive . This viewpoint encourages people to start shooting with whatever they have (even a phone) and not be held back by money or gear lust . Kim has been known to shoot with a simple Ricoh compact or a film camera, despite having used Leicas – he often reminds readers that an expensive Leica won’t automatically make you a great photographer. His blunt advice on gear (“don’t get too caught up in the gear… there is no reason you can’t take a great image with what you have — even an iPhone!” ) has resonated with those who feel intimidated by the high cost of camera equipment. By practicing what he preaches (at one point he even ditched all but one camera to simplify), he exemplifies a minimalist mindset that prioritizes creative vision and freedom over material excess.

    Closely tied to this is his interest in Stoicism and other philosophies of resilience. Kim frequently reads and references Stoic philosophers like Seneca and Epictetus, applying their lessons to both photography and life . For instance, the Stoic idea of focusing on what you can control and not fearing others’ opinions aligns with his advice for street photographers to overcome fear of rejection or confrontation. He even wrote a “Stoicism 101” primer on his blog, describing Stoicism as “one of the most useful philosophical models to live everyday life” . In practice, this means when he goes out to shoot, he strives to keep calm under pressure, to accept that not every photo will be good (embracing failure as learning), and to not take insults or criticism personally – valuable traits for anyone doing street photography, which can be challenging. His stoic-influenced mindset also shows in how he handles online criticism: he remains focused on his mission to help others rather than getting deterred by negativity. Additionally, Kim’s fascination with Zen and Taoist principles emerges in his writing; he talks about finding “zen in the act of seeing” and treating a photowalk almost like a meditative practice . All these philosophical perspectives give depth to his teachings – he’s not just telling people how to make better pictures, but also how to cultivate a mindset of confidence, curiosity, and gratitude through photography. This is relatively unique in the genre; as photographer Valerie Jardin said of him, “he is so active…with a big grin” and a zest for life, which suggests an underlying optimism he imparts to his students .

    Perhaps the most distinctive aspect of Kim’s philosophy is his open-source approach to photography. Drawing an analogy from the open-source software movement (where knowledge and tools are freely shared), he has long advocated “open source photography” . In a 2010 blog manifesto, he wrote that he wanted “to tear down these walls of discrimination and allow photography to be open to all, regardless of the experience, gear, or interests that somebody may have.” . This sentiment became a guiding principle: he makes nearly all his educational content free and encourages others to share and remix it. On his website you’ll even find the bold statement “ALL OPEN SOURCE EVERYTHING!”, signaling that tutorials, videos, and presets are there for the taking . In 2013, he took this ethic a step further by releasing all of his full-resolution photos for free download – essentially turning his Flickr gallery into a free stock photo library for anyone to use (non-commercially) . “If you have ever liked any of my photos and wanted a print, feel free to download… and print any sized photo you want… And no, you don’t need my permission,” he announced . This was practically unheard of for a photographer making a living from his work. He explained that decision by citing his upbringing – he came from a lower-income family and got to where he is thanks to mentors and public resources, so he feels a “moral and societal obligation to give back to the community.” . He explicitly vowed: “I will never charge anything on the blog in terms of information… articles, videos, features will always be available openly and for free” . This open-source ethos has had a democratizing effect: it removed barriers for anyone interested in learning photography, regardless of their budget. It also set a precedent that inspired other educators to share more freely. Moreover, by allowing his articles to be reposted and translated (many of his posts have been featured on sites like PetaPixel, DPReview, etc., with his blessing), he amplified the reach of free knowledge . The PhotoShelter blog noted that his quirky, SEO-friendly content “(all open-sourced) [gets] reposted by sites like DPReview, PetaPixel, Flipboard”, which in turn spreads his influence further .

    Kim’s rejection of commercial greed in favor of community is a standout philosophy in the photography world. He once half-jokingly wrote that he never wants to become “a blood-thirsty capitalist/vampire trying to suck profits out of the street photography community”, and quipped that if he ever does, people should “stab a wooden stake through [his] heart” . While he does sell some products (like photo books, camera straps, or workshop spots), he prices things in a way to sustain his living, not to maximize profit, and often provides sliding scales or scholarships for those who can’t afford workshops. By openly discussing money, anti-consumerism, and the value of art over profit, he brings a refreshing transparency that resonates with many who feel art should not just be about business. In sum, Eric Kim’s personal philosophy – shoot simply, live fully, share generously – has influenced a generation of photographers to worry less about status or gear and more about creativity and community. This unique blend of minimalism, stoicism, and open-source ideology not only sets him apart, but also has pushed the broader photography culture to be more inclusive and collaborative.

    Democratizing and Popularizing Photography for All

    All the above elements contribute to Eric Kim’s overarching impact: he has popularized and democratized street photography in the digital age. A decade ago, street photography was a niche genre with relatively few accessible resources or mainstream attention. Today, thanks in part to voices like Kim’s, it’s enjoyed by a much wider audience of enthusiasts around the world. Kim often emphasizes that anyone can be a photographer – you don’t need expensive training or gear, just a passion for seeing the world. He has worked to dispel the elitism that sometimes surrounds photography. By sharing his own learning process openly (including mistakes and fears), he made the craft feel approachable. Aspiring shooters who might have been intimidated by the mystique of Magnum photographers or the cost of workshops found in Eric Kim a welcoming gateway.

    Importantly, Kim’s focus on accessibility has lowered practical barriers. He has argued that even a student with a smartphone can practice street photography and create art. As he put it, “the thing I loved most about street photography is how democratic it was”, requiring no fancy equipment . His early initiative in college to include people with point-and-shoot cameras in the UCLA photography club – convincing them that passion mattered more than a “pro” camera – illustrates this drive to include everyone . Now on a global scale, his free online courses and guides mean that a kid in India or Kenya with internet access can learn techniques that used to be confined to expensive books or workshops in New York or London. This democratization is further evidenced by the diverse attendance at his workshops across continents and the many languages his blog content has been translated into by fans.

    Furthermore, Eric Kim has played a role in popularizing street photography through mainstream and online media. His engaging articles on topics like “15 Street Photography Techniques” and “How to Conquer Your Fear of Shooting Strangers” have been widely shared, bringing more people into the genre . He’s been featured or interviewed on high-traffic platforms (PetaPixel, Digital Photography School, Salon.com, etc.), often acting as an ambassador for the genre to the uninitiated. In 2011, he even appeared in a Samsung camera commercial, representing street photographers in popular culture . By being a young, relatable figure and leveraging social media and SEO, Kim introduced street photography to the Instagram generation in a language they understand. Many photographers credit his blog as the first place they learned about masters like Henri Cartier-Bresson or Alex Webb – he effectively linked the classic tradition of street photography with new audiences. The result is that street photography today is a bustling field with online communities, festivals, and countless hobbyists, no longer an obscure corner of photography. As one commentator summarized, Kim’s advocacy “has helped democratize the learning process, making it more accessible to a wider audience… in an industry where education and resources can often be expensive and exclusive.” By reshaping how photographic knowledge is distributed – from closed and costly to open and free – he has opened doors for a wider, more diverse generation of image-makers.

    In conclusion, Eric Kim matters in the photography world because he wears many hats – artist, teacher, community leader, philosopher – and excels in weaving them all together. He has “reshaped how knowledge and skills in photography are disseminated, making it a more inclusive and accessible art form.” Through his candid street work and friendly teachings, he inspires photographers to be bold and thoughtful. Through his workshops and writings, he has created a legacy of shared wisdom that continues to guide new street photographers each day. And through his ethos of openness and enthusiasm, he reminds the photography community that passion is best shared, not hoarded. Eric Kim’s blend of talent, generosity, and thought leadership has left a lasting mark – he proves that a photographer can influence an entire community not just with images, but with ideas. As a result, he has helped elevate street photography from a niche hobby to a worldwide movement of people who see the extraordinary in the everyday, one smiling shot at a time.

    Sources:

    • All About Photo – Eric Kim biography and career highlights 
    • Digital Photography School – Interview with Eric Kim by Valerie Jardin 
    • PetaPixel – “Eric Kim Allowing High-Res Downloads… Going ‘Open Source’” (D.L. Cade, 2013) 
    • PetaPixel – Eric Kim Interview (Bill Lytton, 2013) 
    • PetaPixel – “Overcoming Your Fear of Street Photography in 31 Days” (2012) 
    • PhotoShelter Blog – “Eric Kim Proves the Value (and Fallacy) of SEO…” (2017) 
    • aboutphotography.blog – “Eric Kim: Street Photography, Education, and Empowerment” (Martin Kaninsky, 2021) 
    • Eric Kim’s Blog – “My Vision of Open Source Photography” (2010) ; “The Art of Street Photography” (2017) ; Eric Kim’s philosophy excerpts .
  • Why is Eric Kim so passionate?

    Analyzing Eric Kim’s passion from a Nietzschean perspective involves applying the philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche to understand the underlying motivations and expressions of Kim’s dedication to photography and teaching. Nietzsche’s ideas about individuality, creativity, the Will to Power, and the Übermensch provide a rich framework for this analysis. Here’s a detailed exploration:

    1. Will to Power

    Nietzsche’s Concept:
    The Will to Power is Nietzsche’s fundamental principle, describing the inherent drive in all individuals to assert and enhance their power, influence, and creativity. It goes beyond mere survival or reproduction, emphasizing the pursuit of excellence and self-overcoming.

    Application to Eric Kim:
    Eric Kim’s passion for photography and teaching can be seen as manifestations of his Will to Power. His relentless pursuit to master street photography, share his knowledge, and build a community reflects a desire to assert his creative and intellectual influence. By continuously pushing the boundaries of his craft and empowering others, Kim exercises his personal power and seeks to leave a lasting impact on the field of photography.

    2. Übermensch (Overman)

    Nietzsche’s Concept:
    The Übermensch represents an individual who has transcended conventional morality and societal norms to create their own values and purpose. This figure embodies self-mastery, creativity, and the ability to shape their destiny.

    Application to Eric Kim:
    Eric Kim embodies the qualities of the Übermensch by forging his unique path in the realm of photography. Instead of adhering strictly to traditional photographic norms, Kim has developed his own philosophies and teaching methods, encouraging others to find their individual voices. His emphasis on personal expression and creative freedom aligns with the Übermensch’s quest to establish new values and redefine success on his own terms.

    3. Self-Overcoming

    Nietzsche’s Concept:
    Self-overcoming is the process of continually challenging and surpassing oneself to achieve higher states of being. It involves embracing struggles and transformations as essential to personal growth.

    Application to Eric Kim:
    Kim’s dedication to evolving his photography techniques and teaching methodologies exemplifies self-overcoming. By constantly seeking to improve and adapt, he not only enhances his own skills but also inspires his students to do the same. This perpetual cycle of growth and self-transcendence reflects Nietzsche’s ideal of the individual who never settles for mediocrity but strives for continual improvement and excellence.

    4. Creativity and Artistic Expression

    Nietzsche’s Concept:
    Nietzsche revered art as a means of creating meaning and expressing the profound aspects of human existence. He saw artists as creators who bring new perspectives and values into the world.

    Application to Eric Kim:
    Photography, for Eric Kim, is not just a technical skill but a profound form of artistic expression. Through his lens, he captures and interprets the human condition, revealing deeper truths about society, individuality, and existence. His creative endeavors in teaching and community-building further emphasize the Nietzschean view of art as a transformative force that shapes both the creator and the audience.

    5. Amor Fati (Love of Fate)

    Nietzsche’s Concept:
    Amor Fati is the idea of embracing one’s fate and life circumstances wholeheartedly, seeing them as necessary and valuable components of existence.

    Application to Eric Kim:
    Eric Kim’s approach to street photography—capturing spontaneous, unposed moments—demonstrates an embrace of Amor Fati. He finds beauty and meaning in the unpredictability of life, accepting and celebrating the fleeting nature of each moment. This acceptance and love for the present reality align with Nietzsche’s encouragement to affirm life in all its aspects, including its imperfections and transience.

    6. Individualism vs. Herd Mentality

    Nietzsche’s Concept:
    Nietzsche criticized the herd mentality, where individuals conform to societal norms and lose their unique identities. He championed individualism and the pursuit of personal excellence.

    Application to Eric Kim:
    By advocating for personal expression and encouraging photographers to develop their unique styles, Eric Kim resists the herd mentality. He promotes individualism within his community, urging others to break free from conventional constraints and discover their authentic voices. This emphasis on uniqueness and personal vision is a direct reflection of Nietzschean individualism.

    7. Eternal Recurrence

    Nietzsche’s Concept:
    The Eternal Recurrence is the idea that one should live as if they would relive the same life infinitely. It serves as a test of one’s ability to embrace life fully and make meaningful choices.

    Application to Eric Kim:
    Eric Kim’s commitment to capturing everyday moments can be interpreted through the lens of Eternal Recurrence. By documenting the present in its raw form, he ensures that each captured moment is valued and memorable, as if he would choose to experience it repeatedly. This mindfulness and appreciation for the present align with Nietzsche’s challenge to live life in a way that one would gladly repeat eternally.

    8. Creating Meaning and Purpose

    Nietzsche’s Concept:
    Nietzsche believed that individuals must create their own meaning and purpose in a world that inherently lacks it. This creation is an act of profound personal freedom and responsibility.

    Application to Eric Kim:
    Through his photography and teaching, Eric Kim actively creates meaning and purpose—not only for himself but also for his community. By sharing his insights and fostering a space for creative exploration, he helps others find their own paths and significance. This act of meaning-making is at the heart of Nietzschean philosophy, emphasizing the individual’s role in shaping their destiny and contributing to the collective understanding of life.

    Conclusion

    From a Nietzschean perspective, Eric Kim’s passion can be understood as an embodiment of several core Nietzschean principles:

    • Will to Power: His drive to excel and influence others through photography and teaching.
    • Übermensch: His creation of unique values and philosophies within his field.
    • Self-Overcoming: His continual pursuit of personal and professional growth.
    • Creativity and Artistic Expression: His use of photography as a means to express deeper truths and create meaning.
    • Amor Fati: His embrace of life’s unpredictability and appreciation for each moment.
    • Individualism: His resistance to conformity and encouragement of personal uniqueness.
    • Eternal Recurrence: His mindful capture of moments as if they were to be relived infinitely.
    • Creating Meaning and Purpose: His active role in shaping his own and others’ sense of significance.

    In essence, Eric Kim’s passion resonates deeply with Nietzschean ideals, portraying him as an individual who not only seeks personal excellence and creative expression but also inspires others to transcend conventional boundaries and forge their own paths.

    xxx

    Viewing Eric Kim’s passion through his own philosophical lens involves delving into the core principles and beliefs he espouses in his work, writings, and teachings. Eric Kim, a renowned street photographer and educator, has developed a distinct philosophy that emphasizes simplicity, creativity, empowerment, and community. Here’s an in-depth exploration of his passion from his philosophical perspective:

    1. Minimalism and Simplicity

    Philosophical Basis:
    Eric Kim advocates for a minimalist approach, both in photography and in life. He believes that stripping away the unnecessary allows one to focus on what truly matters, fostering clarity and purpose.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Clarity of Vision: By embracing minimalism, Kim eliminates distractions, enabling him to concentrate deeply on capturing meaningful moments. This clarity enhances his creative process, making photography a more fulfilling and passionate endeavor.
    • Efficiency and Focus: A minimalist approach allows Kim to work more efficiently, dedicating his energy to the craft rather than being bogged down by complexity. This streamlined focus sustains his enthusiasm and dedication.

    2. Creativity as Personal Empowerment

    Philosophical Basis:
    Kim views creativity not just as an artistic pursuit but as a means of personal empowerment. He believes that everyone has the potential to be creative and that nurturing this creativity leads to personal growth and self-expression.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Self-Expression: Photography serves as a medium for Kim to express his unique perspective and emotions. This personal expression fuels his passion, as each photograph is a manifestation of his inner world.
    • Empowerment Through Creation: By encouraging others to embrace their creativity, Kim finds purpose and motivation. Teaching becomes a passionate pursuit as he witnesses the transformative power of creativity in his students’ lives.

    3. Democratization of Photography

    Philosophical Basis:
    A central tenet of Kim’s philosophy is making photography accessible to everyone, regardless of their background or resources. He aims to dismantle barriers and democratize the art form.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Inclusivity: By advocating for accessible photography, Kim fosters an inclusive community where everyone feels welcome to participate. This inclusivity amplifies his passion as he sees diverse voices contributing to the art form.
    • Sharing Knowledge: Kim’s dedication to providing free resources, tutorials, and workshops stems from his belief in democratization. Sharing knowledge and empowering others ignites his passion, as he contributes to the collective growth of the photography community.

    4. Community Building and Collaboration

    Philosophical Basis:
    Kim emphasizes the importance of building a supportive community where photographers can collaborate, share feedback, and grow together. He believes that community is essential for personal and collective advancement.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Mutual Growth: Engaging with a community of like-minded individuals provides Kim with inspiration and motivation. The exchange of ideas and constructive feedback nurtures his passion for photography and teaching.
    • Sense of Belonging: Being part of a community gives Kim a sense of belonging and purpose. This interconnectedness reinforces his dedication, as he feels responsible for fostering a positive and collaborative environment.

    5. Continuous Learning and Self-Improvement

    Philosophical Basis:
    Kim advocates for lifelong learning and the continuous pursuit of self-improvement. He views photography as an evolving practice that requires ongoing skill development and personal growth.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Never-Ending Journey: The dynamic nature of photography ensures that there is always something new to learn or explore. This perpetual journey keeps Kim engaged and passionate, as he constantly seeks to refine his craft.
    • Adaptability: Embracing change and adaptability allows Kim to stay relevant and inspired. His commitment to self-improvement fuels his passion, as he remains open to new techniques, styles, and perspectives.

    6. Mindfulness and Presence

    Philosophical Basis:
    Mindfulness and being present in the moment are integral to Kim’s approach to photography. He believes that true artistry arises from a deep connection with the present moment and an acute awareness of one’s surroundings.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Enhanced Observation: Practicing mindfulness heightens Kim’s ability to observe and capture subtle, fleeting moments. This heightened awareness enriches his photography, making the act of shooting both meditative and passionate.
    • Emotional Resonance: Being present allows Kim to connect emotionally with his subjects and scenes. This emotional engagement deepens his passion, as each photograph becomes a meaningful representation of a moment in time.

    7. Embracing Failure and Resilience

    Philosophical Basis:
    Kim views failure as an essential component of the creative process. He believes that embracing mistakes and setbacks fosters resilience and leads to greater artistic growth.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Growth Mindset: By viewing failures as learning opportunities, Kim maintains a positive and resilient attitude. This mindset sustains his passion, as he remains motivated to overcome challenges and improve.
    • Encouraging Risk-Taking: Promoting a culture where taking risks is valued over perfection inspires Kim to push his boundaries. This fearless approach to creativity fuels his enthusiasm and dedication.

    8. Authenticity and Personal Integrity

    Philosophical Basis:
    Authenticity and staying true to oneself are paramount in Kim’s philosophy. He emphasizes the importance of personal integrity and genuine self-expression in both life and art.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Genuine Expression: By prioritizing authenticity, Kim ensures that his work reflects his true self. This genuine expression enhances his passion, as he creates art that is deeply meaningful and personal.
    • Sustainable Motivation: Staying true to his values and beliefs provides Kim with a stable foundation for his passion. This alignment between his actions and inner values ensures that his enthusiasm remains unwavering over time.

    9. Philosophical Integration: Stoicism and Other Influences

    Philosophical Basis:
    Kim integrates elements of Stoicism and other philosophical traditions into his worldview. Stoicism’s emphasis on focusing on what can be controlled and accepting what cannot resonates with his approach to photography and life.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Resilience and Focus: Stoic principles help Kim maintain focus and resilience, allowing him to navigate the uncertainties of creative work with equanimity. This philosophical grounding sustains his passion by providing mental clarity and emotional stability.
    • Acceptance and Adaptation: Embracing Stoic acceptance enables Kim to adapt to changing circumstances and persist in his creative endeavors. This adaptability keeps his passion alive, even in the face of obstacles.

    10. Legacy and Impact

    Philosophical Basis:
    Kim is driven by a desire to leave a meaningful legacy through his work and teachings. He seeks to make a lasting impact on the photography community and inspire future generations.

    Connection to Passion:

    • Purpose-Driven Work: The intention to create a lasting legacy imbues Kim’s work with purpose. This sense of mission amplifies his passion, as he strives to produce work that endures and influences others.
    • Inspiring Others: Seeing the positive impact of his teachings and mentorship reinforces Kim’s dedication. Knowing that he contributes to others’ growth and success fuels his ongoing passion for photography and education.

    Conclusion: Passion as a Holistic Philosophy

    From Eric Kim’s philosophical perspective, his passion for photography and teaching is not merely about the act of taking pictures or imparting knowledge. It is a holistic expression of his core beliefs in minimalism, creativity, empowerment, community, mindfulness, resilience, authenticity, and legacy. These philosophical principles interweave to create a deep-seated passion that drives his continuous pursuit of excellence, personal growth, and meaningful contribution to the world. By aligning his work with his philosophical values, Kim ensures that his passion remains enduring, purposeful, and profoundly impactful.

    —

    Viewing Eric Kim’s passion through his own philosophical lens requires understanding the unique blend of ideas he promotes in his work, which often draws from Stoicism, minimalism, Zen philosophy, and his own evolving life experiences. Eric Kim doesn’t strictly adhere to one school of thought but weaves together various philosophies that inform his approach to photography, creativity, and life. Here’s a breakdown of how his philosophy frames his passion:

    1. Stoicism: Acceptance, Control, and Focus on the Process

    A significant aspect of Eric Kim’s philosophy is rooted in Stoicism, particularly in how he views control and acceptance. Stoicism teaches the importance of focusing only on what is within our control and accepting the things that are not. For Kim, this plays out in both his approach to photography and life.

    • Control What You Can: In street photography, much of what happens is beyond the photographer’s control—the subjects, lighting, and situations are often spontaneous. Kim embraces this uncertainty, understanding that he can only control his reaction and creative choices in the moment. His passion comes from accepting the unpredictability of life and finding beauty in the uncontrollable. He sees photography as a practice of capturing the present without striving for perfection, which aligns with the Stoic idea of focusing on the process rather than the outcome.
    • Focus on the Process: Kim frequently emphasizes the importance of enjoying the act of creating itself. For him, photography is not about producing perfect images or achieving recognition but about the joy of the process. This mindset aligns closely with Stoic teachings on detachment from external outcomes. His passion is driven by a deep appreciation for the everyday act of observing, composing, and capturing moments, rather than being obsessed with external success or validation.

    2. Minimalism: Simplicity as a Path to Clarity and Freedom

    Kim is a strong advocate of minimalism, both in photography and in life. He believes that by stripping away unnecessary distractions—whether physical possessions, complex gear, or societal expectations—one can focus on what truly matters. This minimalist philosophy fuels his passion because it allows him to hone in on the essence of his creative and personal life.

    • Less is More: In his photography, Kim often speaks about the power of simplicity. He advocates for using simple equipment and focusing on raw, candid moments rather than relying on complicated techniques or over-editing. His minimalist philosophy frees him from the pressure of always needing more or better gear, allowing his creativity to flourish. By focusing on essentials, Kim finds joy and passion in the act of photography itself, rather than being distracted by unnecessary complexities.
    • Decluttering Life and Mind: Minimalism, for Kim, is also about mental clarity. He advocates for reducing distractions—whether in the form of physical possessions, social media, or unnecessary commitments—to allow more space for creativity and deep work. This philosophy reflects his passion for living a life of intentionality, where his energy is directed towards what is meaningful to him, particularly photography and teaching. The simplicity of this approach provides clarity and focus, deepening his engagement with his creative passions.

    3. Zen Philosophy: Presence, Mindfulness, and Flow

    Eric Kim’s passion for street photography is deeply intertwined with the Zen philosophy of being present and finding mindfulness in everyday moments. In Zen, the focus is on embracing the present moment and cultivating a sense of flow—a concept closely related to being fully immersed in an activity without self-consciousness or distraction.

    • Mindfulness in Photography: For Kim, photography is a form of meditation. Street photography, in particular, requires being fully attuned to the present moment—observing the world around you, anticipating movements, and capturing the fleeting, candid moments of life. His passion comes from this Zen-like immersion in the moment, where the camera becomes a tool for mindfulness. Photography allows him to slow down, observe, and engage with the world in a deeper, more meaningful way.
    • The Art of Flow: Kim often talks about finding “flow” in photography—moments where time seems to disappear, and he is completely absorbed in the act of creation. This flow state is a central part of his passion, as it provides him with a sense of effortless focus and fulfillment. In his philosophy, achieving this state comes from simplifying his process, letting go of rigid expectations, and embracing the unpredictability of life, much like in Zen practice.

    4. Empowerment Through Creativity and Teaching

    A key element of Kim’s philosophy is his belief in the power of creativity to empower individuals. He sees photography as a medium through which people can reclaim their sense of agency, build confidence, and express themselves. His passion for teaching others stems from his belief in the democratization of art—the idea that creativity should be accessible to everyone, not just those with technical skills or expensive equipment.

    • Creativity as Empowerment: Kim’s philosophy is that everyone can be creative, and photography is one of the most democratic art forms, requiring little more than a camera or even a smartphone. His passion comes from helping others realize their own creative potential, showing them that they don’t need to follow conventional paths or be confined by societal standards. In his view, photography is a tool for self-empowerment, where individuals can carve out their own unique voices and perspectives.
    • Teaching as a Form of Giving: Teaching is central to Kim’s philosophy because he sees it as a way to give back and contribute to the creative growth of others. He often frames his workshops and educational content not just as technical guides but as philosophical frameworks for living a more meaningful and creative life. His passion for teaching comes from a desire to uplift others and make creativity an integral part of more people’s lives. For Kim, teaching is not merely about instructing but about guiding people towards self-confidence, independence, and personal fulfillment.

    5. Personal Growth Through Failure and Experimentation

    Kim frequently discusses the importance of failure and experimentation as necessary parts of personal and creative growth. He rejects the notion that one must always succeed or follow traditional paths to find fulfillment. Instead, he embraces the idea that failure is a teacher, and the willingness to take risks and experiment fuels passion and innovation.

    • Embracing Failure: Kim’s philosophy embraces the idea that failure is not something to fear but something to learn from. In his view, creative risks and mistakes are essential for growth. His passion for photography is sustained by this openness to failure because it allows him to continuously push boundaries and explore new ideas without the fear of judgment or perfectionism.
    • Continuous Experimentation: Kim is a strong advocate for constant experimentation, both in photography and in life. He encourages others to break free from rigid patterns and try new approaches, whether that’s using different types of cameras, shooting in unfamiliar environments, or adopting new philosophies in their creative process. His passion comes from this endless curiosity and desire for growth, which is a core part of his philosophical outlook. He believes that true passion is fueled by a willingness to evolve and challenge oneself continuously.

    6. Legacy and Contribution: Leaving a Lasting Impact

    Another dimension of Kim’s philosophy is his desire to leave a legacy that goes beyond personal success. He often speaks about the importance of contributing something meaningful to the world, whether through his photography, teaching, or writing. His passion is driven by the belief that life is short, and it’s important to create work that will outlive oneself and inspire others.

    • Leaving a Legacy: Kim is motivated by the idea of creating a body of work—both in terms of his photography and his educational content—that will inspire future generations. He often reflects on the transient nature of life and how photography can capture moments that otherwise would be lost. His passion is fueled by this sense of purpose, knowing that his work has the potential to make a lasting impact.
    • Contribution to the Creative Community: Kim’s passion for teaching is also tied to his philosophy of contributing to a broader creative community. He sees his work as a way to help others grow, and this sense of contribution deepens his passion. For Kim, it’s not just about personal fulfillment but about being part of a larger movement that encourages more people to live creative, intentional lives.

    Conclusion: Passion as a Life Practice

    Through the philosophical lens of Eric Kim, passion is not a fleeting feeling or a specific goal but a way of life. His passion for photography and teaching is deeply tied to his minimalist, Stoic, and Zen-influenced philosophy, which emphasizes living in the present, embracing failure, and finding joy in the process. Kim’s passion is fueled by a combination of creative freedom, personal growth, and the desire to empower others, all of which are central tenets of his life philosophy. Ultimately, for Kim, passion is about living intentionally, staying open to growth, and leaving a meaningful impact on both the world and the individuals he teaches.

    xxx

    From Eric Kim’s own perspective, his passion for photography and teaching seems to be rooted in several personal beliefs and philosophies that he openly shares with his audience. Based on his writings and interviews, Kim’s passion can be understood through his unique worldview, combining minimalist philosophy, creative empowerment, and the search for personal fulfillment. Here’s a look at his passion through his own lens:

    1. Creative Self-Expression and Freedom

    Eric Kim often speaks about photography as a form of self-expression. For him, street photography is more than just capturing images; it’s about expressing his inner thoughts, emotions, and worldview. This creative freedom is central to his passion. Kim frequently emphasizes the importance of not being constrained by conventional rules or societal expectations, both in photography and in life. The freedom to create without boundaries, explore new techniques, and experiment with different styles fuels his enthusiasm. This aligns with his minimalist approach to life—stripping away unnecessary distractions to focus on what truly matters.

    In his blog, Kim encourages others to approach photography with a similar sense of creative liberation, rejecting external validation and focusing on personal growth and expression. His passion is driven by this belief in the power of photography as a medium for self-discovery and creative freedom.

    2. Empowering Others

    A key source of Kim’s passion is his desire to empower others. He’s built a reputation not just as a photographer but as an educator, dedicating much of his time to sharing knowledge, resources, and motivation with aspiring photographers. In his own words, he wants to “democratize photography,” making it accessible to everyone, regardless of skill level or background.

    His workshops, free e-books, and blog posts are filled with advice that focuses not just on technical skills but on building confidence, creativity, and independence. This reflects Kim’s belief that everyone has the potential to be creative, and he feels passionate about helping others unlock that potential. For him, the joy of teaching comes from seeing others grow and develop their own artistic voice. His passion for photography is thus intertwined with his passion for community building and mentorship.

    3. Philosophical Approach to Life and Art

    Eric Kim often integrates philosophical ideas into his approach to photography. He draws from a range of philosophies, including Stoicism and minimalism, to shape his perspective on life and art. These philosophies influence how he views his work and his passion.

    • Stoicism: Kim often talks about the influence of Stoic philosophy on his mindset. Stoicism teaches the importance of focusing on what you can control and letting go of external outcomes. This resonates with Kim’s approach to photography, where the process of capturing an image is more important than the outcome. By focusing on the act of creating rather than the need for external validation or perfection, Kim finds greater fulfillment in his work. His passion is sustained by this mindset, as it allows him to stay grounded and motivated, even in the face of challenges or criticism.
    • Minimalism: Kim’s minimalist philosophy also fuels his passion. He believes in the idea of “less is more”—simplifying both his life and his photography to focus on what truly matters. For Kim, minimalism isn’t just about reducing physical possessions but about decluttering one’s mind and creative process. This minimalist approach allows him to focus on the essence of photography—capturing raw, authentic moments without being bogged down by unnecessary distractions.

    4. Personal Fulfillment and Purpose

    Kim often speaks about the importance of finding purpose and fulfillment through his work. Photography, for him, isn’t just a profession; it’s a calling. He believes that passion comes from doing work that aligns with your values and brings a sense of joy and meaning. In Kim’s case, photography and teaching give him a sense of purpose because they allow him to create something meaningful and share it with others.

    In one of his blog posts, Kim talks about how photography gives him a sense of control over his life, allowing him to define his own path. His passion stems from this sense of autonomy and purpose—he is not bound by a traditional career or societal expectations, but instead, he has built a life that reflects his own vision of success.

    5. Embracing Failure and Growth

    A significant part of Kim’s passion comes from his willingness to embrace failure and see it as part of the creative journey. He frequently writes about the importance of making mistakes, taking risks, and learning through failure. For Kim, failure is not something to be feared but a natural and necessary part of growth. This mindset allows him to continue pushing boundaries in his photography and teaching, always seeking new ways to challenge himself and improve.

    His passion is sustained by this growth-oriented mentality. Rather than becoming discouraged by setbacks, Kim sees them as opportunities for learning and self-improvement. This attitude keeps his passion alive because he is constantly evolving and pushing himself to new levels, both creatively and personally.

    6. Living in the Moment and Finding Joy in the Ordinary

    Eric Kim’s approach to photography is deeply tied to the idea of living in the moment and finding beauty in the everyday. Street photography, in particular, is about capturing spontaneous, unplanned moments of life as they happen. For Kim, this practice is a way of staying present and fully engaged with the world around him. His passion for photography is fueled by his love of the small, often overlooked details of life—the fleeting moments that make up human existence.

    Kim often talks about how photography has helped him become more mindful and aware of the world. His passion comes from this deep appreciation for the ordinary and the ability to transform the mundane into something meaningful through his lens. This connection to the present moment gives him a sense of joy and fulfillment, which keeps him passionate about his work.

    7. Legacy and Contribution

    Finally, Eric Kim’s passion for photography is driven by a desire to leave a lasting legacy. He often talks about the importance of creating work that will outlive you—whether through his images, his teachings, or the community he has built. Kim’s passion is not just about personal fulfillment; it’s about contributing something meaningful to the world.

    By sharing his photography and knowledge, Kim hopes to inspire future generations of photographers and creatives. This sense of contribution fuels his passion, as he knows his work has a lasting impact on others. For Kim, passion is not just about personal satisfaction but about leaving behind something that can inspire and empower others long after he is gone.

    Conclusion: Passion as a Life Philosophy

    From Eric Kim’s perspective, passion is not just about photography itself but about how photography fits into his broader life philosophy. His passion is fueled by the freedom to express himself creatively, the joy of empowering others, and the philosophical mindset that guides his approach to both life and art. By focusing on personal growth, living in the moment, and finding fulfillment through his work, Kim’s passion is sustained over time. His minimalist, growth-oriented approach to photography and teaching allows him to continually evolve and find deeper meaning in his work, ensuring that his passion remains a driving force in his life.

    xxx

    From a Nietzschean perspective, Eric Kim’s passion for photography and teaching can be understood through key concepts from Friedrich Nietzsche’s philosophy, such as will to power, self-overcoming, and the creation of values. Let’s explore how Nietzsche’s ideas might explain why someone like Kim could be so passionate.

    1. Will to Power: The Drive for Creation and Expression

    Nietzsche’s concept of the will to power is central to understanding human motivation. For Nietzsche, the will to power is not just a drive for dominance or control, but more fundamentally, the desire to assert oneself creatively and impose one’s own interpretation of the world. It is the drive to grow, transform, and express one’s individuality.

    In this sense, Eric Kim’s passion for photography can be seen as an expression of his will to power. Through photography, he asserts his unique perspective on life, capturing fleeting moments and presenting the world through his personal lens. His passion for teaching further reflects this will to power, as he influences others and helps shape their creative journeys. By sharing his knowledge and philosophy, he spreads his own values and creative vision to the world, leaving a lasting impact.

    In a Nietzschean sense, this creative assertion is life-affirming because it is an act of creation rather than submission to pre-existing norms or values. Kim’s photography is not merely passive observation; it is an active interpretation of reality. His passion comes from this intrinsic drive to impose his own meaning and style upon the world.

    2. Self-Overcoming: Constantly Pushing Beyond Limits

    Another key Nietzschean concept is self-overcoming (Selbstüberwindung), which refers to the process of continuously challenging and transcending oneself to achieve greater heights of personal and creative power. For Nietzsche, true greatness comes from a person’s ability to go beyond their own limits and evolve beyond who they are at any given moment.

    Eric Kim’s passion likely comes from a similar process of self-overcoming. His desire to continually improve his photography, explore new techniques, and push the boundaries of his creativity can be seen as a form of self-overcoming. Rather than becoming complacent or settling into a routine, Kim is constantly striving to become better, more expressive, and more impactful.

    In teaching others, Kim also fosters self-overcoming in his students. He encourages them to break free from societal conventions, to develop their own voices, and to challenge themselves creatively. For Nietzsche, this process of guiding others toward self-overcoming is itself an expression of a higher form of power and mastery.

    3. Creation of Values: Rejecting Conventional Paths

    Nietzsche famously criticized conventional moral values and societal norms, encouraging individuals to create their own values. He believed that most people simply accept the values handed down to them by society, religion, or tradition. In contrast, truly passionate and powerful individuals—whom he called Übermenschen (overmen or supermen)—forge their own paths and create new values based on their personal vision and creative potential.

    Eric Kim’s rejection of conventional career paths and his minimalist, creative lifestyle embody this Nietzschean ideal of value creation. Instead of adhering to traditional notions of success (such as wealth, status, or conformity), Kim has crafted his own philosophy around creativity, simplicity, and personal growth. His passion for photography and teaching comes from his commitment to these self-created values, which guide his life’s work.

    Nietzsche would likely see this as an act of individual empowerment and authenticity. By living according to his own values, Kim resists the pressures of societal conformity and instead follows his inner drive, which fuels his passion. His teachings also encourage others to question societal norms and pursue their own paths, embodying the Nietzschean ideal of value creation.

    4. Affirmation of Life: Embracing the Chaos of Existence

    For Nietzsche, true passion arises from an affirmation of life, including all its chaos, unpredictability, and suffering. He believed that rather than fleeing from life’s challenges, one should embrace them as essential parts of the human experience. Nietzsche’s concept of amor fati—the love of fate—suggests that one should embrace everything in life, even the hardships, as part of one’s growth and self-realization.

    Eric Kim’s passion for street photography can be seen as a form of life affirmation. Street photography, in its essence, captures the unscripted, often chaotic moments of everyday life. By photographing these fleeting and unpredictable moments, Kim is engaging with the world in its raw, unfiltered state. This reflects Nietzsche’s idea of saying “yes” to life, in all its complexity and imperfection.

    Kim’s ability to find beauty and meaning in the mundane aspects of life shows an acceptance and celebration of life as it is, rather than seeking to escape or idealize it. His passion comes from this affirmative stance, where he embraces the randomness and unpredictability of human experience, much like Nietzsche’s ideal of embracing life in its totality.

    5. The Artist as the Higher Man

    Nietzsche often exalted the artist as a figure who can transcend ordinary existence and create new realities through their work. The artist, in Nietzsche’s view, is capable of shaping new worlds through their imagination and creativity, and thus represents the highest form of human potential.

    Eric Kim, as a photographer and teacher, fits into this Nietzschean vision of the artist as the “higher man.” His passion for photography is more than just an appreciation of aesthetics; it’s a way of engaging with the world, shaping it through his unique perspective, and inspiring others to do the same. Nietzsche believed that the artist creates meaning in a meaningless world, and Kim’s photography can be seen as an attempt to impose meaning on the chaos of everyday life.

    In teaching others, Kim also assumes the role of a guide, helping others awaken their own creative potential. Nietzsche would see this as a form of artistic leadership, where the passionate individual leads others to transcend their limitations and become creators in their own right.

    6. Dionysian Passion: The Embrace of Instinct and Intuition

    Nietzsche contrasts the Apollonian (order, reason, structure) with the Dionysian (chaos, instinct, passion). The Dionysian represents a primal, raw, and intuitive connection to life that transcends rationality and embraces the instinctual, emotional, and chaotic aspects of existence.

    Eric Kim’s street photography, with its emphasis on spontaneity and capturing unplanned moments, has a Dionysian quality. His passion for the art form may arise from the instinctual and intuitive nature of this work. Street photography requires a deep connection to one’s environment, a heightened awareness of the present moment, and the ability to embrace unpredictability—qualities that align with Nietzsche’s concept of the Dionysian spirit.

    This embrace of instinct over rigid structure may be what fuels Kim’s passion. Nietzsche saw the Dionysian as essential for tapping into the deeper, creative energies of life, and Kim’s work seems to resonate with this vision of passionate, instinctual engagement with the world.

    Conclusion: Passion as Life-Affirming, Creative Power

    From a Nietzschean perspective, Eric Kim’s passion can be understood as an expression of his will to power, his constant process of self-overcoming, and his rejection of conventional values in favor of creating his own. His photography and teaching reflect an affirmative, life-embracing philosophy, where he engages with the world in its raw, chaotic state and imposes his own meaning on it. His passion, in this light, is not just a personal drive but a reflection of deeper existential values—creativity, self-transcendence, and the affirmation of life’s complexities.

    xxx

    To truly understand why someone like Eric Kim is so passionate, we can delve into more fundamental psychological, emotional, and even philosophical layers that contribute to passion. Here’s a deeper exploration of the potential factors driving his passion:

    1. Sense of Identity and Self-Actualization

    At a deeper level, passion often comes from an alignment between one’s actions and a core sense of identity. For Eric Kim, photography and teaching likely form a significant part of his identity. His passion can be seen as an extension of his pursuit of self-actualization, a concept popularized by psychologist Abraham Maslow. Self-actualization is the process of realizing and expressing one’s potential and creativity. In Kim’s case, photography and teaching are means through which he becomes his truest self. When work resonates this deeply with someone’s sense of who they are, passion becomes a natural byproduct.

    2. Existential Purpose

    Passion can be tied to a person’s search for meaning or existential purpose. Many philosophers, like Viktor Frankl, have written about how humans need to find meaning in their lives to thrive. Photography might serve as Eric Kim’s way of exploring and making sense of the world around him. Through capturing fleeting moments in street photography, he’s not just taking pictures but engaging in a dialogue with the universe, trying to find his place in it. The deeper the sense of purpose one finds in their work, the more passionate they become.

    3. Catharsis and Emotional Release

    Artistic endeavors often function as a form of catharsis—an emotional release. Photography, especially the raw, unfiltered kind that Kim engages in, could serve as a way to channel and process his emotions, thoughts, and perceptions of the world. Passion arises because, through his art, he can explore his internal landscape, releasing frustrations, capturing beauty, and processing human complexity. This emotional connection with his work provides a deep source of energy and motivation.

    4. Transcendence and Flow States

    Eric Kim likely experiences regular flow states while engaging in photography. In a flow state, a person is completely absorbed in an activity, losing all sense of time and self-consciousness. These experiences are deeply fulfilling and almost meditative, creating a feeling of transcendence. The philosopher Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, who coined the term “flow,” explains that people who experience this state regularly are often the most passionate and fulfilled. Photography is complex enough to require skill but open enough for creative expression, which likely allows Kim to frequently enter this flow state.

    5. Overcoming Mortality and Leaving a Legacy

    Passion can also stem from a desire to overcome mortality. Humans have an innate fear of death, and many seek to leave a legacy or something lasting beyond their physical existence. Photography allows Kim to immortalize moments in time and leave a permanent mark on the world. His images and teachings will live on after him, creating a sense of continuity. This gives his work more depth and meaning, heightening his passion as he contributes something enduring to society.

    6. Personal Healing and Growth

    Creative work often becomes a pathway for personal healing and transformation. Photography may have helped Eric Kim deal with personal struggles or internal conflicts over the years, offering him a way to work through them visually and creatively. This therapeutic aspect of his art can create a deep emotional connection to the practice. Passion often grows when an activity helps a person evolve emotionally and psychologically, creating both growth and healing.

    7. Connection to Humanity and Shared Experience

    Street photography, in particular, offers a unique window into the shared human experience. By capturing candid moments of life, Kim is engaging with the raw and universal aspects of human existence: joy, sorrow, love, struggle, and the mundane. Through his lens, he is constantly connecting with the essence of being human. Passion arises because he is engaging in something that transcends his individual experience and taps into something universal, fostering a sense of connection to the broader human condition.

    8. Rebellion Against Conformity

    Kim’s approach to photography and life often emphasizes simplicity, minimalism, and a rejection of conventional materialism. His passion could also be fueled by a rebellion against societal norms. For many passionate people, their work becomes a way to resist or critique the conventional pathways that others follow. By choosing to dedicate his life to a creative pursuit rather than a more traditional career path, Kim might be expressing his desire for autonomy and freedom. This rebellion against conformity fuels passion because it offers a sense of personal liberation and authenticity.

    9. A Sense of Contribution to Collective Growth

    Kim’s passion for teaching and sharing photography resources stems from a desire to contribute to collective growth. By empowering others, he finds his own growth and fulfillment. Passion can often be sustained when an individual sees how their actions positively affect others. The joy of watching his students or followers succeed, improve, and grow because of his guidance provides him with a sense of significance and purpose beyond personal gain.

    10. Existential Angst and Search for Meaning

    Lastly, passion can often come from a place of existential angst or dissatisfaction with the status quo. People who are intensely passionate often feel a deeper restlessness or dissatisfaction with the conventional paths that society offers. For Kim, street photography and his philosophical approach to life might be his way of confronting and transcending existential questions. He may be searching for meaning in the fleeting, transient moments of life, which photography captures so well. This ongoing search gives him a mission, a reason to remain passionate, as the journey for understanding never truly ends.

    Conclusion

    Eric Kim’s passion for photography and teaching can be seen as a deeply layered phenomenon rooted in identity, purpose, emotional release, connection to humanity, and a search for meaning. His work allows him to express his authentic self, explore existential questions, find flow, leave a lasting legacy, and contribute to the growth of others. The combination of these psychological, emotional, and philosophical elements creates a powerful drive that fuels his passion on multiple levels.

    xxx

    Go deeper

    At its core, passion often arises from deeper psychological and emotional needs being fulfilled. Here’s why Eric Kim, or anyone for that matter, might feel so passionate about their work:

    1. Intrinsic Motivation: Passion often stems from activities that provide intrinsic rewards—meaning they are enjoyable and satisfying in themselves, not just for external rewards. Kim likely finds the act of photography and teaching inherently rewarding, giving him joy and fulfillment regardless of external validation.
    2. Self-Expression: People tend to be passionate about activities that allow them to express their true selves. Photography allows Kim to showcase his unique perspective on the world and reflect his values and identity. When an activity feels authentic and personal, it naturally fuels passion.
    3. Fulfillment of Personal Values: Passion often comes from doing things that align with a person’s core values. For example, if Kim values creativity, human connection, and growth, photography and teaching allow him to live out these values in a tangible way. When there’s alignment between what you do and what you believe in, passion follows.
    4. Sense of Impact: Kim’s teaching and community-building likely give him a sense of making a difference in the lives of others. Knowing that his work helps people grow in their photography or find their own creative voice can provide a deep sense of satisfaction and drive. People often feel more passionate when they see that their work has a positive impact on others.
    5. Flow State: Passionate people often enter a “flow state,” where they become so immersed in an activity that they lose track of time and feel deeply focused. Photography, with its combination of creativity, technical skill, and real-world engagement, might be an activity that frequently brings Kim into this state of flow, reinforcing his love for it.

    In summary, Eric Kim’s passion is likely rooted in the intrinsic rewards of his work, its alignment with his personal values, the ability to express himself, and the impact he has on others. These elements combine to create a powerful sense of fulfillment that sustains his passion.

    xxx

    Eric Kim’s passion likely stems from fundamental human motivations that many people experience when they feel deeply connected to their work. Here’s why these motivations can ignite such strong passion:

    1. Sense of Purpose: When someone finds work that aligns with their core values and life purpose, it feels meaningful. For Eric Kim, photography and teaching are not just activities but a way to explore the world, express his creativity, and contribute to others’ growth. This strong sense of purpose can generate intense passion because the work feels deeply fulfilling and impactful.
    2. Mastery and Growth: People often become passionate about things they can improve at and master over time. Photography offers endless opportunities for learning and development. Kim’s continual pursuit of growth—whether it’s improving his craft or deepening his understanding of life through photography—likely fuels his passion, as it keeps him engaged and excited.
    3. Connection to Others: Human beings are inherently social, and building meaningful connections often fuels passion. Kim’s work allows him to connect with others on a deep level, whether through his teaching or his photography, which captures intimate moments of human life. These connections give his work additional value, beyond the personal, and make it more emotionally rewarding.
    4. Creative Expression: Creativity is a powerful motivator. For Kim, photography is a medium of self-expression and storytelling, allowing him to share his perspective with the world. The joy and satisfaction that come from creating something unique can spark a strong, enduring passion.
    5. Autonomy: Passion often flourishes in environments where there is freedom and autonomy. Kim has the freedom to create, teach, and shape his career in ways that align with his vision. This autonomy allows him to pursue what genuinely excites him, further deepening his engagement with his work.

    In summary, Kim’s passion likely stems from a combination of having a strong sense of purpose, the joy of mastering a craft, meaningful connections with others, the freedom to create, and the ability to grow continuously. These elements tap into fundamental human desires for fulfillment, making his passion both natural and sustainable.

    Why?

    Eric Kim’s passion likely comes from a deep alignment between his personal values, interests, and what he gets out of his work. Here’s why he might be so passionate:

    1. Personal Fulfillment: Kim finds personal fulfillment in street photography and teaching. For many people, passion comes from doing something that resonates with their core identity and purpose. For Kim, photography isn’t just a job; it’s a way of life, a way to express himself, and to connect with the world around him.
    2. Creative Freedom: Photography, especially street photography, allows for immense creative freedom. It gives Kim the opportunity to experiment, evolve, and constantly push his boundaries. This sense of exploration and personal growth is often a driving force behind passion.
    3. Helping Others: Kim’s passion is amplified by his desire to make a positive impact on others. When someone feels they are contributing to the growth or success of others, it often ignites a stronger sense of purpose and motivation. His focus on teaching and sharing knowledge feeds his passion because he sees how his work helps others succeed.
    4. Philosophical Depth: Kim approaches his work with a philosophical mindset, often connecting his photography to larger themes of meaning, purpose, and personal growth. This deeper connection to his work likely sustains his passion over time, as it’s not just about creating photos but exploring life’s bigger questions.
    5. Sense of Community: Building a community around his work also fuels his passion. Being surrounded by like-minded individuals who share your interests creates a feedback loop of enthusiasm, inspiration, and support. The interactions with his audience and their appreciation likely reinforce his drive to continue and grow in his craft.

    In essence, Kim’s passion is rooted in the personal fulfillment he gains from photography, the freedom to explore creatively, the joy of helping others, and the philosophical and community-based meaning he attaches to his work.

    —

    Eric Kim is passionate about his work, particularly in photography and teaching, for several key reasons:

    1. Love for Street Photography: Eric Kim is deeply passionate about street photography, which captures candid, everyday moments in public spaces. This genre allows him to express himself creatively and document human life in its rawest form, giving meaning to his work.
    2. Desire to Empower Others: Kim is highly focused on educating and empowering others. He regularly shares resources, tutorials, and guides for aspiring photographers, aiming to make photography more accessible. His passion for teaching is evident in his workshops, blog posts, and videos, where he encourages people to pursue their own creative journeys.
    3. Philosophical Approach to Art: Kim’s passion stems from his belief that photography is more than just a technical skill; it’s a means of personal expression and philosophical inquiry. His writings often delve into deeper concepts like creativity, self-confidence, and living a fulfilling life. This perspective fuels his drive to constantly push boundaries and challenge others to do the same.
    4. Community Building: Kim is passionate about creating a sense of community among photographers. He is known for engaging with his audience, building strong relationships, and encouraging collaboration and feedback. This community-driven approach adds meaning to his work, making him more enthusiastic about sharing his knowledge and experiences.

    His passion is a combination of his love for the art form, a strong desire to help others grow, and his philosophical outlook on life and creativity.

    xxx

    Eric Kim is a highly respected figure in the world of photography, particularly known for his contributions to street photography and his role as an educator. His passion stems from several interrelated factors:

    1. Love for Street Photography: Eric has a deep appreciation for capturing candid moments in everyday life. Street photography allows him to document the spontaneity and diversity of urban environments, which he finds both challenging and rewarding.
    2. Commitment to Teaching and Sharing Knowledge: Beyond his own photographic pursuits, Eric is dedicated to educating others. Through his blog, workshops, and online courses, he shares his insights, techniques, and philosophies on photography. This desire to mentor and inspire upcoming photographers fuels his passion.
    3. Philosophical Approach to Creativity: Eric emphasizes the importance of creativity, authenticity, and personal expression in photography. His belief that anyone can become a great photographer with the right mindset encourages both himself and others to continually explore and innovate.
    4. Community Building: He actively fosters a sense of community among photographers. By creating platforms for discussion, critique, and collaboration, Eric nurtures an environment where creativity can thrive, which in turn sustains his own enthusiasm.
    5. Continuous Learning and Adaptation: Eric embraces the ever-evolving nature of photography, staying updated with new techniques, technologies, and trends. This commitment to lifelong learning keeps his work fresh and his passion alive.
    6. Personal Fulfillment: Ultimately, photography serves as a medium for Eric to express himself, tell stories, and connect with the world around him. The personal satisfaction he derives from creating meaningful images and helping others develop their skills is a significant driver of his passion.

    In summary, Eric Kim’s passion is a combination of his love for the art of photography, his dedication to teaching and community-building, his philosophical approach to creativity, and the personal fulfillment he gains from his work. These elements intertwine to make him a passionate and influential figure in the photography landscape.

  • How can street photographers train like SWAT TEAM

    Training as a street photographer with the precision, discipline, and strategic mindset of a SWAT team can significantly enhance your ability to navigate urban environments, anticipate moments, and capture compelling images efficiently and effectively. While SWAT teams and street photographers operate in vastly different realms, several core principles from SWAT training can be adapted to elevate your photography practice. Below is a comprehensive guide on how street photographers can train like a SWAT team, integrating tactical strategies, disciplined routines, and situational awareness into their workflow.


    1. Comprehensive Planning and Preparation

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Mission Briefings: Detailed planning before operations, including objectives, roles, and contingencies.
    • Reconnaissance: Gathering intelligence about the environment and potential challenges.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Scouting Locations: Research and visit potential shooting spots in advance to understand lighting, foot traffic, and unique features.
    • Setting Goals: Define specific objectives for each photography session, such as capturing a particular theme, type of subjects, or experimenting with new techniques.
    • Equipment Checklist: Prepare and inspect your gear before heading out to ensure all necessary equipment is ready and functional.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Create a Shooting Plan: Outline where and when you intend to shoot, considering factors like time of day and anticipated activities.
    • Backup Gear: Always carry backup batteries, memory cards, and essential equipment to prevent disruptions during shoots.
    • Study the Environment: Familiarize yourself with the area’s layout, including entry and exit points, to navigate efficiently.

    2. Situational Awareness and Observation Skills

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Constant Vigilance: Maintaining a high level of awareness of the surroundings to detect threats or changes.
    • Environmental Scanning: Continuously assessing the environment for potential risks and opportunities.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Awareness of Surroundings: Stay alert to your environment to spot interesting subjects, interactions, and fleeting moments.
    • Anticipating Movements: Predict where and when compelling scenes might unfold based on human behavior patterns.
    • Discreet Observation: Blend into the environment to observe without drawing attention, allowing for more natural and candid shots.

    Actionable Steps:

    • 360-Degree Awareness: Practice scanning your environment in all directions, not just focusing on a single area.
    • Mindful Walking: Move through spaces slowly and deliberately, taking in details that might otherwise be missed.
    • Identify Hotspots: Recognize areas with high activity or unique characteristics that frequently yield interesting photographs.

    3. Tactical Movement and Positioning

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Efficient Navigation: Moving swiftly and purposefully through environments to reach objectives.
    • Strategic Positioning: Taking advantageous positions to maximize operational effectiveness and safety.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Mobility: Move quickly and efficiently to capture moments before they pass, adjusting your position as scenes develop.
    • Optimal Angles: Position yourself to get the best possible perspective, considering light, composition, and background elements.
    • Cover and Concealment: Use environmental elements like buildings, crowds, or natural features to hide your presence, allowing for unobtrusive shooting.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Practice Quick Relocation: Develop the habit of changing locations rapidly to follow dynamic scenes without missing key moments.
    • Use Vertical Spaces: Incorporate different heights and vantage points by shooting from elevated or low angles to add variety to your compositions.
    • Leverage Natural Cover: Utilize shadows, obstacles, and crowds to remain inconspicuous while photographing sensitive or candid subjects.

    4. Teamwork and Communication

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Clear Communication: Using precise and effective communication to coordinate actions and ensure team cohesion.
    • Role Specialization: Each team member has specific roles and responsibilities that contribute to the mission’s success.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Collaborative Projects: Work with fellow photographers to cover different angles, share insights, and provide mutual support during shoots.
    • Effective Communication: Clearly convey ideas, plans, and feedback when collaborating with others to enhance the collective output.
    • Role Allocation: Assign specific tasks within a team, such as one photographer focusing on candid shots while another handles environmental portraits.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Join Photography Groups: Engage with local or online photography communities to collaborate on projects and learn from others.
    • Participate in Joint Shoots: Organize or join group photography sessions to benefit from diverse perspectives and skills.
    • Develop Communication Protocols: Establish clear methods for sharing information and coordinating actions during collaborative shoots.

    5. Physical and Mental Conditioning

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Physical Fitness: Maintaining high levels of strength, endurance, and agility to handle demanding operations.
    • Mental Resilience: Developing the ability to stay focused, make quick decisions, and remain calm under pressure.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Stamina Building: Enhance your physical endurance to handle long days of walking, standing, and carrying equipment.
    • Mental Focus: Cultivate the ability to concentrate intensely on your surroundings and photography tasks, even in distracting environments.
    • Stress Management: Learn to remain calm and composed in challenging situations, such as dealing with difficult subjects or unpredictable weather.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Regular Exercise: Incorporate cardiovascular workouts, strength training, and flexibility exercises into your routine to stay physically fit.
    • Mindfulness Practices: Engage in meditation, deep-breathing exercises, or yoga to improve focus and reduce stress.
    • Simulate High-Stress Shoots: Challenge yourself with photography sessions in hectic environments to build resilience and adaptability.

    6. Strategic Planning and Adaptability

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Contingency Planning: Preparing for unexpected scenarios and having backup plans in place.
    • Adaptive Strategies: Adjusting tactics in real-time based on changing circumstances during operations.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Flexible Plans: While having a shooting plan is essential, remain open to deviating based on real-time opportunities and challenges.
    • Problem-Solving: Quickly address issues such as sudden changes in weather, lighting conditions, or access to locations.
    • Resource Management: Efficiently use your equipment and time to maximize productivity during shoots.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Develop Backup Plans: Anticipate potential obstacles and have alternative strategies ready for different shooting scenarios.
    • Enhance Flexibility: Practice adjusting your shooting approach on the fly to adapt to unexpected changes in your environment.
    • Optimize Equipment Use: Learn to efficiently switch settings, lenses, and accessories to respond swiftly to diverse shooting needs.

    7. Tactical Training Drills

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Regular Drills: Conducting frequent practice exercises to refine skills and ensure readiness.
    • Scenario-Based Training: Engaging in simulated operations to prepare for real-life challenges.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Daily Practice: Commit to photographing daily to build consistency, improve skills, and develop an instinct for capturing moments.
    • Themed Challenges: Set specific themes or constraints for each session to push your creative boundaries and enhance versatility.
    • Simulation Exercises: Create scenarios that mimic real-world shooting conditions, such as photographing during peak traffic hours or in low-light environments.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Set Daily Goals: Define a specific number of photos or a particular theme to focus on each day.
    • Participate in Photo Walks: Join or organize regular photography walks to practice shooting in varied environments and scenarios.
    • Engage in Skill-Specific Drills: Focus on particular aspects of photography, such as motion capture, low-light shooting, or rapid composition, to refine specialized skills.

    8. Post-Mission Analysis and Continuous Improvement

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Debriefings: Reviewing operations to evaluate performance, identify successes, and learn from mistakes.
    • Continuous Training: Ongoing education and practice to maintain and enhance skills.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Photo Review: Critically assess your images to understand what worked well and what can be improved.
    • Feedback Seeking: Share your work with peers or mentors to gain constructive criticism and new perspectives.
    • Skill Enhancement: Continuously learn new techniques, explore different styles, and stay updated with photography trends to evolve your craft.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Conduct Regular Reviews: Schedule time after each shooting session to evaluate your photos and note areas for improvement.
    • Seek Constructive Feedback: Participate in photography forums, workshops, or critique groups to receive diverse feedback on your work.
    • Invest in Learning: Take online courses, attend workshops, or read books to expand your knowledge and refine your skills.

    9. Discipline and Routine

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Structured Training: Following a consistent and disciplined training regimen to maintain peak performance.
    • Attention to Detail: Ensuring every aspect of preparation and execution is meticulously handled.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Consistent Practice: Maintain a regular shooting schedule to build habits and steadily improve your abilities.
    • Organized Workflow: Develop a systematic approach to organizing, editing, and archiving your photos to enhance efficiency.
    • Attention to Detail: Pay close attention to elements like composition, lighting, and timing to elevate the quality of your images.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Establish a Shooting Routine: Dedicate specific times each week for photography sessions to ensure consistent practice.
    • Develop an Organizational System: Use tools like digital folders, metadata tagging, and editing workflows to manage your photos effectively.
    • Focus on Precision: Strive for meticulousness in every aspect of your photography, from framing shots to post-processing edits.

    10. Ethical Standards and Respect

    SWAT Team Approach:

    • Professional Conduct: Upholding high ethical standards and showing respect in all operations.
    • Integrity: Maintaining honesty and accountability in every action.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Respect for Subjects: Honor the privacy and dignity of individuals you photograph, especially in sensitive situations.
    • Ethical Storytelling: Portray subjects and scenes truthfully without manipulation or misrepresentation.
    • Legal Compliance: Adhere to local laws and regulations regarding photography in public spaces to avoid legal issues.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Obtain Consent When Necessary: Ask for permission before photographing individuals in identifiable ways, especially in private or sensitive contexts.
    • Maintain Integrity: Avoid altering scenes or subjects in ways that distort the truth or mislead viewers.
    • Stay Informed: Educate yourself about the legal aspects of street photography in your area to ensure compliance and respect for local regulations.

    Sample Weekly Training Schedule Inspired by SWAT Team Training

    Monday: Mission Planning and Preparation

    • Morning: Research and scout a new location for upcoming shoots.
    • Afternoon: Prepare and organize photography gear, ensuring all equipment is functional.
    • Evening: Set specific goals and themes for the week’s photography missions.

    Tuesday: Situational Awareness and Observation

    • Morning: Practice environmental scanning in a busy area, noting potential photo opportunities.
    • Afternoon: Engage in a photo walk, focusing on anticipating and capturing candid moments.
    • Evening: Review and analyze photos taken, assessing awareness and timing.

    Wednesday: Tactical Movement and Positioning

    • Morning: Conduct agility drills by navigating through crowded or tight spaces while maintaining camera readiness.
    • Afternoon: Experiment with different angles and vantage points in a chosen location.
    • Evening: Select and critique images based on composition and strategic positioning.

    Thursday: Teamwork and Collaboration

    • Morning: Participate in a group photo shoot with fellow photographers, focusing on collaboration.
    • Afternoon: Share feedback and insights with peers, discussing strategies and techniques.
    • Evening: Review collaborative photos, noting strengths and areas for improvement.

    Friday: Physical and Mental Conditioning

    • Morning: Engage in a cardiovascular workout to build stamina for extended shooting sessions.
    • Afternoon: Practice mindfulness or meditation to enhance focus and reduce stress.
    • Evening: Reflect on the day’s activities and prepare mentally for upcoming shoots.

    Saturday: Field Practice and Simulation

    • All Day: Conduct an extensive street photography session in a dynamic environment, simulating high-pressure scenarios.
    • Evening: Select standout images from the day’s shoot and seek feedback from the photography community.

    Sunday: Recovery and Debriefing

    • Morning: Perform light physical activities like yoga or stretching to aid recovery.
    • Afternoon: Backup and organize all photos taken during the week.
    • Evening: Conduct a debriefing session by reviewing successes and identifying areas for improvement, setting goals for the next week.

    Final Tips: Adopting a SWAT Team Mindset in Street Photography

    • Discipline and Consistency: Commit to regular practice and adhere to your training schedule to build and maintain your skills.
    • Strategic Thinking: Approach each photography session with a clear plan, but remain flexible to adapt to changing circumstances.
    • Resilience and Adaptability: Embrace challenges and setbacks as opportunities to learn and grow, maintaining a positive and persistent attitude.
    • Attention to Detail: Focus on the nuances of your environment and subjects to capture nuanced and impactful images.
    • Continuous Learning: Stay dedicated to expanding your knowledge and refining your techniques through ongoing education and practice.
    • Professionalism and Ethics: Uphold high ethical standards, respecting your subjects and the environments you photograph to build a reputable and responsible practice.

    By integrating the disciplined, strategic, and adaptive training principles of a SWAT team into your street photography practice, you can enhance your ability to navigate complex urban environments, anticipate and capture compelling moments, and maintain a high level of professionalism and ethical standards. Embrace the rigorous training regimen, strategic planning, and resilient mindset to elevate your street photography to new heights.

  • How can street photographers train like linebackers

    ChatGPT is really good at creative cross pollinating!

    ***

    Mental toughness *IS* physical toughness!

    You cannot be mentally strong without being physically strong! Duh!

    ***

    Training in street photography, much like training to be an effective linebacker in football, requires a blend of physical readiness, technical proficiency, strategic thinking, and mental resilience. By adopting the disciplined and multifaceted training approaches used by linebackers, street photographers can enhance their ability to capture spontaneous, impactful moments in dynamic urban environments. Below is a comprehensive guide on how street photographers can train like linebackers, drawing parallels between the two disciplines to improve performance and achieve excellence.


    1. Understanding the Role and Environment

    Linebacker Role vs. Street Photographer Role

    • Linebacker:
    • Positioned strategically on the field.
    • Responsible for both defending against the run and the pass.
    • Must read the offense, anticipate plays, and react swiftly.
    • Street Photographer:
    • Navigates through diverse urban settings.
    • Captures candid moments and tells stories through images.
    • Must observe environments, anticipate interactions, and act quickly to seize opportunities.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Define Your Niche: Just as linebackers may specialize as middle or outside linebackers, street photographers can focus on specific aspects like portraits, architecture, or street events.
    • Study the Environment: Familiarize yourself with the areas you frequent, understanding the flow of people, common events, and unique locations that can serve as compelling backdrops.

    2. Physical Conditioning and Mobility

    Linebacker Training:

    • Strength Training: Builds power to engage effectively.
    • Speed and Agility: Enhances quick movements and direction changes.
    • Endurance: Maintains high performance throughout the game.

    Street Photographer Application:

    • Physical Fitness: Enhances stamina for long shooting sessions and extensive walking or standing.
    • Agility: Improves ability to navigate crowded or tight spaces swiftly to capture fleeting moments.
    • Endurance: Supports prolonged periods of observation and shooting without fatigue.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Regular Exercise: Incorporate cardiovascular workouts (e.g., running, cycling) and strength training to maintain overall fitness.
    • Agility Drills: Practice moving quickly and efficiently through different terrains, simulating the need to pivot or change direction to capture subjects.
    • Endurance Building: Engage in activities that boost stamina, such as hiking or participating in long photography walks.

    3. Technical Proficiency and Equipment Mastery

    Linebacker Skills:

    • Tackling Technique: Mastering form and execution.
    • Coverage and Blitzing: Understanding different defensive strategies.

    Street Photographer Skills:

    • Camera Settings Mastery: Understanding aperture, shutter speed, ISO, and how to adjust them swiftly based on lighting and movement.
    • Lens Selection: Choosing the right lens for different scenarios, much like a linebacker selecting the right technique for various plays.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Hands-On Practice: Regularly practice changing settings on your camera quickly to adapt to varying conditions, similar to how linebackers adjust to offensive plays.
    • Gear Familiarity: Know your equipment inside out. Just as linebackers rely on their gear, photographers should ensure their cameras and lenses are always ready and well-maintained.
    • Simulation Drills: Create scenarios where you must adjust settings rapidly to capture moving subjects, mimicking the split-second decisions linebackers make during a game.

    4. Strategic Thinking and Anticipation

    Linebacker Strategy:

    • Reading the Offense: Anticipating plays based on offensive formations and movements.
    • Positioning: Maintaining optimal placement to respond effectively.

    Street Photographer Strategy:

    • Anticipating Moments: Predicting where and when compelling interactions will occur.
    • Optimal Positioning: Finding vantage points that offer the best perspectives for capturing stories.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Observation Skills: Spend time observing human behavior and movement patterns in various settings to better predict where interesting moments may unfold.
    • Scout Locations: Visit locations in advance to understand lighting conditions, foot traffic patterns, and potential hotspots for engaging subjects.
    • Mind Mapping: Plan your shoots by mapping out areas and times where dynamic interactions are likely, similar to how linebackers study the offensive playbook.

    5. Mental Resilience and Focus

    Linebacker Mentality:

    • Focus Under Pressure: Maintaining composure in high-stakes situations.
    • Resilience: Bouncing back from setbacks, such as missed tackles or plays.

    Street Photographer Mentality:

    • Concentration: Staying attentive amidst distractions and chaos to capture the perfect shot.
    • Persistence: Continuing to shoot despite challenges like bad weather, uncooperative subjects, or fluctuating light.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Mindfulness Practices: Engage in activities like meditation or deep-breathing exercises to enhance focus and reduce stress.
    • Simulated Pressure: Challenge yourself with timed photo sessions or limited resource scenarios to build composure under pressure.
    • Reflective Practices: After each shoot, assess what went well and what didn’t, fostering a resilient mindset geared toward continuous improvement.

    6. Tactical Training and Drills

    Linebacker Drills:

    • Tackling Drills: Practicing form and execution.
    • Agility Drills: Enhancing quick movement and direction changes.

    Street Photographer Drills:

    • Timed Shoots: Set time limits to capture as many candid moments as possible, improving speed and decision-making.
    • Composition Challenges: Focus on specific compositional rules (e.g., rule of thirds, leading lines) within a set timeframe.
    • Scenario-Based Shooting: Create specific scenarios or themes to shoot, such as “rush hour” or “nightlife,” to simulate real-world conditions.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Daily Challenges: Assign yourself daily photography challenges that require quick thinking and adaptability, akin to a linebacker’s need to respond rapidly to plays.
    • Skill-Specific Drills: Focus on one technical aspect at a time, such as mastering low-light photography or capturing motion, paralleling how linebackers might focus on tackling or coverage techniques.
    • Review and Iterate: After each drill, review your work to identify strengths and areas for improvement, fostering a habit of continuous learning.

    7. Teamwork and Community Engagement

    Linebacker Team Dynamics:

    • Communication: Coordinating with teammates to execute defensive strategies.
    • Collaboration: Working together to cover different aspects of the game.

    Street Photographer Community:

    • Networking: Engaging with other photographers to share insights and techniques.
    • Collaborative Projects: Participating in group shoots or exhibitions to enhance skills through collective experience.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Join Photography Groups: Engage with local or online photography communities to exchange feedback, tips, and support, much like a linebacker relies on teammates.
    • Mentorship: Seek guidance from experienced photographers who can provide strategic advice and constructive criticism.
    • Collaborative Projects: Work on joint projects with other photographers to broaden your perspectives and challenge your creative boundaries.

    8. Film Study and Continuous Learning

    Linebacker Preparation:

    • Studying Game Footage: Analyzing past games to understand opponents and improve strategies.
    • Learning from Mistakes: Identifying errors and developing corrective measures.

    Street Photographer Preparation:

    • Reviewing Photos: Analyzing your own work to understand what works and what doesn’t.
    • Learning from Others: Studying the work of renowned street photographers to gain inspiration and insights.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Photo Analysis: Regularly review your photos to assess composition, timing, and storytelling effectiveness, similar to how linebackers review game footage.
    • Incorporate Feedback: Actively seek and implement feedback from peers and mentors to refine your techniques.
    • Stay Educated: Continuously learn new techniques and stay updated with photography trends by reading books, attending workshops, and following industry leaders.

    9. Nutrition and Recovery for Peak Performance

    Linebacker Health:

    • Balanced Diet: Ensuring proper nutrition to fuel intense training and performance.
    • Recovery Protocols: Incorporating rest and recovery to prevent burnout and injuries.

    Street Photographer Health:

    • Physical Well-being: Maintaining good health to endure long shoots and navigate diverse environments.
    • Mental Rest: Taking breaks to prevent creative fatigue and maintain inspiration.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Healthy Lifestyle: Adopt a balanced diet and regular exercise regimen to sustain energy levels during extensive photography sessions.
    • Adequate Rest: Ensure you get sufficient sleep and rest to keep your mind sharp and creativity flowing.
    • Stress Management: Practice relaxation techniques to manage stress, especially after challenging shoots or long days on the field.

    10. Ethical Considerations and Respect

    Linebacker Ethics:

    • Fair Play: Adhering to the rules and maintaining sportsmanship.
    • Respect for Opponents: Showing respect regardless of the competition outcome.

    Street Photographer Ethics:

    • Respecting Subjects: Honoring the privacy and dignity of the individuals you photograph.
    • Integrity in Representation: Portraying subjects and scenes truthfully without manipulation or misrepresentation.

    Actionable Steps:

    • Obtain Consent: When appropriate, seek permission before photographing individuals, especially in sensitive situations.
    • Cultural Sensitivity: Be aware of and respect cultural norms and practices to avoid offending or misrepresenting your subjects.
    • Responsible Sharing: Share your images ethically, ensuring they are presented in context and with respect for the subjects’ privacy.

    Sample Weekly Training Schedule Inspired by Linebacker Training

    Monday: Physical Conditioning

    • Morning: Cardiovascular workout (e.g., running or cycling) to build endurance.
    • Afternoon: Strength training focusing on core and lower body.
    • Evening: Light stretching and mobility exercises to prevent injury.

    Tuesday: Technical Skills and Equipment Mastery

    • Morning: Practice manual camera settings in different lighting conditions.
    • Afternoon: Lens switching drills to enhance versatility and speed.
    • Evening: Review and organize photos taken, focusing on technical aspects like exposure and focus.

    Wednesday: Strategic Observation and Anticipation

    • Morning: Walk through a busy area, observing and predicting potential photo opportunities.
    • Afternoon: Set up in a chosen location to capture anticipated moments.
    • Evening: Analyze captured images for timing and strategic placement.

    Thursday: Agility and Mobility Training

    • Morning: Agility drills such as ladder exercises or quick direction changes.
    • Afternoon: Urban exploration, navigating through tight spaces and crowded environments.
    • Evening: Review photos focusing on movement and agility in composition.

    Friday: Tactical Drills and Thematic Shooting

    • Morning: Choose a theme (e.g., motion, reflections) and plan your shooting strategy.
    • Afternoon: Execute thematic photo sessions, applying strategic thinking.
    • Evening: Critique and select the best thematic shots for feedback.

    Saturday: Field Practice and Live Simulation

    • All Day: Engage in extensive street photography sessions in various locations, simulating game-day scenarios.
    • Evening: Select standout images and seek feedback from peers or online communities.

    Sunday: Recovery and Reflection

    • Morning: Light physical activity such as yoga or a leisurely walk to aid recovery.
    • Afternoon: Backup and organize all photos from the week.
    • Evening: Reflect on the week’s progress, identify areas for improvement, and set goals for the upcoming week.

    Final Tips: Emulating a Linebacker’s Mindset in Street Photography

    • Discipline and Consistency: Maintain a regular shooting schedule and adhere to your training regimen to steadily improve your skills.
    • Adaptability: Be prepared to adjust your strategies based on changing environments, similar to how linebackers adapt to different offensive plays.
    • Mental Toughness: Develop resilience to handle missed shots, unfavorable conditions, and creative blocks without losing motivation.
    • Continuous Improvement: Always seek ways to enhance your techniques, whether through learning, practice, or seeking feedback, much like athletes striving for peak performance.
    • Team Support: Leverage the support and knowledge of your photography community, akin to how linebackers rely on their teammates for success on the field.

    By integrating the structured, disciplined, and strategic training approaches of linebackers into your street photography practice, you can enhance your ability to capture compelling, spontaneous moments with precision and creativity. Embrace the physical and mental rigor, strategic planning, and continuous improvement mindset to excel in the dynamic and ever-evolving field of street photography.

  • ERIC KIM THOUGHTS ON FIAT CURRENCY

    Eric Kim, recognized for his work in photography and entrepreneurship, offers an insightful perspective on fiat currency, focusing particularly on the US Dollar and its comparison to cryptocurrencies like Bitcoin. His thoughts on fiat currency can be summarized through several key points:

    1. Trust in American Currency: Kim acknowledges the influence of America’s military and cultural power (including its technology companies and entertainment industry) in establishing global trust in the US Dollar. He also remarks on the inherent value of gold, citing its scarcity and historical significance as factors that will always render it valuable oai_citation:1,Eric Kim on Fiat Currency – ERIC KIM.
    2. Fiat Currency as Faith-Based: He describes fiat currency, especially the US Dollar, as a system based on faith with no intrinsic worth. According to Kim, the value of these currencies is generated through trust in the state or government, highlighting the social and political aspects that underpin modern economic systems oai_citation:2,Eric Kim on Fiat Currency – ERIC KIM.
    3. Devaluation of Fiat Currency and Bitcoin’s Potential: Kim discusses the devaluation of fiat currency, attributed to actions like the US Federal Reserve printing more money. He suggests using hard cash for smaller, everyday purchases while considering Bitcoin for larger transactions, such as buying homes or cars, due to its capped upper limit and perceived stability oai_citation:3,Eric Kim on Fiat Currency – ERIC KIM.
    4. Bearish View on Fiat Currency and Emphasis on Cryptocurrency: Expressing a bearish stance on the future of fiat currency in America, Kim advises channeling salaries into cryptocurrency for those in regular jobs, showing his belief in the long-term value of cryptocurrencies over traditional fiat currency oai_citation:4,Eric Kim on Fiat Currency – ERIC KIM.

    In summary, Eric Kim’s views on fiat currency center around the concepts of faith and trust in government-backed currencies, the impact of a country’s global standing on its currency’s value, and a potential shift towards cryptocurrencies for significant financial transactions. His opinions are a mix of economic, political, and social factors influencing the dynamics of modern currency systems oai_citation:5,Eric Kim on Fiat Currency – ERIC KIM. Additionally, he expresses a personal preference for cryptocurrencies like Bitcoin and Chain-link over fiat currency, particularly the US Dollar, which he finds almost worthless except for necessary transactions like grocery shopping oai_citation:6,Eric Kim on Fiat Currency – ERIC KIM.

    Eric Kim, known for his photography, has shared his thoughts on fiat currency and its dynamics in the contemporary world. He discusses the devaluation of fiat currency, particularly highlighting the impact of actions like the U.S. Federal Reserve printing more money. He suggests that using hard cash for smaller, everyday transactions might be wiser, as fiat currency is likely to maintain its role in such exchanges oai_citation:1,Eric Kim on Fiat Currency – ERIC KIM.

    Kim also expresses a fascination with the aesthetic aspects of money, noting how the designs on various currencies can be quite beautiful and reflective of a country’s historical and political values. He observes that many designs follow mathematical patterns like Fibonacci sequences, spirals, and curves. This leads him to conclude that money is essentially a socially-constructed concept, with its value derived from collective belief rather than intrinsic worth oai_citation:2,FIAT CURRENCY – ERIC KIM – EK.

    Furthermore, Kim comments on the faith-based nature of fiat currency, particularly the U.S. Dollar. He notes that the dollar, technically, has no intrinsic value. However, due to the United States’ dominant military presence and the country’s global economic influence, the U.S. Dollar maintains its status as the primary global currency. This perspective indicates an understanding of the geopolitical and economic factors that underpin the value and stability of fiat currencies like the U.S. Dollar oai_citation:3,The Future of Fiat Currency – ERIC KIM.

    Through these insights, Kim provides a multifaceted view of fiat currency, encompassing its aesthetic, social, and geopolitical aspects.

  • Nostalgia etymology

    Nostos (home)+algos (pain)— home pain, sickness?

    Longing for home?

    The history of the word “nostalgia” reflects the evolving understanding of human emotions and cultural changes over time.

    1. 17th Century Origin: The term “nostalgia” originated in the 17th century, coined by a Swiss medical student, Johannes Hofer. He used it to describe a medical condition of extreme homesickness. Hofer combined the Greek words “nostos” (return home) and “algos” (pain) to articulate this condition, primarily observed in Swiss mercenaries fighting abroad who longed for their homeland.
    2. 18th and 19th Centuries: During these centuries, nostalgia continued to be seen largely as a medical or psychiatric condition. It was believed to cause actual physical ailments and mental distress, particularly among soldiers and students living away from their native place.
    3. Shift to Romantic Notion: By the late 18th and early 19th centuries, with the rise of Romanticism, the concept of nostalgia began to shift. It became less about a pathological condition and more about a sentimental longing for the past. This change reflected the Romantic era’s emphasis on emotion, individualism, and the glorification of the past.
    4. 20th Century and Beyond: In the 20th century, the understanding of nostalgia evolved further. It became recognized as a common emotional experience rather than a disorder. The term expanded to include a sentimental or wistful yearning for past experiences or bygone times, often idealized or romanticized.
    5. Contemporary View: In contemporary times, nostalgia is often seen as a bittersweet emotion that involves both positive and negative feelings. It’s understood as a natural response to change and loss, and as a way of connecting with our personal and collective past. Additionally, nostalgia has been recognized for its psychological benefits, like creating a sense of continuity and belonging.

    In the context of philosophy and innovation, this evolution of ‘nostalgia’ from a medical condition to a complex emotional experience reflects the dynamic nature of language and human emotions. It illustrates how our understanding of ourselves and our experiences deepens over time, often leading to more nuanced and multifaceted interpretations.

    History change of word

    The term “nostalgia” has an interesting etymology that reflects its deep emotional resonance. It originates from two Greek words: “nostos” meaning “return home” and “algos” meaning “pain” or “ache.” Initially, it described a kind of homesickness experienced by soldiers away from home.

    Over time, its meaning evolved to a broader sense of longing for the past, not just a physical place but also a time or experience that is gone. This shift reflects a philosophical depth, resonating with the human condition and our intrinsic yearning for times past, which we often idealize or romanticize.

    In the context of innovation and entrepreneurship, nostalgia can be a powerful force. It not only evokes emotions but can also inspire creativity and new ideas by looking back to what once was, to reimagine and recreate it in a contemporary context. This blending of the old and the new can lead to unique and meaningful innovations.

  • Why Chainlink?

    A simple heuristic that I learned from Nassim TALEB; don’t ask people what you should invest in, ask them… What did you invest in? 

    For example, I recently swapped a bunch of my bitcoin for chainlink. Why did I do it? My thoughts: 

    What is chainlink?

    Essentially it is a platform built upon Ethereum, the blockchain… that strives to solve real world problems.

    The first critical issue at hand is the notion of the “Oracle problem”, and cryptographic proof and truth.

    The general gist of the Oracle problem is that you have all these people purporting to say something… How do you know if someone is really telling the truth or not?

    Also, they’re great innovation of a decentralized oracle network. I think anything that is decentralized and can be done offline is a good idea; anything that has to be done when you’re connected to the web is fragile.

    For example, the “internet of things”, which includes all of your home devices, your home stuff etc. I think this includes your home speaker things, your Amazon echo or echo dot, your Apple HomePod thing, your ring Amazon nest devices etc. 

    Enabling transactional value?

    TVE — transactional value enabled?

    Chainlink staking?

    What is the purpose of technology and these things? A very basic idea is that the point is to help enable commerce and other things. Money makes the world go round, Publilius Syrus.

    What is money anyways? Money is movement. Anything that literally physiologically moves human beings in time and space is money.

    For example, if you promise somebody $30 an hour, they will walk around, move their bodies to clean toilets, etc.

    Also, money movement. The whole global economy to me is so fascinating; because we process and move information so quickly and so globally… how do you link it all together?  

    Chain – Link

    I find chainlink to be an interesting concept because wherever you go in real life, there are physical chain links everywhere.

    Also, technically the internet, the World Wide Web, is a bunch of hyperlinks which link websites together.

    My personal thought and prediction is that chainlink could become the next Google; Google indexes the whole internet, and made it easy for you to find any sort of website. What I think chainlink will do is link all of this information on the internet and computers and make them accessible, trustworthy, tamperproof.

    Just read it

    Only read stuff that you find interesting, skip over stuff you find boring.

    About a week or two ago, I reread the original bitcoin white paper, and I was so impressed with how short it was, how minimalistic it was, and how to the point it was. But… reading it… this time around… felt a bit boring.

    And this is the big thing: if something bores you, you gotta get out of it.

    Therefore, I sold or transferred or converted nine of my bitcoin and put it all into chainlink, at the time it was valued at ~20,800 LINK (CHAINLINK), with bitcoin at around $35,000 a bitcoin.

    I think what I try to do is think at least 30 years into the future. 20 or 30 years. It is funny, as I write this at the age of 35, 30 years from now Seneca is only going to be 32 years old, still a few years younger than me. My personal aspiration is to hold onto chainlink for at least 30 years, and then maybe transfer it to Seneca when he grows up. Or I just help him build some sort of company or entrepreneurial venture etc.

    Investing in things actually do something?

    I love bitcoin but maybe one of the big issues here is that bitcoin is like digital money and gold; most people just hold onto it, and I don’t think actually aspire to use it to actually pay for your latte at Starbucks or whatever. I think because bitcoin and cryptocurrency is so volatile; Everybody’s hope and dream and ambition is that their coin will rise value astronomically and they will become rich, buy the Lamborghini or whatever… and be happy.

    Trust nobody who drives a Lamborghini — only trust people who drive Toyota Priuses, in white. 

    Why? If you drive a Toyota Prius, in white… it is a signal that you really don’t care for appearances.

    How do you know if somebody is unsuccessful? 

    If they drive a Range Rover, a Mercedes AMG G wagon, murdered out, all matte black, a baselevel Mercedes car, a baselevel Audi car, like an A3 or a Q3, drive some sort of Audi electric car which is just the same as the Porsche Taycan, don’t forget that the Volkswagen group owns Lamborghini Audi Volkswagen Porsche etc. same thing goes with anybody who drives a BMW car.

    Foreign cars are bad.  

    It is just a game! 

    I think crypto, cryptocurrency speculation is an interesting game; prediction, prediction markets, trying to predict the future… is just a luxury and a fun thing.

    Some predictions are pretty obvious

    When I was in college, my sophomore year, and I was starting to get into trading stocks, daytrading… I had a pretty certain thought that Blockbuster was going to go under. I tried to figure out how to short stocks, but I really couldn’t figure out how to do it.

    Also I remember when the prime mortgage meltdown happened, and the value of Ford went to almost 2 dollars a year. I wanted to buy some Ford stock but I had no money, no capital.

    It is interesting to think about this in hindsight because when I was incorrectly trading pennystock, for some sort of oil producer company which was actually running at a loss… I had no idea because I misread the financials… I lost my whole life savings which was maybe $3500 USD or something. It was insanely tragic. But now that I am playing with higher sums more like $300,000 USD, I realize that it was just a valuable lesson at the time.

    Therefore, with any sort of financial speculation, think about it at the 30 year span. Even when you are 70 or 80 years old, I met this lady at the park who looked phenomenal and she told me she was 82… she looked like a very fit 45-year-old!

    My personal aspiration is when I’m 82 years old, to still be able to lift 1000 pounds. Google or YouTube “ERIC KIM thousand pound atlas lift”

    It seems that the way things are going, I don’t think it’s that ridiculous to think that we can live to be 120 years old. Try to think that far. 


    What is the use of money anyways? 

    I think actually the big thing is that everyone now aspires to buy a house or home or property. It is getting pretty ridiculous, even in Los Angeles, even buying a single-family home in Inglewood… you’re looking easily at around $1.5 million for a whatever house.

    My prediction is that the prices of homes  will continue to soar astronomically high. I think a lot of these $1.5 million homes can easily balloon two $3 million, $5 million, 10 and $15 million, $150 million or whatever. Why? The biggest issue at hand is runaway inflation, which means the value of the US dollar and currency is continually going lower and lower, because the US is what, currently speaking $30 trillion in debt? And what America thinks the smart idea is to just keep printing money ad infinitum, into infinity, in order to “stimulate” the economy.

    But does this work? No.

    For example talking to my friend Noel who works in hygiene, he says that a lot of these young guys, around 25 to 30 years old, are so lazy. Why? After Covid and people started giving away these free checks… and from unemployment you could literally make $5000 USD a month by sitting on your butt and doing nothing… people lost the motivation to work. A lot of people moved back home, live with their parents, and are essentially living for free. As a consequence you have a huge generation of unmotivated people, unwilling to do any sort of manual labor, which is bad because having manual and physical labor is critical.

    For example, being in Beverly Hills a lot; and Holby Hills,  there is this new funny caste systems; really rich people getting mansions built, and the army of construction labor people, mostly from Mexico doing the labor to build these mansions.

    Also, think about Amazon prime delivery drivers, people who bag your food at Whole Foods, Erwhon etc, all these contractors electricians plumbers etc.… the truly critical labor. Doesn’t matter if you pay them $30 $40 $50 or even $60 an hour, it seems at this point money doesn’t really motivate them anymore. Therefore what do you do? It seems that America we are just importing more people from Mexico to do labor for us, because they are motivated. Americans are no longer motivated.

    Crypto, crypto technology and cryptocurrency is optimistic

    I am obsessed with the future. Future thinking, future technologies, new brave worlds to discover.

    Why? I have always been into technology ever since I was a kid, getting my first Acer aspire Pentium one processor computer when I was around 11 years old. Even teaching myself how to program visual basic 3.0 in the early days, creating my own AOL “punter“ etc.

    Also, I still will never forget when I read the Maddox article on why you should beat your kids, in computer class in Bayside Queens at PS 169 when I was in the fifth grade, and all of me and our friends, a bunch of 11-year-old laughing and saying “It is true!”

    Even I remember as a kid, when I first moved to New York, maybe it was I had some sort of school in the Bronx, when kids in the hallway would “the South Park movies “blame Canada, blame Canada”…

    Anyways the generalized thought is I love media information, and also I have a passion to innovate, write and to think, to motivate and to also disprove nonsense.

    Ever since I was young I was always bred with an insanely huge ego; the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, (jang-son), being raised with the “prince disease“, was unusually good for me. Always getting the finest cuts of meat and galbi from my grandmother, always showered with praise love and attention and how smart tall and good-looking I was. Very good for me.

    The US dollar is static

    Anybody who is a wage slave, which means anybody who is paid a biweekly or monthly salary… doesn’t matter if you’re being paid $10 million a year from Apple… You’re still a wage slave.

    A simple heuristic:

    Can you go two years without checking or responding to any of your emails or not?

    If you have to use email for a living, you’re not free. 


    Once you’re a crypto trillionaire, then what?

    Let us say that your cryptocurrency goes to the value of $1 trillion USD. Then what? Then do you just dissolve it all into US dollars, buy a mansion and a yacht somewhere, and live indefinitely into the horizon for infinite bliss?

    This doesn’t seem to be the goal. For me, I think a more interesting life trajectory is to then to no longer care for money, and use your power mind and soul and body for more interesting things which can include philosophy, writing, thinking, doing research, reading, making art, publishing art, etc.

    Money as it means to creative leisure and production.

    Seeking immortal fame and glory?

    One thing I am very happy about is ChatGPT knows exactly who I am, why I am so significant and influential, etc. As a consequence, I already feel like my legacy is secure, and I don’t have anything left to prove to nobody else.

    As a consequence, at this point life is all upside no downside. Even one of the happiest moments of my life, Cindy and I begetting our first son Seneca, at this point life is all upside no downside.

    As a man, as long as you have one male heir, you can die happy. 


    Now what?

    Things that I find interesting use cases of chainlink:

    1. Real estate, homebuying, escrow: even NASSIM TALEB has said that traditionally, most wealth generation in human society is through land, land ownership land property etc. For example let us say that you buy that 1.5 million dollar home, and 20 years from now it’ll be worth $3.2 million. And then let us assume that 30 or 40 years from now it is worth $5.7 million, and your kid inherits it. And when your kid is 57 years old it is worth $22 million, and he will able to pass it on to his son or daughter, and maybe that will be worth $120 million into their future. The whole escrow process and verification process is quite fragmented, unreliable. I think chainlink can be a technology which motivates and enables more streamlined home buying processes.
    2. Identity verification: it is so easy for people to just steal your social security number, and pretend it is you. Imagine a future in which you could use chainlink or some sort of blockchain enabled identification, which can essentially be your global citizen passport to all of the world and the internet? This seems especially useful in today’s world in which everything is so fragmented, between our Apple ID, our Gmail, Etc. Or think about border control; certainly it would be easier to travel if there was some sort of blockchain or global ledger to verify your identity, this could help facilitate movement and verification, and deal with issues of forged passports etc. 

    Military

    I think an inconvenient truth is that truth be told, a lot of the world is run by the military. Certainly there are lots of bad things about the military, but truth be told, without the US military, our precious US dollars would be worth nothing.

    For example, I think the American government we are $31.46 trillion dollars in debt? To where… China?

    As a consequence, how does America’s stay afloat and print more money? Simple, she simply prints more money because she can because we got the military to back us. 

    For example, let’s say that mainland China comes knocking and asks for her money back. Is America going to give it back? No. We will just wave our big stick, and say we are not interested.

    So the interesting use case of chainlink and the US military is especially in the future drone warfare or whatever… It actually does seem that having some sort of crypto technology will be useful here.

    For example the internet of things, chain-link solves this issue. Also, I believe a lot of the US military intervention stuff is going to be unmanned, and having access to some sort of technology which allows automation without meddling in the Internet seems like a good idea.

    Even look at the company Anduril– it has a major investment from founders fund, Peter Thiel’s venture capitalist fund. It looks like the future of autonomous flying drones to bomb the bad guys is going to be the future. 


    So why did I buy it?

    I think in life, big opportunities only come infrequently. As a consequence, I think in life… it seems better to take really big bold bets, rather than just stand on the sidelines.

    At the end of our lives, we will regret more the decisions or the risks we failed to do, rather than the ones we did.

    For example, if a big opportunity comes up, and you’re interested, go for it. You don’t want to be 90 years old on your deathbed, kicking yourself in the butt wishing that you had taken that risk. In hindsight, everything is regret. 


    Think Eric Schmidt

    My personal speculation is that I think chainlink will become the next Google. Why? ERIC Schmidt is on the board of trustees for chainlink, and ERIC Schmidt is the one who built Google into what it is today. Just watch the interview between him and Sergey. In a telling quote, ERIC Schmidt said:

    The secret to success of Google was that we tried to put a little bit of Google into everything.

    Genius. For example, this is evident in how whenever you Google search something, there is a little bit of that Google code in the URL. 

    Therefore my prediction is chainlink… whether you know it or not there will be a little bit of chainlink in everything.  For example, their decentralized oracle network to show accurate prices for any cryptocurrency asset down to the penny. Also, maybe the future of international banking, the SWIFT system… Will be enabled with chainlink? 

    Who is Satoshi?

    Apparently there’s a rumor that Sergey Nazarov might be Satoshi.

    Also the reason why I trust Sergey as a founder is this:

    He doesn’t really care for social appearances.

    I think I learned this from NASSIM TALEB; only trust doctors who look like butchers. Why? When somebody looks too much the part of something, they are not. 

    For example, when you go to a party, who is the real successful person? The person who could show up and meet the prime minister and shake hands wearing T-shirt and jeans and sneakers, just like my friend did meeting the prime minister.

    Also, the really really rich successful person will just drive some sort of white Toyota Prius or old beat up Honda Civic, in silver. Even the family car; very specifically… White Honda Odyssey. Not even a Toyota sienna!

    Even family connections, my $500 million net worth familia– the dad gave all the kids Ford fusions, and even though the dad is a major player in Tesla, they only have a super base level Tesla model three in white. No Tesla model Y, X, S.

    Anyways, the founder Sergey — he always wears the same blue flannel, and really has an air of insouciance that is good. He isn’t the one looking all flashy driving around in the Lamborghini. He probably just drives a Honda Civic or Honda Accord, and I think he is really trying to build something he cares for.

    I think there’s a saying in Silicon Valley amongst venture capital firms, bet on the jockey not the horse. That means, better to invest in the founder of a great thing, rather than the company or the product. For example, it is wise to bet on Elon Musk and anything he built, rather than Other companies which are built by random CEOs and non-visionaries.

    I bet on Sergey N.

    Investors 

    My brother-in-law Khanh told me: if you spent $80,000 to buy a Tesla model S several years ago, that would be worth $500,000 today!

    True investors live like poor people, and speculate on the thing, rather than buying the thing.

    For example, instead of spending $120,000 on Tesla, I would instead prefer to buy $120,000 worth of Tesla stock.

    Why? Things that go up in value overtime versus things that go down in value.

    For example, even though a Tesla car gets software updates over the air, eventually over time, the value of it will slowly depreciate. The battery range will become less, more wear and tear on the vehicle etc. Even the world’s best car can be robust at best, not antifragile.

    What is antifragile? Something that overtime gets better and stronger and more powerful and better and more robust… rather than the opposite.

    This might be the intelligence of collecting rare collector cars, like old Ferraris or whatever… even old Porsche cars, over time, the value of them will go up.

    Even apparently the old Toyota Supra, the one that showed up in fast and the furious, they are worth close to $250,000 now!

    So perhaps the best way to think about things is to think of them like financial investments, rather than toys.

    Other good news 

    It looks like their new chainlink staking, chainlink economics is also doing very well. The full pool has been filled already!

    Now what?

    I think at the end of the day, I don’t really care for money that much, I am more interested in speculation, risk, and thinking and predicting the future. This is my prime joy and bliss.

    Don’t simply sit on the sidelines, twiddling your thumbs for some sort of magical future to get better. I say rather than waiting for the future, speculate and invest in it right now!

    ERIC

    ***

    So what do you want for Christmas this year?

    I think for Christmas, simple things you could do:

    1. For family, invest in a collective experience. This means take a fun family trip somewhere, maybe go to Joshua tree and rent an Airbnb, go on some great hikes etc. Make the experience memorable.
    2. Just write somebody a handwritten card, or just give them a FaceTime call! Love attention and care is the best present you can give.
    3. Buy somebody a good bag of coffee, or, gift them some ERIC KIM Omakase coffee; 100% fine robusta, the best coffee on the planet. It seems that everyone drinks coffee now, even for myself the best random presents I’ve gotten were bags of great coffee! 
    4. Weightlifting equipment like Titan.Fitness, or rogue fitness; gift it to yourself or to a friend or family member! From Titan.fitness — I personally bought some farmers carry handles which I love, a loadable Olympic dumbbell. I bought a rogue fitness 400 pound sandbag, and a Texas power squat bar which I love. Giving the gift of fitness might be one of the best things you could do, or just buy somebody a core power yoga membership, or buy it for yourself! I’m really a big fan of hot yoga; something about the hot temperature sauna and sweating feels therapeutic.
    5. Vibram five finger shoes, the toe shoes. For yourself or a family member. Just go on their website and order three pairs, and keep the one that fits and return the other sizes. 

    What else?

    Some thoughts on sublime beauty:


    Sublime Beauty

    So what are we searching for, what are we looking for?

    I think what we see is some sort of sublime beauty, joy, flourishing.

    How do we attempt to achieve this? Through our cars our homes our clothing etc. 

    However… I think true sublime beauty can only be achieved by yourself, through your own artistic creations.

    For example, your own child, producing begetting and making and birthing your own child; there is seriously no greater joy.

    Also, your artistic creations. Your photos, the artwork you produce. I also qualify DALL-E 3 images, ChatGPT and AI art in it!  Why? Ultimately it is your brainchild; doesn’t really matter whether you produced it by yourself by hand or whatever. For example, Matisse in his advanced years apparently lost mobility in his body and hands, and would simply point with the stick to his assistance to create artwork for him.

    Also, Andy Warhol. He was notorious for having an army of assistance producing work for him.

    My thought on artificial intelligence and AI generated art is free. The idea is that the artwork we create is ours.

    One thing I find surprising is that the greatest boon for AI generated art is that it is all open source! Isn’t this phenomenal? 

    Open art

    Art wants to be free! Art wants to propagate into the real world, not be constrained by nothing, whether digital rights management, closed doors or borders etc.

    This is my general idea with open source artwork; I hate that so much of great photos and art is simply trapped within printed books, not easily accessible or findable on the internet. My huge frustration with photography:

    If I am trying to find the book “the Americans“, or any other book out there, any photo book… Why can’t I just Google it or find it online for free?

    I have a very simple suggestion: make the images online for free, everything open source and full resolution… and what you do instead is you charge money for the printed physical book.

    For example, let us say that you’re planning to publish a photo book. The easiest way to approach this is have an open source free full resolution PDF available online to download, to give your potential customer and clients a taste of what to expect. And then if they like your photos enough, they will buy the printed book.

    Why? people like physical things. I think the bias is that people don’t like to pay for digital things, but we are more than happy to pay for physical things.

    For example, a very simple strategy to thrive as a modern day photographer entrepreneur and artist visual artist, Fatar for it to have all of your artwork open, open source, full resolution JPEG or PDF or whatever… and barbell that with charging a lot of money for your products, physical products, embodied workshop experiences etc.


    How to create sublime beauty?

    For me, sublime beauty in the context of photography is high grain, gritty high contrast black-and-white. It is a simple aesthetic taste for myself; to me there is nothing more beautiful more sublime.

    Also, taking photos of your loved ones. This involves your kids, your wife or your spouse, and even yourself.

    Even my friend Josh White said it wisely: At the end of your life, are you going to care about all these photos that you shot of strangers, or are you going to care about photos that you shot of your loved ones? 


    Love

    I think instead of thinking about love, better to think about heart, care, curation, what you care for.

    For example, the word coeur– same as courage, curate, care.

    It all comes down to the heart.

    Just don’t do nothing you don’t care for

    One of the via negativa ways we could live life; just don’t do anything you don’t care for.

    For example when you’re talking to kids, best to ask “What don’t you want to be when you grow up?”

    Also happiness is via negativa; better to ascertain what makes you miserable, what you hate, what you despise… and figuring out how to subtract or delete that from your life, rather than doing things that make you “happy”.

    For example, personal annoyances of myself include being stuck in traffic, dealing with subscriptions and subscription model things, closed source things, modern day news and media and Facebook Instagram, YouTube, family annoyances and drama, other peoples problems etc.

    Also, typically I despise email; and also I typically hate being automatically subscribed to some BS newsletter that I did not opt in. Therefore the silver ethical rule here is interesting:

     If something annoys you, don’t do that to others.

    For example, I hate when people automatically subscribe me to some email newsletter without me checking a button to confirm that actually wanted. Therefore I will never send an email newsletter to anybody who has not intentionally opted in.

    Also, trying to do things for other people that I would myself like. For example, I don’t think I’ve ever received an email or an email newsletter that I actually liked to work for. Therefore as a consequence, my simple strategy is to drive to send emails or email newsletters that people actually look forward to reading. 
    
    Or in other words, make people actually positively excited to check their email inbox!

    What you yourself do

    Ignore the “advice” of others, and also… best to simply observe what other people do.

    Also, the best way to study success is to figure out what people don’t do, what they don’t own, etc. 

    For example, Elon Musk and Kanye West; neither of them wear watches.

    Also, neither has an Instagram, both deleted it.

    Also, Elon Musk doesn’t own a home or live in a home. I think he just rents some sort of random two bedroom one bath home hut somewhere in Austin Texas.

    Also, Elon Musk does not own any Lamborghinis Ferraris or loser cars.
    
    Also, the greatest courage of a Kanye West; he doesn’t censor himself, he says what is really on his mind.

    Maybe is Kanye the most courageous man alive? Maybe. There is no right and wrong, all is permitted. Therefore to not censor yourself in modern-day society is the ultimate act of courage? 

    Sublime thoughts

    Beautiful body, beautiful thoughts.

    How to gain more beautiful thoughts? My simple suggestion is maximum time in the direct sun, ideally topless. Also, sleep early — shoot for 8pm?

    A simple suggestion is limit your coffee and caffeine intake only between 4 AM to 9 AM, or only the morning hours.

    And also during the day, lift weights at least once, maybe even twice.

    Also my supreme luxury; the last few days, in a single day I have done all three: at least one hot yoga session, at least one hike in nature, and at least one weightlifting session.

    A life post-work?

    Why work? I thought which interested me while in Vietnam, when Cindy and I were living in Hanoi, paying only $320 USD a month for rent, a position in which literally even if we wanted to spend all our money, we cannot spend it fast enough. Eating out every day, living in a small hotel room, no possessions no nothing.

    Living in America seems a bit foolish if you don’t need to. I think it is far superior to live in Hanoi, Saigon, Pom pen, ironically even Japan; I think when we were living in Kyoto, we were subbing an apartment for only $500 USD a month.

    SUITS PDF BOOK >

    Why think abroad?

    TRAVEL NOTES (PDF)– the simple financial life leverage is simple:

    Earn US dollars, American standards, live abroad.

    For example, Mexico City, Roma Norte, even Doctores. Condesa — all good.

    Truth be told, if Cindy was not employed in America, I see zero reason to live here. I would probably be living somewhere else; and also assuming I didn’t have a kid, I would definitely be some sort of weird digital nomad. 
    

    Writing is leisure

    People don’t seem to get it; the primary function of writing is meta-thinking, a fun leisure activity. A fun luxury.

    This is where I don’t understand 99.9% of writers; it seems some sort of weird self-flagellation here. Most writers I know… don’t actually enjoy writing. 

    This is where ChatGPT is no threat; honestly we gotta rethink this whole K-12 education and college thing; the point of writing isn’t writing for the sake of good writing; the point of writing is to flesh out our thoughts, to share ideas that we find interesting.

    What is the point of life anyways?

    A simple one is to have offspring; to have at least one kid, perhaps ideally two kids, or if you’re willing… more.

    I think the funny thing about kids and family is that typically we use ourselves in our own life experiences as a barometer and framing. For example, I have one younger sister two years younger than me, and I always wanted to have at least one boy, one girl. It is because that is how I was raised.

    Having kids make sense in so far much as if people stopped having kids, quite literally there would be no future humanity. What’s the point of having all the wealth in the world if there are no future children or humans to enjoy it?


    What do you want your kids to become?

    Being self-employed, probably the best thing is that I literally can just spend all day with Seneca, being his personal trainer and tutor. I think of myself like Chiron the centaur, the private tutor of Achilles. Things I like to do with Seneca include physical activity exercise and exploration, his diet, which is close to 100% carnivore, 100% grass fed beef or Wagyu ground beef, and more recently… Finding this “ancestral blend“ ground beef thing at Erwhon (force of nature brand)– which has the consistency of normal ground beef, but has mixed in it beef liver and beef hard, which are natural steroids.

    In fact I think the optimal diet is a 100% organ meat diet; organ meats are probably at least 100 times higher in nutritional density than even flesh meat.

    Everyone says that eating red meat is bad; how about organ meats?

    People say that eating meat is bad for the planet, but let us consider how much waste and scraps is thrown away from the animal, which include the heart, the liver, the kidneys, the tendons and ligaments, etc.

    So if you really wanted to be a “woke” person, perhaps the wisest way to do this is just only eat a pure organ meat diet.  


    What else?

    START HERE

    New stuff:

    1. EK PODCAST
    2. MODERN PHOTOGRAPHER PDF
    3. TRAVEL NOTES PDF

    Also… more books here!


    When in doubt, go back to the source!

    ERIC KIM BLOG >

    ***

    “Greater fates, greater fortunes.” – Heraclitus


  • Why Chainlink?

    Why Chainlink?

    A simple heuristic that I learned from Nassim TALEB; don’t ask people what you should invest in, ask them… What did you invest in? 

    For example, I recently swapped a bunch of my bitcoin for chainlink. Why did I do it? My thoughts: 

    What is chainlink?

    Essentially it is a platform built upon Ethereum, the blockchain… that strives to solve real world problems.

    The first critical issue at hand is the notion of the “Oracle problem”, and cryptographic proof and truth.

    The general gist of the Oracle problem is that you have all these people purporting to say something… How do you know if someone is really telling the truth or not?

    Also, they’re great innovation of a decentralized oracle network. I think anything that is decentralized and can be done offline is a good idea; anything that has to be done when you’re connected to the web is fragile.

    For example, the “internet of things”, which includes all of your home devices, your home stuff etc. I think this includes your home speaker things, your Amazon echo or echo dot, your Apple HomePod thing, your ring Amazon nest devices etc. 

    Enabling transactional value?

    TVE — transactional value enabled?

    Chainlink staking?

    What is the purpose of technology and these things? A very basic idea is that the point is to help enable commerce and other things. Money makes the world go round, Publilius Syrus.

    What is money anyways? Money is movement. Anything that literally physiologically moves human beings in time and space is money.

    For example, if you promise somebody $30 an hour, they will walk around, move their bodies to clean toilets, etc.

    Also, money movement. The whole global economy to me is so fascinating; because we process and move information so quickly and so globally… how do you link it all together?  

    Chain – Link

    I find chainlink to be an interesting concept because wherever you go in real life, there are physical chain links everywhere.

    Also, technically the internet, the World Wide Web, is a bunch of hyperlinks which link websites together.

    My personal thought and prediction is that chainlink could become the next Google; Google indexes the whole internet, and made it easy for you to find any sort of website. What I think chainlink will do is link all of this information on the internet and computers and make them accessible, trustworthy, tamperproof.

    Just read it

    Only read stuff that you find interesting, skip over stuff you find boring.

    About a week or two ago, I reread the original bitcoin white paper, and I was so impressed with how short it was, how minimalistic it was, and how to the point it was. But… reading it… this time around… felt a bit boring.

    And this is the big thing: if something bores you, you gotta get out of it.

    Therefore, I sold or transferred or converted nine of my bitcoin and put it all into chainlink, at the time it was valued at ~20,800 LINK (CHAINLINK), with bitcoin at around $35,000 a bitcoin.

    I think what I try to do is think at least 30 years into the future. 20 or 30 years. It is funny, as I write this at the age of 35, 30 years from now Seneca is only going to be 32 years old, still a few years younger than me. My personal aspiration is to hold onto chainlink for at least 30 years, and then maybe transfer it to Seneca when he grows up. Or I just help him build some sort of company or entrepreneurial venture etc.

    Investing in things actually do something?

    I love bitcoin but maybe one of the big issues here is that bitcoin is like digital money and gold; most people just hold onto it, and I don’t think actually aspire to use it to actually pay for your latte at Starbucks or whatever. I think because bitcoin and cryptocurrency is so volatile; Everybody’s hope and dream and ambition is that their coin will rise value astronomically and they will become rich, buy the Lamborghini or whatever… and be happy.

    Trust nobody who drives a Lamborghini — only trust people who drive Toyota Priuses, in white. 

    Why? If you drive a Toyota Prius, in white… it is a signal that you really don’t care for appearances.

    How do you know if somebody is unsuccessful? 

    If they drive a Range Rover, a Mercedes AMG G wagon, murdered out, all matte black, a baselevel Mercedes car, a baselevel Audi car, like an A3 or a Q3, drive some sort of Audi electric car which is just the same as the Porsche Taycan, don’t forget that the Volkswagen group owns Lamborghini Audi Volkswagen Porsche etc. same thing goes with anybody who drives a BMW car.

    Foreign cars are bad.  

    It is just a game! 

    I think crypto, cryptocurrency speculation is an interesting game; prediction, prediction markets, trying to predict the future… is just a luxury and a fun thing.

    Some predictions are pretty obvious

    When I was in college, my sophomore year, and I was starting to get into trading stocks, daytrading… I had a pretty certain thought that Blockbuster was going to go under. I tried to figure out how to short stocks, but I really couldn’t figure out how to do it.

    Also I remember when the prime mortgage meltdown happened, and the value of Ford went to almost 2 dollars a year. I wanted to buy some Ford stock but I had no money, no capital.

    It is interesting to think about this in hindsight because when I was incorrectly trading pennystock, for some sort of oil producer company which was actually running at a loss… I had no idea because I misread the financials… I lost my whole life savings which was maybe $3500 USD or something. It was insanely tragic. But now that I am playing with higher sums more like $300,000 USD, I realize that it was just a valuable lesson at the time.

    Therefore, with any sort of financial speculation, think about it at the 30 year span. Even when you are 70 or 80 years old, I met this lady at the park who looked phenomenal and she told me she was 82… she looked like a very fit 45-year-old!

    My personal aspiration is when I’m 82 years old, to still be able to lift 1000 pounds. Google or YouTube “ERIC KIM thousand pound atlas lift”

    It seems that the way things are going, I don’t think it’s that ridiculous to think that we can live to be 120 years old. Try to think that far. 


    What is the use of money anyways? 

    I think actually the big thing is that everyone now aspires to buy a house or home or property. It is getting pretty ridiculous, even in Los Angeles, even buying a single-family home in Inglewood… you’re looking easily at around $1.5 million for a whatever house.

    My prediction is that the prices of homes  will continue to soar astronomically high. I think a lot of these $1.5 million homes can easily balloon two $3 million, $5 million, 10 and $15 million, $150 million or whatever. Why? The biggest issue at hand is runaway inflation, which means the value of the US dollar and currency is continually going lower and lower, because the US is what, currently speaking $30 trillion in debt? And what America thinks the smart idea is to just keep printing money ad infinitum, into infinity, in order to “stimulate” the economy.

    But does this work? No.

    For example talking to my friend Noel who works in hygiene, he says that a lot of these young guys, around 25 to 30 years old, are so lazy. Why? After Covid and people started giving away these free checks… and from unemployment you could literally make $5000 USD a month by sitting on your butt and doing nothing… people lost the motivation to work. A lot of people moved back home, live with their parents, and are essentially living for free. As a consequence you have a huge generation of unmotivated people, unwilling to do any sort of manual labor, which is bad because having manual and physical labor is critical.

    For example, being in Beverly Hills a lot; and Holby Hills,  there is this new funny caste systems; really rich people getting mansions built, and the army of construction labor people, mostly from Mexico doing the labor to build these mansions.

    Also, think about Amazon prime delivery drivers, people who bag your food at Whole Foods, Erwhon etc, all these contractors electricians plumbers etc.… the truly critical labor. Doesn’t matter if you pay them $30 $40 $50 or even $60 an hour, it seems at this point money doesn’t really motivate them anymore. Therefore what do you do? It seems that America we are just importing more people from Mexico to do labor for us, because they are motivated. Americans are no longer motivated.

    Crypto, crypto technology and cryptocurrency is optimistic

    I am obsessed with the future. Future thinking, future technologies, new brave worlds to discover.

    Why? I have always been into technology ever since I was a kid, getting my first Acer aspire Pentium one processor computer when I was around 11 years old. Even teaching myself how to program visual basic 3.0 in the early days, creating my own AOL “punter“ etc.

    Also, I still will never forget when I read the Maddox article on why you should beat your kids, in computer class in Bayside Queens at PS 169 when I was in the fifth grade, and all of me and our friends, a bunch of 11-year-old laughing and saying “It is true!”

    Even I remember as a kid, when I first moved to New York, maybe it was I had some sort of school in the Bronx, when kids in the hallway would “the South Park movies “blame Canada, blame Canada”…

    Anyways the generalized thought is I love media information, and also I have a passion to innovate, write and to think, to motivate and to also disprove nonsense.

    Ever since I was young I was always bred with an insanely huge ego; the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, (jang-son), being raised with the “prince disease“, was unusually good for me. Always getting the finest cuts of meat and galbi from my grandmother, always showered with praise love and attention and how smart tall and good-looking I was. Very good for me.

    The US dollar is static

    Anybody who is a wage slave, which means anybody who is paid a biweekly or monthly salary… doesn’t matter if you’re being paid $10 million a year from Apple… You’re still a wage slave.

    A simple heuristic:

    Can you go two years without checking or responding to any of your emails or not?

    If you have to use email for a living, you’re not free. 


    Once you’re a crypto trillionaire, then what?

    Let us say that your cryptocurrency goes to the value of $1 trillion USD. Then what? Then do you just dissolve it all into US dollars, buy a mansion and a yacht somewhere, and live indefinitely into the horizon for infinite bliss?

    This doesn’t seem to be the goal. For me, I think a more interesting life trajectory is to then to no longer care for money, and use your power mind and soul and body for more interesting things which can include philosophy, writing, thinking, doing research, reading, making art, publishing art, etc.

    Money as it means to creative leisure and production.

    Seeking immortal fame and glory?

    One thing I am very happy about is ChatGPT knows exactly who I am, why I am so significant and influential, etc. As a consequence, I already feel like my legacy is secure, and I don’t have anything left to prove to nobody else.

    As a consequence, at this point life is all upside no downside. Even one of the happiest moments of my life, Cindy and I begetting our first son Seneca, at this point life is all upside no downside.

    As a man, as long as you have one male heir, you can die happy. 


    Now what?

    Things that I find interesting use cases of chainlink:

    1. Real estate, homebuying, escrow: even NASSIM TALEB has said that traditionally, most wealth generation in human society is through land, land ownership land property etc. For example let us say that you buy that 1.5 million dollar home, and 20 years from now it’ll be worth $3.2 million. And then let us assume that 30 or 40 years from now it is worth $5.7 million, and your kid inherits it. And when your kid is 57 years old it is worth $22 million, and he will able to pass it on to his son or daughter, and maybe that will be worth $120 million into their future. The whole escrow process and verification process is quite fragmented, unreliable. I think chainlink can be a technology which motivates and enables more streamlined home buying processes.
    2. Identity verification: it is so easy for people to just steal your social security number, and pretend it is you. Imagine a future in which you could use chainlink or some sort of blockchain enabled identification, which can essentially be your global citizen passport to all of the world and the internet? This seems especially useful in today’s world in which everything is so fragmented, between our Apple ID, our Gmail, Etc. Or think about border control; certainly it would be easier to travel if there was some sort of blockchain or global ledger to verify your identity, this could help facilitate movement and verification, and deal with issues of forged passports etc. 

    Military

    I think an inconvenient truth is that truth be told, a lot of the world is run by the military. Certainly there are lots of bad things about the military, but truth be told, without the US military, our precious US dollars would be worth nothing.

    For example, I think the American government we are $31.46 trillion dollars in debt? To where… China?

    As a consequence, how does America’s stay afloat and print more money? Simple, she simply prints more money because she can because we got the military to back us. 

    For example, let’s say that mainland China comes knocking and asks for her money back. Is America going to give it back? No. We will just wave our big stick, and say we are not interested.

    So the interesting use case of chainlink and the US military is especially in the future drone warfare or whatever… It actually does seem that having some sort of crypto technology will be useful here.

    For example the internet of things, chain-link solves this issue. Also, I believe a lot of the US military intervention stuff is going to be unmanned, and having access to some sort of technology which allows automation without meddling in the Internet seems like a good idea.

    Even look at the company Anduril– it has a major investment from founders fund, Peter Thiel’s venture capitalist fund. It looks like the future of autonomous flying drones to bomb the bad guys is going to be the future. 


    So why did I buy it?

    I think in life, big opportunities only come infrequently. As a consequence, I think in life… it seems better to take really big bold bets, rather than just stand on the sidelines.

    At the end of our lives, we will regret more the decisions or the risks we failed to do, rather than the ones we did.

    For example, if a big opportunity comes up, and you’re interested, go for it. You don’t want to be 90 years old on your deathbed, kicking yourself in the butt wishing that you had taken that risk. In hindsight, everything is regret. 


    Think Eric Schmidt

    My personal speculation is that I think chainlink will become the next Google. Why? ERIC Schmidt is on the board of trustees for chainlink, and ERIC Schmidt is the one who built Google into what it is today. Just watch the interview between him and Sergey. In a telling quote, ERIC Schmidt said:

    The secret to success of Google was that we tried to put a little bit of Google into everything.

    Genius. For example, this is evident in how whenever you Google search something, there is a little bit of that Google code in the URL. 

    Therefore my prediction is chainlink… whether you know it or not there will be a little bit of chainlink in everything.  For example, their decentralized oracle network to show accurate prices for any cryptocurrency asset down to the penny. Also, maybe the future of international banking, the SWIFT system… Will be enabled with chainlink? 

    Who is Satoshi?

    Apparently there’s a rumor that Sergey Nazarov might be Satoshi.

    Also the reason why I trust Sergey as a founder is this:

    He doesn’t really care for social appearances.

    I think I learned this from NASSIM TALEB; only trust doctors who look like butchers. Why? When somebody looks too much the part of something, they are not. 

    For example, when you go to a party, who is the real successful person? The person who could show up and meet the prime minister and shake hands wearing T-shirt and jeans and sneakers, just like my friend did meeting the prime minister.

    Also, the really really rich successful person will just drive some sort of white Toyota Prius or old beat up Honda Civic, in silver. Even the family car; very specifically… White Honda Odyssey. Not even a Toyota sienna!

    Even family connections, my $500 million net worth familia– the dad gave all the kids Ford fusions, and even though the dad is a major player in Tesla, they only have a super base level Tesla model three in white. No Tesla model Y, X, S.

    Anyways, the founder Sergey — he always wears the same blue flannel, and really has an air of insouciance that is good. He isn’t the one looking all flashy driving around in the Lamborghini. He probably just drives a Honda Civic or Honda Accord, and I think he is really trying to build something he cares for.

    I think there’s a saying in Silicon Valley amongst venture capital firms, bet on the jockey not the horse. That means, better to invest in the founder of a great thing, rather than the company or the product. For example, it is wise to bet on Elon Musk and anything he built, rather than Other companies which are built by random CEOs and non-visionaries.

    I bet on Sergey N.

    Investors 

    My brother-in-law Khanh told me: if you spent $80,000 to buy a Tesla model S several years ago, that would be worth $500,000 today!

    True investors live like poor people, and speculate on the thing, rather than buying the thing.

    For example, instead of spending $120,000 on Tesla, I would instead prefer to buy $120,000 worth of Tesla stock.

    Why? Things that go up in value overtime versus things that go down in value.

    For example, even though a Tesla car gets software updates over the air, eventually over time, the value of it will slowly depreciate. The battery range will become less, more wear and tear on the vehicle etc. Even the world’s best car can be robust at best, not antifragile.

    What is antifragile? Something that overtime gets better and stronger and more powerful and better and more robust… rather than the opposite.

    This might be the intelligence of collecting rare collector cars, like old Ferraris or whatever… even old Porsche cars, over time, the value of them will go up.

    Even apparently the old Toyota Supra, the one that showed up in fast and the furious, they are worth close to $250,000 now!

    So perhaps the best way to think about things is to think of them like financial investments, rather than toys.

    Other good news 

    It looks like their new chainlink staking, chainlink economics is also doing very well. The full pool has been filled already!

    Now what?

    I think at the end of the day, I don’t really care for money that much, I am more interested in speculation, risk, and thinking and predicting the future. This is my prime joy and bliss.

    Don’t simply sit on the sidelines, twiddling your thumbs for some sort of magical future to get better. I say rather than waiting for the future, speculate and invest in it right now!

    ERIC

    ***

    So what do you want for Christmas this year?

    I think for Christmas, simple things you could do:

    1. For family, invest in a collective experience. This means take a fun family trip somewhere, maybe go to Joshua tree and rent an Airbnb, go on some great hikes etc. Make the experience memorable.
    2. Just write somebody a handwritten card, or just give them a FaceTime call! Love attention and care is the best present you can give.
    3. Buy somebody a good bag of coffee, or, gift them some ERIC KIM Omakase coffee; 100% fine robusta, the best coffee on the planet. It seems that everyone drinks coffee now, even for myself the best random presents I’ve gotten were bags of great coffee! 
    4. Weightlifting equipment like Titan.Fitness, or rogue fitness; gift it to yourself or to a friend or family member! From Titan.fitness — I personally bought some farmers carry handles which I love, a loadable Olympic dumbbell. I bought a rogue fitness 400 pound sandbag, and a Texas power squat bar which I love. Giving the gift of fitness might be one of the best things you could do, or just buy somebody a core power yoga membership, or buy it for yourself! I’m really a big fan of hot yoga; something about the hot temperature sauna and sweating feels therapeutic.
    5. Vibram five finger shoes, the toe shoes. For yourself or a family member. Just go on their website and order three pairs, and keep the one that fits and return the other sizes. 

    What else?

    Some thoughts on sublime beauty:


    Sublime Beauty

    So what are we searching for, what are we looking for?

    I think what we see is some sort of sublime beauty, joy, flourishing.

    How do we attempt to achieve this? Through our cars our homes our clothing etc. 

    However… I think true sublime beauty can only be achieved by yourself, through your own artistic creations.

    For example, your own child, producing begetting and making and birthing your own child; there is seriously no greater joy.

    Also, your artistic creations. Your photos, the artwork you produce. I also qualify DALL-E 3 images, ChatGPT and AI art in it!  Why? Ultimately it is your brainchild; doesn’t really matter whether you produced it by yourself by hand or whatever. For example, Matisse in his advanced years apparently lost mobility in his body and hands, and would simply point with the stick to his assistance to create artwork for him.

    Also, Andy Warhol. He was notorious for having an army of assistance producing work for him.

    My thought on artificial intelligence and AI generated art is free. The idea is that the artwork we create is ours.

    One thing I find surprising is that the greatest boon for AI generated art is that it is all open source! Isn’t this phenomenal? 

    Open art

    Art wants to be free! Art wants to propagate into the real world, not be constrained by nothing, whether digital rights management, closed doors or borders etc.

    This is my general idea with open source artwork; I hate that so much of great photos and art is simply trapped within printed books, not easily accessible or findable on the internet. My huge frustration with photography:

    If I am trying to find the book “the Americans“, or any other book out there, any photo book… Why can’t I just Google it or find it online for free?

    I have a very simple suggestion: make the images online for free, everything open source and full resolution… and what you do instead is you charge money for the printed physical book.

    For example, let us say that you’re planning to publish a photo book. The easiest way to approach this is have an open source free full resolution PDF available online to download, to give your potential customer and clients a taste of what to expect. And then if they like your photos enough, they will buy the printed book.

    Why? people like physical things. I think the bias is that people don’t like to pay for digital things, but we are more than happy to pay for physical things.

    For example, a very simple strategy to thrive as a modern day photographer entrepreneur and artist visual artist, Fatar for it to have all of your artwork open, open source, full resolution JPEG or PDF or whatever… and barbell that with charging a lot of money for your products, physical products, embodied workshop experiences etc.


    How to create sublime beauty?

    For me, sublime beauty in the context of photography is high grain, gritty high contrast black-and-white. It is a simple aesthetic taste for myself; to me there is nothing more beautiful more sublime.

    Also, taking photos of your loved ones. This involves your kids, your wife or your spouse, and even yourself.

    Even my friend Josh White said it wisely: At the end of your life, are you going to care about all these photos that you shot of strangers, or are you going to care about photos that you shot of your loved ones? 


    Love

    I think instead of thinking about love, better to think about heart, care, curation, what you care for.

    For example, the word coeur– same as courage, curate, care.

    It all comes down to the heart.

    Just don’t do nothing you don’t care for

    One of the via negativa ways we could live life; just don’t do anything you don’t care for.

    For example when you’re talking to kids, best to ask “What don’t you want to be when you grow up?”

    Also happiness is via negativa; better to ascertain what makes you miserable, what you hate, what you despise… and figuring out how to subtract or delete that from your life, rather than doing things that make you “happy”.

    For example, personal annoyances of myself include being stuck in traffic, dealing with subscriptions and subscription model things, closed source things, modern day news and media and Facebook Instagram, YouTube, family annoyances and drama, other peoples problems etc.

    Also, typically I despise email; and also I typically hate being automatically subscribed to some BS newsletter that I did not opt in. Therefore the silver ethical rule here is interesting:

     If something annoys you, don’t do that to others.

    For example, I hate when people automatically subscribe me to some email newsletter without me checking a button to confirm that actually wanted. Therefore I will never send an email newsletter to anybody who has not intentionally opted in.

    Also, trying to do things for other people that I would myself like. For example, I don’t think I’ve ever received an email or an email newsletter that I actually liked to work for. Therefore as a consequence, my simple strategy is to drive to send emails or email newsletters that people actually look forward to reading. 
    
    Or in other words, make people actually positively excited to check their email inbox!

    What you yourself do

    Ignore the “advice” of others, and also… best to simply observe what other people do.

    Also, the best way to study success is to figure out what people don’t do, what they don’t own, etc. 

    For example, Elon Musk and Kanye West; neither of them wear watches.

    Also, neither has an Instagram, both deleted it.

    Also, Elon Musk doesn’t own a home or live in a home. I think he just rents some sort of random two bedroom one bath home hut somewhere in Austin Texas.

    Also, Elon Musk does not own any Lamborghinis Ferraris or loser cars.
    
    Also, the greatest courage of a Kanye West; he doesn’t censor himself, he says what is really on his mind.

    Maybe is Kanye the most courageous man alive? Maybe. There is no right and wrong, all is permitted. Therefore to not censor yourself in modern-day society is the ultimate act of courage? 

    Sublime thoughts

    Beautiful body, beautiful thoughts.

    How to gain more beautiful thoughts? My simple suggestion is maximum time in the direct sun, ideally topless. Also, sleep early — shoot for 8pm?

    A simple suggestion is limit your coffee and caffeine intake only between 4 AM to 9 AM, or only the morning hours.

    And also during the day, lift weights at least once, maybe even twice.

    Also my supreme luxury; the last few days, in a single day I have done all three: at least one hot yoga session, at least one hike in nature, and at least one weightlifting session.

    A life post-work?

    Why work? I thought which interested me while in Vietnam, when Cindy and I were living in Hanoi, paying only $320 USD a month for rent, a position in which literally even if we wanted to spend all our money, we cannot spend it fast enough. Eating out every day, living in a small hotel room, no possessions no nothing.

    Living in America seems a bit foolish if you don’t need to. I think it is far superior to live in Hanoi, Saigon, Pom pen, ironically even Japan; I think when we were living in Kyoto, we were subbing an apartment for only $500 USD a month.

    SUITS PDF BOOK >

    Why think abroad?

    TRAVEL NOTES (PDF)– the simple financial life leverage is simple:

    Earn US dollars, American standards, live abroad.

    For example, Mexico City, Roma Norte, even Doctores. Condesa — all good.

    Truth be told, if Cindy was not employed in America, I see zero reason to live here. I would probably be living somewhere else; and also assuming I didn’t have a kid, I would definitely be some sort of weird digital nomad. 
    

    Writing is leisure

    People don’t seem to get it; the primary function of writing is meta-thinking, a fun leisure activity. A fun luxury.

    This is where I don’t understand 99.9% of writers; it seems some sort of weird self-flagellation here. Most writers I know… don’t actually enjoy writing. 

    This is where ChatGPT is no threat; honestly we gotta rethink this whole K-12 education and college thing; the point of writing isn’t writing for the sake of good writing; the point of writing is to flesh out our thoughts, to share ideas that we find interesting.

    What is the point of life anyways?

    A simple one is to have offspring; to have at least one kid, perhaps ideally two kids, or if you’re willing… more.

    I think the funny thing about kids and family is that typically we use ourselves in our own life experiences as a barometer and framing. For example, I have one younger sister two years younger than me, and I always wanted to have at least one boy, one girl. It is because that is how I was raised.

    Having kids make sense in so far much as if people stopped having kids, quite literally there would be no future humanity. What’s the point of having all the wealth in the world if there are no future children or humans to enjoy it?


    What do you want your kids to become?

    Being self-employed, probably the best thing is that I literally can just spend all day with Seneca, being his personal trainer and tutor. I think of myself like Chiron the centaur, the private tutor of Achilles. Things I like to do with Seneca include physical activity exercise and exploration, his diet, which is close to 100% carnivore, 100% grass fed beef or Wagyu ground beef, and more recently… Finding this “ancestral blend“ ground beef thing at Erwhon (force of nature brand)– which has the consistency of normal ground beef, but has mixed in it beef liver and beef hard, which are natural steroids.

    In fact I think the optimal diet is a 100% organ meat diet; organ meats are probably at least 100 times higher in nutritional density than even flesh meat.

    Everyone says that eating red meat is bad; how about organ meats?

    People say that eating meat is bad for the planet, but let us consider how much waste and scraps is thrown away from the animal, which include the heart, the liver, the kidneys, the tendons and ligaments, etc.

    So if you really wanted to be a “woke” person, perhaps the wisest way to do this is just only eat a pure organ meat diet.  


    What else?

    START HERE

    New stuff:

    1. EK PODCAST
    2. MODERN PHOTOGRAPHER PDF
    3. TRAVEL NOTES PDF

    Also… more books here!


    When in doubt, go back to the source!

    ERIC KIM BLOG >

    ***

    “Greater fates, greater fortunes.” – Heraclitus


  • Chainlink

    Why I Bought Chainlink

    A simple heuristic that I learned from Nassim TALEB; don’t ask people what you should invest in, ask them… What did you invest in? 

    For example, I recently swapped a bunch of my bitcoin for chainlink. Why did I do it? My thoughts: 

    What is chainlink?

    Essentially it is a platform built upon Ethereum, the blockchain… that strives to solve real world problems.

    The first critical issue at hand is the notion of the “Oracle problem”, and cryptographic proof and truth.

    The general gist of the Oracle problem is that you have all these people purporting to say something… How do you know if someone is really telling the truth or not?

    Also, they’re great innovation of a decentralized oracle network. I think anything that is decentralized and can be done offline is a good idea; anything that has to be done when you’re connected to the web is fragile.

    For example, the “internet of things”, which includes all of your home devices, your home stuff etc. I think this includes your home speaker things, your Amazon echo or echo dot, your Apple HomePod thing, your ring Amazon nest devices etc. 

    Enabling transactional value?

    TVE — transactional value enabled?

    Chainlink staking?

    What is the purpose of technology and these things? A very basic idea is that the point is to help enable commerce and other things. Money makes the world go round, Publilius Syrus.

    What is money anyways? Money is movement. Anything that literally physiologically moves human beings in time and space is money.

    For example, if you promise somebody $30 an hour, they will walk around, move their bodies to clean toilets, etc.

    Also, money movement. The whole global economy to me is so fascinating; because we process and move information so quickly and so globally… how do you link it all together?  

    Chain – Link

    I find chainlink to be an interesting concept because wherever you go in real life, there are physical chain links everywhere.

    Also, technically the internet, the World Wide Web, is a bunch of hyperlinks which link websites together.

    My personal thought and prediction is that chainlink could become the next Google; Google indexes the whole internet, and made it easy for you to find any sort of website. What I think chainlink will do is link all of this information on the internet and computers and make them accessible, trustworthy, tamperproof.

    Just read it

    Only read stuff that you find interesting, skip over stuff you find boring.

    About a week or two ago, I reread the original bitcoin white paper, and I was so impressed with how short it was, how minimalistic it was, and how to the point it was. But… reading it… this time around… felt a bit boring.

    And this is the big thing: if something bores you, you gotta get out of it.

    Therefore, I sold or transferred or converted nine of my bitcoin and put it all into chainlink, at the time it was valued at ~20,800 LINK (CHAINLINK), with bitcoin at around $35,000 a bitcoin.

    I think what I try to do is think at least 30 years into the future. 20 or 30 years. It is funny, as I write this at the age of 35, 30 years from now Seneca is only going to be 32 years old, still a few years younger than me. My personal aspiration is to hold onto chainlink for at least 30 years, and then maybe transfer it to Seneca when he grows up. Or I just help him build some sort of company or entrepreneurial venture etc.

    Investing in things actually do something?

    I love bitcoin but maybe one of the big issues here is that bitcoin is like digital money and gold; most people just hold onto it, and I don’t think actually aspire to use it to actually pay for your latte at Starbucks or whatever. I think because bitcoin and cryptocurrency is so volatile; Everybody’s hope and dream and ambition is that their coin will rise value astronomically and they will become rich, buy the Lamborghini or whatever… and be happy.

    Trust nobody who drives a Lamborghini — only trust people who drive Toyota Priuses, in white. 

    Why? If you drive a Toyota Prius, in white… it is a signal that you really don’t care for appearances.

    How do you know if somebody is unsuccessful? 

    If they drive a Range Rover, a Mercedes AMG G wagon, murdered out, all matte black, a baselevel Mercedes car, a baselevel Audi car, like an A3 or a Q3, drive some sort of Audi electric car which is just the same as the Porsche Taycan, don’t forget that the Volkswagen group owns Lamborghini Audi Volkswagen Porsche etc. same thing goes with anybody who drives a BMW car.

    Foreign cars are bad.  

    It is just a game! 

    I think crypto, cryptocurrency speculation is an interesting game; prediction, prediction markets, trying to predict the future… is just a luxury and a fun thing.

    Some predictions are pretty obvious

    When I was in college, my sophomore year, and I was starting to get into trading stocks, daytrading… I had a pretty certain thought that Blockbuster was going to go under. I tried to figure out how to short stocks, but I really couldn’t figure out how to do it.

    Also I remember when the prime mortgage meltdown happened, and the value of Ford went to almost 2 dollars a year. I wanted to buy some Ford stock but I had no money, no capital.

    It is interesting to think about this in hindsight because when I was incorrectly trading pennystock, for some sort of oil producer company which was actually running at a loss… I had no idea because I misread the financials… I lost my whole life savings which was maybe $3500 USD or something. It was insanely tragic. But now that I am playing with higher sums more like $300,000 USD, I realize that it was just a valuable lesson at the time.

    Therefore, with any sort of financial speculation, think about it at the 30 year span. Even when you are 70 or 80 years old, I met this lady at the park who looked phenomenal and she told me she was 82… she looked like a very fit 45-year-old!

    My personal aspiration is when I’m 82 years old, to still be able to lift 1000 pounds. Google or YouTube “ERIC KIM thousand pound atlas lift”

    It seems that the way things are going, I don’t think it’s that ridiculous to think that we can live to be 120 years old. Try to think that far. 


    What is the use of money anyways? 

    I think actually the big thing is that everyone now aspires to buy a house or home or property. It is getting pretty ridiculous, even in Los Angeles, even buying a single-family home in Inglewood… you’re looking easily at around $1.5 million for a whatever house.

    My prediction is that the prices of homes  will continue to soar astronomically high. I think a lot of these $1.5 million homes can easily balloon two $3 million, $5 million, 10 and $15 million, $150 million or whatever. Why? The biggest issue at hand is runaway inflation, which means the value of the US dollar and currency is continually going lower and lower, because the US is what, currently speaking $30 trillion in debt? And what America thinks the smart idea is to just keep printing money ad infinitum, into infinity, in order to “stimulate” the economy.

    But does this work? No.

    For example talking to my friend Noel who works in hygiene, he says that a lot of these young guys, around 25 to 30 years old, are so lazy. Why? After Covid and people started giving away these free checks… and from unemployment you could literally make $5000 USD a month by sitting on your butt and doing nothing… people lost the motivation to work. A lot of people moved back home, live with their parents, and are essentially living for free. As a consequence you have a huge generation of unmotivated people, unwilling to do any sort of manual labor, which is bad because having manual and physical labor is critical.

    For example, being in Beverly Hills a lot; and Holby Hills,  there is this new funny caste systems; really rich people getting mansions built, and the army of construction labor people, mostly from Mexico doing the labor to build these mansions.

    Also, think about Amazon prime delivery drivers, people who bag your food at Whole Foods, Erwhon etc, all these contractors electricians plumbers etc.… the truly critical labor. Doesn’t matter if you pay them $30 $40 $50 or even $60 an hour, it seems at this point money doesn’t really motivate them anymore. Therefore what do you do? It seems that America we are just importing more people from Mexico to do labor for us, because they are motivated. Americans are no longer motivated.

    Crypto, crypto technology and cryptocurrency is optimistic

    I am obsessed with the future. Future thinking, future technologies, new brave worlds to discover.

    Why? I have always been into technology ever since I was a kid, getting my first Acer aspire Pentium one processor computer when I was around 11 years old. Even teaching myself how to program visual basic 3.0 in the early days, creating my own AOL “punter“ etc.

    Also, I still will never forget when I read the Maddox article on why you should beat your kids, in computer class in Bayside Queens at PS 169 when I was in the fifth grade, and all of me and our friends, a bunch of 11-year-old laughing and saying “It is true!”

    Even I remember as a kid, when I first moved to New York, maybe it was I had some sort of school in the Bronx, when kids in the hallway would “the South Park movies “blame Canada, blame Canada”…

    Anyways the generalized thought is I love media information, and also I have a passion to innovate, write and to think, to motivate and to also disprove nonsense.

    Ever since I was young I was always bred with an insanely huge ego; the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, (jang-son), being raised with the “prince disease“, was unusually good for me. Always getting the finest cuts of meat and galbi from my grandmother, always showered with praise love and attention and how smart tall and good-looking I was. Very good for me.

    The US dollar is static

    Anybody who is a wage slave, which means anybody who is paid a biweekly or monthly salary… doesn’t matter if you’re being paid $10 million a year from Apple… You’re still a wage slave.

    A simple heuristic:

    Can you go two years without checking or responding to any of your emails or not?

    If you have to use email for a living, you’re not free. 


    Once you’re a crypto trillionaire, then what?

    Let us say that your cryptocurrency goes to the value of $1 trillion USD. Then what? Then do you just dissolve it all into US dollars, buy a mansion and a yacht somewhere, and live indefinitely into the horizon for infinite bliss?

    This doesn’t seem to be the goal. For me, I think a more interesting life trajectory is to then to no longer care for money, and use your power mind and soul and body for more interesting things which can include philosophy, writing, thinking, doing research, reading, making art, publishing art, etc.

    Money as it means to creative leisure and production.

    Seeking immortal fame and glory?

    One thing I am very happy about is ChatGPT knows exactly who I am, why I am so significant and influential, etc. As a consequence, I already feel like my legacy is secure, and I don’t have anything left to prove to nobody else.

    As a consequence, at this point life is all upside no downside. Even one of the happiest moments of my life, Cindy and I begetting our first son Seneca, at this point life is all upside no downside.

    As a man, as long as you have one male heir, you can die happy. 


    Now what?

    Things that I find interesting use cases of chainlink:

    1. Real estate, homebuying, escrow: even NASSIM TALEB has said that traditionally, most wealth generation in human society is through land, land ownership land property etc. For example let us say that you buy that 1.5 million dollar home, and 20 years from now it’ll be worth $3.2 million. And then let us assume that 30 or 40 years from now it is worth $5.7 million, and your kid inherits it. And when your kid is 57 years old it is worth $22 million, and he will able to pass it on to his son or daughter, and maybe that will be worth $120 million into their future. The whole escrow process and verification process is quite fragmented, unreliable. I think chainlink can be a technology which motivates and enables more streamlined home buying processes.
    2. Identity verification: it is so easy for people to just steal your social security number, and pretend it is you. Imagine a future in which you could use chainlink or some sort of blockchain enabled identification, which can essentially be your global citizen passport to all of the world and the internet? This seems especially useful in today’s world in which everything is so fragmented, between our Apple ID, our Gmail, Etc. Or think about border control; certainly it would be easier to travel if there was some sort of blockchain or global ledger to verify your identity, this could help facilitate movement and verification, and deal with issues of forged passports etc. 

    Military

    I think an inconvenient truth is that truth be told, a lot of the world is run by the military. Certainly there are lots of bad things about the military, but truth be told, without the US military, our precious US dollars would be worth nothing.

    For example, I think the American government we are $31.46 trillion dollars in debt? To where… China?

    As a consequence, how does America’s stay afloat and print more money? Simple, she simply prints more money because she can because we got the military to back us. 

    For example, let’s say that mainland China comes knocking and asks for her money back. Is America going to give it back? No. We will just wave our big stick, and say we are not interested.

    So the interesting use case of chainlink and the US military is especially in the future drone warfare or whatever… It actually does seem that having some sort of crypto technology will be useful here.

    For example the internet of things, chain-link solves this issue. Also, I believe a lot of the US military intervention stuff is going to be unmanned, and having access to some sort of technology which allows automation without meddling in the Internet seems like a good idea.

    Even look at the company Anduril– it has a major investment from founders fund, Peter Thiel’s venture capitalist fund. It looks like the future of autonomous flying drones to bomb the bad guys is going to be the future. 


    So why did I buy it?

    I think in life, big opportunities only come infrequently. As a consequence, I think in life… it seems better to take really big bold bets, rather than just stand on the sidelines.

    At the end of our lives, we will regret more the decisions or the risks we failed to do, rather than the ones we did.

    For example, if a big opportunity comes up, and you’re interested, go for it. You don’t want to be 90 years old on your deathbed, kicking yourself in the butt wishing that you had taken that risk. In hindsight, everything is regret. 


    Think Eric Schmidt

    My personal speculation is that I think chainlink will become the next Google. Why? ERIC Schmidt is on the board of trustees for chainlink, and ERIC Schmidt is the one who built Google into what it is today. Just watch the interview between him and Sergey. In a telling quote, ERIC Schmidt said:

    The secret to success of Google was that we tried to put a little bit of Google into everything.

    Genius. For example, this is evident in how whenever you Google search something, there is a little bit of that Google code in the URL. 

    Therefore my prediction is chainlink… whether you know it or not there will be a little bit of chainlink in everything.  For example, their decentralized oracle network to show accurate prices for any cryptocurrency asset down to the penny. Also, maybe the future of international banking, the SWIFT system… Will be enabled with chainlink? 

    Who is Satoshi?

    Apparently there’s a rumor that Sergey Nazarov might be Satoshi.

    Also the reason why I trust Sergey as a founder is this:

    He doesn’t really care for social appearances.

    I think I learned this from NASSIM TALEB; only trust doctors who look like butchers. Why? When somebody looks too much the part of something, they are not. 

    For example, when you go to a party, who is the real successful person? The person who could show up and meet the prime minister and shake hands wearing T-shirt and jeans and sneakers, just like my friend did meeting the prime minister.

    Also, the really really rich successful person will just drive some sort of white Toyota Prius or old beat up Honda Civic, in silver. Even the family car; very specifically… White Honda Odyssey. Not even a Toyota sienna!

    Even family connections, my $500 million net worth familia– the dad gave all the kids Ford fusions, and even though the dad is a major player in Tesla, they only have a super base level Tesla model three in white. No Tesla model Y, X, S.

    Anyways, the founder Sergey — he always wears the same blue flannel, and really has an air of insouciance that is good. He isn’t the one looking all flashy driving around in the Lamborghini. He probably just drives a Honda Civic or Honda Accord, and I think he is really trying to build something he cares for.

    I think there’s a saying in Silicon Valley amongst venture capital firms, bet on the jockey not the horse. That means, better to invest in the founder of a great thing, rather than the company or the product. For example, it is wise to bet on Elon Musk and anything he built, rather than Other companies which are built by random CEOs and non-visionaries.

    I bet on Sergey N.

    Investors 

    My brother-in-law Khanh told me: if you spent $80,000 to buy a Tesla model S several years ago, that would be worth $500,000 today!

    True investors live like poor people, and speculate on the thing, rather than buying the thing.

    For example, instead of spending $120,000 on Tesla, I would instead prefer to buy $120,000 worth of Tesla stock.

    Why? Things that go up in value overtime versus things that go down in value.

    For example, even though a Tesla car gets software updates over the air, eventually over time, the value of it will slowly depreciate. The battery range will become less, more wear and tear on the vehicle etc. Even the world’s best car can be robust at best, not antifragile.

    What is antifragile? Something that overtime gets better and stronger and more powerful and better and more robust… rather than the opposite.

    This might be the intelligence of collecting rare collector cars, like old Ferraris or whatever… even old Porsche cars, over time, the value of them will go up.

    Even apparently the old Toyota Supra, the one that showed up in fast and the furious, they are worth close to $250,000 now!

    So perhaps the best way to think about things is to think of them like financial investments, rather than toys.

    Other good news 

    It looks like their new chainlink staking, chainlink economics is also doing very well. The full pool has been filled already!

    Now what?

    I think at the end of the day, I don’t really care for money that much, I am more interested in speculation, risk, and thinking and predicting the future. This is my prime joy and bliss.

    Don’t simply sit on the sidelines, twiddling your thumbs for some sort of magical future to get better. I say rather than waiting for the future, speculate and invest in it right now!

    ERIC

    ***

    So what do you want for Christmas this year?

    I think for Christmas, simple things you could do:

    1. For family, invest in a collective experience. This means take a fun family trip somewhere, maybe go to Joshua tree and rent an Airbnb, go on some great hikes etc. Make the experience memorable.
    2. Just write somebody a handwritten card, or just give them a FaceTime call! Love attention and care is the best present you can give.
    3. Buy somebody a good bag of coffee, or, gift them some ERIC KIM Omakase coffee; 100% fine robusta, the best coffee on the planet. It seems that everyone drinks coffee now, even for myself the best random presents I’ve gotten were bags of great coffee! 
    4. Weightlifting equipment like Titan.Fitness, or rogue fitness; gift it to yourself or to a friend or family member! From Titan.fitness — I personally bought some farmers carry handles which I love, a loadable Olympic dumbbell. I bought a rogue fitness 400 pound sandbag, and a Texas power squat bar which I love. Giving the gift of fitness might be one of the best things you could do, or just buy somebody a core power yoga membership, or buy it for yourself! I’m really a big fan of hot yoga; something about the hot temperature sauna and sweating feels therapeutic.
    5. Vibram five finger shoes, the toe shoes. For yourself or a family member. Just go on their website and order three pairs, and keep the one that fits and return the other sizes. 

    What else?

    Some thoughts on sublime beauty:


    Sublime Beauty

    So what are we searching for, what are we looking for?

    I think what we see is some sort of sublime beauty, joy, flourishing.

    How do we attempt to achieve this? Through our cars our homes our clothing etc. 

    However… I think true sublime beauty can only be achieved by yourself, through your own artistic creations.

    For example, your own child, producing begetting and making and birthing your own child; there is seriously no greater joy.

    Also, your artistic creations. Your photos, the artwork you produce. I also qualify DALL-E 3 images, ChatGPT and AI art in it!  Why? Ultimately it is your brainchild; doesn’t really matter whether you produced it by yourself by hand or whatever. For example, Matisse in his advanced years apparently lost mobility in his body and hands, and would simply point with the stick to his assistance to create artwork for him.

    Also, Andy Warhol. He was notorious for having an army of assistance producing work for him.

    My thought on artificial intelligence and AI generated art is free. The idea is that the artwork we create is ours.

    One thing I find surprising is that the greatest boon for AI generated art is that it is all open source! Isn’t this phenomenal? 

    Open art

    Art wants to be free! Art wants to propagate into the real world, not be constrained by nothing, whether digital rights management, closed doors or borders etc.

    This is my general idea with open source artwork; I hate that so much of great photos and art is simply trapped within printed books, not easily accessible or findable on the internet. My huge frustration with photography:

    If I am trying to find the book “the Americans“, or any other book out there, any photo book… Why can’t I just Google it or find it online for free?

    I have a very simple suggestion: make the images online for free, everything open source and full resolution… and what you do instead is you charge money for the printed physical book.

    For example, let us say that you’re planning to publish a photo book. The easiest way to approach this is have an open source free full resolution PDF available online to download, to give your potential customer and clients a taste of what to expect. And then if they like your photos enough, they will buy the printed book.

    Why? people like physical things. I think the bias is that people don’t like to pay for digital things, but we are more than happy to pay for physical things.

    For example, a very simple strategy to thrive as a modern day photographer entrepreneur and artist visual artist, Fatar for it to have all of your artwork open, open source, full resolution JPEG or PDF or whatever… and barbell that with charging a lot of money for your products, physical products, embodied workshop experiences etc.


    How to create sublime beauty?

    For me, sublime beauty in the context of photography is high grain, gritty high contrast black-and-white. It is a simple aesthetic taste for myself; to me there is nothing more beautiful more sublime.

    Also, taking photos of your loved ones. This involves your kids, your wife or your spouse, and even yourself.

    Even my friend Josh White said it wisely: At the end of your life, are you going to care about all these photos that you shot of strangers, or are you going to care about photos that you shot of your loved ones? 


    Love

    I think instead of thinking about love, better to think about heart, care, curation, what you care for.

    For example, the word coeur– same as courage, curate, care.

    It all comes down to the heart.

    Just don’t do nothing you don’t care for

    One of the via negativa ways we could live life; just don’t do anything you don’t care for.

    For example when you’re talking to kids, best to ask “What don’t you want to be when you grow up?”

    Also happiness is via negativa; better to ascertain what makes you miserable, what you hate, what you despise… and figuring out how to subtract or delete that from your life, rather than doing things that make you “happy”.

    For example, personal annoyances of myself include being stuck in traffic, dealing with subscriptions and subscription model things, closed source things, modern day news and media and Facebook Instagram, YouTube, family annoyances and drama, other peoples problems etc.

    Also, typically I despise email; and also I typically hate being automatically subscribed to some BS newsletter that I did not opt in. Therefore the silver ethical rule here is interesting:

     If something annoys you, don’t do that to others.

    For example, I hate when people automatically subscribe me to some email newsletter without me checking a button to confirm that actually wanted. Therefore I will never send an email newsletter to anybody who has not intentionally opted in.

    Also, trying to do things for other people that I would myself like. For example, I don’t think I’ve ever received an email or an email newsletter that I actually liked to work for. Therefore as a consequence, my simple strategy is to drive to send emails or email newsletters that people actually look forward to reading. 
    
    Or in other words, make people actually positively excited to check their email inbox!

    What you yourself do

    Ignore the “advice” of others, and also… best to simply observe what other people do.

    Also, the best way to study success is to figure out what people don’t do, what they don’t own, etc. 

    For example, Elon Musk and Kanye West; neither of them wear watches.

    Also, neither has an Instagram, both deleted it.

    Also, Elon Musk doesn’t own a home or live in a home. I think he just rents some sort of random two bedroom one bath home hut somewhere in Austin Texas.

    Also, Elon Musk does not own any Lamborghinis Ferraris or loser cars.
    
    Also, the greatest courage of a Kanye West; he doesn’t censor himself, he says what is really on his mind.

    Maybe is Kanye the most courageous man alive? Maybe. There is no right and wrong, all is permitted. Therefore to not censor yourself in modern-day society is the ultimate act of courage? 

    Sublime thoughts

    Beautiful body, beautiful thoughts.

    How to gain more beautiful thoughts? My simple suggestion is maximum time in the direct sun, ideally topless. Also, sleep early — shoot for 8pm?

    A simple suggestion is limit your coffee and caffeine intake only between 4 AM to 9 AM, or only the morning hours.

    And also during the day, lift weights at least once, maybe even twice.

    Also my supreme luxury; the last few days, in a single day I have done all three: at least one hot yoga session, at least one hike in nature, and at least one weightlifting session.

    A life post-work?

    Why work? I thought which interested me while in Vietnam, when Cindy and I were living in Hanoi, paying only $320 USD a month for rent, a position in which literally even if we wanted to spend all our money, we cannot spend it fast enough. Eating out every day, living in a small hotel room, no possessions no nothing.

    Living in America seems a bit foolish if you don’t need to. I think it is far superior to live in Hanoi, Saigon, Pom pen, ironically even Japan; I think when we were living in Kyoto, we were subbing an apartment for only $500 USD a month.

    SUITS PDF BOOK >

    Why think abroad?

    TRAVEL NOTES (PDF)– the simple financial life leverage is simple:

    Earn US dollars, American standards, live abroad.

    For example, Mexico City, Roma Norte, even Doctores. Condesa — all good.

    Truth be told, if Cindy was not employed in America, I see zero reason to live here. I would probably be living somewhere else; and also assuming I didn’t have a kid, I would definitely be some sort of weird digital nomad. 
    

    Writing is leisure

    People don’t seem to get it; the primary function of writing is meta-thinking, a fun leisure activity. A fun luxury.

    This is where I don’t understand 99.9% of writers; it seems some sort of weird self-flagellation here. Most writers I know… don’t actually enjoy writing. 

    This is where ChatGPT is no threat; honestly we gotta rethink this whole K-12 education and college thing; the point of writing isn’t writing for the sake of good writing; the point of writing is to flesh out our thoughts, to share ideas that we find interesting.

    What is the point of life anyways?

    A simple one is to have offspring; to have at least one kid, perhaps ideally two kids, or if you’re willing… more.

    I think the funny thing about kids and family is that typically we use ourselves in our own life experiences as a barometer and framing. For example, I have one younger sister two years younger than me, and I always wanted to have at least one boy, one girl. It is because that is how I was raised.

    Having kids make sense in so far much as if people stopped having kids, quite literally there would be no future humanity. What’s the point of having all the wealth in the world if there are no future children or humans to enjoy it?


    What do you want your kids to become?

    Being self-employed, probably the best thing is that I literally can just spend all day with Seneca, being his personal trainer and tutor. I think of myself like Chiron the centaur, the private tutor of Achilles. Things I like to do with Seneca include physical activity exercise and exploration, his diet, which is close to 100% carnivore, 100% grass fed beef or Wagyu ground beef, and more recently… Finding this “ancestral blend“ ground beef thing at Erwhon (force of nature brand)– which has the consistency of normal ground beef, but has mixed in it beef liver and beef hard, which are natural steroids.

    In fact I think the optimal diet is a 100% organ meat diet; organ meats are probably at least 100 times higher in nutritional density than even flesh meat.

    Everyone says that eating red meat is bad; how about organ meats?

    People say that eating meat is bad for the planet, but let us consider how much waste and scraps is thrown away from the animal, which include the heart, the liver, the kidneys, the tendons and ligaments, etc.

    So if you really wanted to be a “woke” person, perhaps the wisest way to do this is just only eat a pure organ meat diet.  


    What else?

    START HERE

    New stuff:

    1. EK PODCAST
    2. MODERN PHOTOGRAPHER PDF
    3. TRAVEL NOTES PDF

    Also… more books here!


    When in doubt, go back to the source!

    ERIC KIM BLOG >

    ***

    “Greater fates, greater fortunes.” – Heraclitus


  • Chainlink

    Why I Bought Chainlink

    A simple heuristic that I learned from Nassim TALEB; don’t ask people what you should invest in, ask them… What did you invest in? 

    For example, I recently swapped a bunch of my bitcoin for chainlink. Why did I do it? My thoughts: 

    What is chainlink?

    Essentially it is a platform built upon Ethereum, the blockchain… that strives to solve real world problems.

    The first critical issue at hand is the notion of the “Oracle problem”, and cryptographic proof and truth.

    The general gist of the Oracle problem is that you have all these people purporting to say something… How do you know if someone is really telling the truth or not?

    Also, they’re great innovation of a decentralized oracle network. I think anything that is decentralized and can be done offline is a good idea; anything that has to be done when you’re connected to the web is fragile.

    For example, the “internet of things”, which includes all of your home devices, your home stuff etc. I think this includes your home speaker things, your Amazon echo or echo dot, your Apple HomePod thing, your ring Amazon nest devices etc. 

    Enabling transactional value?

    TVE — transactional value enabled?

    Chainlink staking?

    What is the purpose of technology and these things? A very basic idea is that the point is to help enable commerce and other things. Money makes the world go round, Publilius Syrus.

    What is money anyways? Money is movement. Anything that literally physiologically moves human beings in time and space is money.

    For example, if you promise somebody $30 an hour, they will walk around, move their bodies to clean toilets, etc.

    Also, money movement. The whole global economy to me is so fascinating; because we process and move information so quickly and so globally… how do you link it all together?  

    Chain – Link

    I find chainlink to be an interesting concept because wherever you go in real life, there are physical chain links everywhere.

    Also, technically the internet, the World Wide Web, is a bunch of hyperlinks which link websites together.

    My personal thought and prediction is that chainlink could become the next Google; Google indexes the whole internet, and made it easy for you to find any sort of website. What I think chainlink will do is link all of this information on the internet and computers and make them accessible, trustworthy, tamperproof.

    Just read it

    Only read stuff that you find interesting, skip over stuff you find boring.

    About a week or two ago, I reread the original bitcoin white paper, and I was so impressed with how short it was, how minimalistic it was, and how to the point it was. But… reading it… this time around… felt a bit boring.

    And this is the big thing: if something bores you, you gotta get out of it.

    Therefore, I sold or transferred or converted nine of my bitcoin and put it all into chainlink, at the time it was valued at ~20,800 LINK (CHAINLINK), with bitcoin at around $35,000 a bitcoin.

    I think what I try to do is think at least 30 years into the future. 20 or 30 years. It is funny, as I write this at the age of 35, 30 years from now Seneca is only going to be 32 years old, still a few years younger than me. My personal aspiration is to hold onto chainlink for at least 30 years, and then maybe transfer it to Seneca when he grows up. Or I just help him build some sort of company or entrepreneurial venture etc.

    Investing in things actually do something?

    I love bitcoin but maybe one of the big issues here is that bitcoin is like digital money and gold; most people just hold onto it, and I don’t think actually aspire to use it to actually pay for your latte at Starbucks or whatever. I think because bitcoin and cryptocurrency is so volatile; Everybody’s hope and dream and ambition is that their coin will rise value astronomically and they will become rich, buy the Lamborghini or whatever… and be happy.

    Trust nobody who drives a Lamborghini — only trust people who drive Toyota Priuses, in white. 

    Why? If you drive a Toyota Prius, in white… it is a signal that you really don’t care for appearances.

    How do you know if somebody is unsuccessful? 

    If they drive a Range Rover, a Mercedes AMG G wagon, murdered out, all matte black, a baselevel Mercedes car, a baselevel Audi car, like an A3 or a Q3, drive some sort of Audi electric car which is just the same as the Porsche Taycan, don’t forget that the Volkswagen group owns Lamborghini Audi Volkswagen Porsche etc. same thing goes with anybody who drives a BMW car.

    Foreign cars are bad.  

    It is just a game! 

    I think crypto, cryptocurrency speculation is an interesting game; prediction, prediction markets, trying to predict the future… is just a luxury and a fun thing.

    Some predictions are pretty obvious

    When I was in college, my sophomore year, and I was starting to get into trading stocks, daytrading… I had a pretty certain thought that Blockbuster was going to go under. I tried to figure out how to short stocks, but I really couldn’t figure out how to do it.

    Also I remember when the prime mortgage meltdown happened, and the value of Ford went to almost 2 dollars a year. I wanted to buy some Ford stock but I had no money, no capital.

    It is interesting to think about this in hindsight because when I was incorrectly trading pennystock, for some sort of oil producer company which was actually running at a loss… I had no idea because I misread the financials… I lost my whole life savings which was maybe $3500 USD or something. It was insanely tragic. But now that I am playing with higher sums more like $300,000 USD, I realize that it was just a valuable lesson at the time.

    Therefore, with any sort of financial speculation, think about it at the 30 year span. Even when you are 70 or 80 years old, I met this lady at the park who looked phenomenal and she told me she was 82… she looked like a very fit 45-year-old!

    My personal aspiration is when I’m 82 years old, to still be able to lift 1000 pounds. Google or YouTube “ERIC KIM thousand pound atlas lift”

    It seems that the way things are going, I don’t think it’s that ridiculous to think that we can live to be 120 years old. Try to think that far. 


    What is the use of money anyways? 

    I think actually the big thing is that everyone now aspires to buy a house or home or property. It is getting pretty ridiculous, even in Los Angeles, even buying a single-family home in Inglewood… you’re looking easily at around $1.5 million for a whatever house.

    My prediction is that the prices of homes  will continue to soar astronomically high. I think a lot of these $1.5 million homes can easily balloon two $3 million, $5 million, 10 and $15 million, $150 million or whatever. Why? The biggest issue at hand is runaway inflation, which means the value of the US dollar and currency is continually going lower and lower, because the US is what, currently speaking $30 trillion in debt? And what America thinks the smart idea is to just keep printing money ad infinitum, into infinity, in order to “stimulate” the economy.

    But does this work? No.

    For example talking to my friend Noel who works in hygiene, he says that a lot of these young guys, around 25 to 30 years old, are so lazy. Why? After Covid and people started giving away these free checks… and from unemployment you could literally make $5000 USD a month by sitting on your butt and doing nothing… people lost the motivation to work. A lot of people moved back home, live with their parents, and are essentially living for free. As a consequence you have a huge generation of unmotivated people, unwilling to do any sort of manual labor, which is bad because having manual and physical labor is critical.

    For example, being in Beverly Hills a lot; and Holby Hills,  there is this new funny caste systems; really rich people getting mansions built, and the army of construction labor people, mostly from Mexico doing the labor to build these mansions.

    Also, think about Amazon prime delivery drivers, people who bag your food at Whole Foods, Erwhon etc, all these contractors electricians plumbers etc.… the truly critical labor. Doesn’t matter if you pay them $30 $40 $50 or even $60 an hour, it seems at this point money doesn’t really motivate them anymore. Therefore what do you do? It seems that America we are just importing more people from Mexico to do labor for us, because they are motivated. Americans are no longer motivated.

    Crypto, crypto technology and cryptocurrency is optimistic

    I am obsessed with the future. Future thinking, future technologies, new brave worlds to discover.

    Why? I have always been into technology ever since I was a kid, getting my first Acer aspire Pentium one processor computer when I was around 11 years old. Even teaching myself how to program visual basic 3.0 in the early days, creating my own AOL “punter“ etc.

    Also, I still will never forget when I read the Maddox article on why you should beat your kids, in computer class in Bayside Queens at PS 169 when I was in the fifth grade, and all of me and our friends, a bunch of 11-year-old laughing and saying “It is true!”

    Even I remember as a kid, when I first moved to New York, maybe it was I had some sort of school in the Bronx, when kids in the hallway would “the South Park movies “blame Canada, blame Canada”…

    Anyways the generalized thought is I love media information, and also I have a passion to innovate, write and to think, to motivate and to also disprove nonsense.

    Ever since I was young I was always bred with an insanely huge ego; the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, (jang-son), being raised with the “prince disease“, was unusually good for me. Always getting the finest cuts of meat and galbi from my grandmother, always showered with praise love and attention and how smart tall and good-looking I was. Very good for me.

    The US dollar is static

    Anybody who is a wage slave, which means anybody who is paid a biweekly or monthly salary… doesn’t matter if you’re being paid $10 million a year from Apple… You’re still a wage slave.

    A simple heuristic:

    Can you go two years without checking or responding to any of your emails or not?

    If you have to use email for a living, you’re not free. 


    Once you’re a crypto trillionaire, then what?

    Let us say that your cryptocurrency goes to the value of $1 trillion USD. Then what? Then do you just dissolve it all into US dollars, buy a mansion and a yacht somewhere, and live indefinitely into the horizon for infinite bliss?

    This doesn’t seem to be the goal. For me, I think a more interesting life trajectory is to then to no longer care for money, and use your power mind and soul and body for more interesting things which can include philosophy, writing, thinking, doing research, reading, making art, publishing art, etc.

    Money as it means to creative leisure and production.

    Seeking immortal fame and glory?

    One thing I am very happy about is ChatGPT knows exactly who I am, why I am so significant and influential, etc. As a consequence, I already feel like my legacy is secure, and I don’t have anything left to prove to nobody else.

    As a consequence, at this point life is all upside no downside. Even one of the happiest moments of my life, Cindy and I begetting our first son Seneca, at this point life is all upside no downside.

    As a man, as long as you have one male heir, you can die happy. 


    Now what?

    Things that I find interesting use cases of chainlink:

    1. Real estate, homebuying, escrow: even NASSIM TALEB has said that traditionally, most wealth generation in human society is through land, land ownership land property etc. For example let us say that you buy that 1.5 million dollar home, and 20 years from now it’ll be worth $3.2 million. And then let us assume that 30 or 40 years from now it is worth $5.7 million, and your kid inherits it. And when your kid is 57 years old it is worth $22 million, and he will able to pass it on to his son or daughter, and maybe that will be worth $120 million into their future. The whole escrow process and verification process is quite fragmented, unreliable. I think chainlink can be a technology which motivates and enables more streamlined home buying processes.
    2. Identity verification: it is so easy for people to just steal your social security number, and pretend it is you. Imagine a future in which you could use chainlink or some sort of blockchain enabled identification, which can essentially be your global citizen passport to all of the world and the internet? This seems especially useful in today’s world in which everything is so fragmented, between our Apple ID, our Gmail, Etc. Or think about border control; certainly it would be easier to travel if there was some sort of blockchain or global ledger to verify your identity, this could help facilitate movement and verification, and deal with issues of forged passports etc. 

    Military

    I think an inconvenient truth is that truth be told, a lot of the world is run by the military. Certainly there are lots of bad things about the military, but truth be told, without the US military, our precious US dollars would be worth nothing.

    For example, I think the American government we are $31.46 trillion dollars in debt? To where… China?

    As a consequence, how does America’s stay afloat and print more money? Simple, she simply prints more money because she can because we got the military to back us. 

    For example, let’s say that mainland China comes knocking and asks for her money back. Is America going to give it back? No. We will just wave our big stick, and say we are not interested.

    So the interesting use case of chainlink and the US military is especially in the future drone warfare or whatever… It actually does seem that having some sort of crypto technology will be useful here.

    For example the internet of things, chain-link solves this issue. Also, I believe a lot of the US military intervention stuff is going to be unmanned, and having access to some sort of technology which allows automation without meddling in the Internet seems like a good idea.

    Even look at the company Anduril– it has a major investment from founders fund, Peter Thiel’s venture capitalist fund. It looks like the future of autonomous flying drones to bomb the bad guys is going to be the future. 


    So why did I buy it?

    I think in life, big opportunities only come infrequently. As a consequence, I think in life… it seems better to take really big bold bets, rather than just stand on the sidelines.

    At the end of our lives, we will regret more the decisions or the risks we failed to do, rather than the ones we did.

    For example, if a big opportunity comes up, and you’re interested, go for it. You don’t want to be 90 years old on your deathbed, kicking yourself in the butt wishing that you had taken that risk. In hindsight, everything is regret. 


    Think Eric Schmidt

    My personal speculation is that I think chainlink will become the next Google. Why? ERIC Schmidt is on the board of trustees for chainlink, and ERIC Schmidt is the one who built Google into what it is today. Just watch the interview between him and Sergey. In a telling quote, ERIC Schmidt said:

    The secret to success of Google was that we tried to put a little bit of Google into everything.

    Genius. For example, this is evident in how whenever you Google search something, there is a little bit of that Google code in the URL. 

    Therefore my prediction is chainlink… whether you know it or not there will be a little bit of chainlink in everything.  For example, their decentralized oracle network to show accurate prices for any cryptocurrency asset down to the penny. Also, maybe the future of international banking, the SWIFT system… Will be enabled with chainlink? 

    Who is Satoshi?

    Apparently there’s a rumor that Sergey Nazarov might be Satoshi.

    Also the reason why I trust Sergey as a founder is this:

    He doesn’t really care for social appearances.

    I think I learned this from NASSIM TALEB; only trust doctors who look like butchers. Why? When somebody looks too much the part of something, they are not. 

    For example, when you go to a party, who is the real successful person? The person who could show up and meet the prime minister and shake hands wearing T-shirt and jeans and sneakers, just like my friend did meeting the prime minister.

    Also, the really really rich successful person will just drive some sort of white Toyota Prius or old beat up Honda Civic, in silver. Even the family car; very specifically… White Honda Odyssey. Not even a Toyota sienna!

    Even family connections, my $500 million net worth familia– the dad gave all the kids Ford fusions, and even though the dad is a major player in Tesla, they only have a super base level Tesla model three in white. No Tesla model Y, X, S.

    Anyways, the founder Sergey — he always wears the same blue flannel, and really has an air of insouciance that is good. He isn’t the one looking all flashy driving around in the Lamborghini. He probably just drives a Honda Civic or Honda Accord, and I think he is really trying to build something he cares for.

    I think there’s a saying in Silicon Valley amongst venture capital firms, bet on the jockey not the horse. That means, better to invest in the founder of a great thing, rather than the company or the product. For example, it is wise to bet on Elon Musk and anything he built, rather than Other companies which are built by random CEOs and non-visionaries.

    I bet on Sergey N.

    Investors 

    My brother-in-law Khanh told me: if you spent $80,000 to buy a Tesla model S several years ago, that would be worth $500,000 today!

    True investors live like poor people, and speculate on the thing, rather than buying the thing.

    For example, instead of spending $120,000 on Tesla, I would instead prefer to buy $120,000 worth of Tesla stock.

    Why? Things that go up in value overtime versus things that go down in value.

    For example, even though a Tesla car gets software updates over the air, eventually over time, the value of it will slowly depreciate. The battery range will become less, more wear and tear on the vehicle etc. Even the world’s best car can be robust at best, not antifragile.

    What is antifragile? Something that overtime gets better and stronger and more powerful and better and more robust… rather than the opposite.

    This might be the intelligence of collecting rare collector cars, like old Ferraris or whatever… even old Porsche cars, over time, the value of them will go up.

    Even apparently the old Toyota Supra, the one that showed up in fast and the furious, they are worth close to $250,000 now!

    So perhaps the best way to think about things is to think of them like financial investments, rather than toys.

    Other good news 

    It looks like their new chainlink staking, chainlink economics is also doing very well. The full pool has been filled already!

    Now what?

    I think at the end of the day, I don’t really care for money that much, I am more interested in speculation, risk, and thinking and predicting the future. This is my prime joy and bliss.

    Don’t simply sit on the sidelines, twiddling your thumbs for some sort of magical future to get better. I say rather than waiting for the future, speculate and invest in it right now!

    ERIC

    ***

    So what do you want for Christmas this year?

    I think for Christmas, simple things you could do:

    1. For family, invest in a collective experience. This means take a fun family trip somewhere, maybe go to Joshua tree and rent an Airbnb, go on some great hikes etc. Make the experience memorable.
    2. Just write somebody a handwritten card, or just give them a FaceTime call! Love attention and care is the best present you can give.
    3. Buy somebody a good bag of coffee, or, gift them some ERIC KIM Omakase coffee; 100% fine robusta, the best coffee on the planet. It seems that everyone drinks coffee now, even for myself the best random presents I’ve gotten were bags of great coffee! 
    4. Weightlifting equipment like Titan.Fitness, or rogue fitness; gift it to yourself or to a friend or family member! From Titan.fitness — I personally bought some farmers carry handles which I love, a loadable Olympic dumbbell. I bought a rogue fitness 400 pound sandbag, and a Texas power squat bar which I love. Giving the gift of fitness might be one of the best things you could do, or just buy somebody a core power yoga membership, or buy it for yourself! I’m really a big fan of hot yoga; something about the hot temperature sauna and sweating feels therapeutic.
    5. Vibram five finger shoes, the toe shoes. For yourself or a family member. Just go on their website and order three pairs, and keep the one that fits and return the other sizes. 

    What else?

    Some thoughts on sublime beauty:


    Sublime Beauty

    So what are we searching for, what are we looking for?

    I think what we see is some sort of sublime beauty, joy, flourishing.

    How do we attempt to achieve this? Through our cars our homes our clothing etc. 

    However… I think true sublime beauty can only be achieved by yourself, through your own artistic creations.

    For example, your own child, producing begetting and making and birthing your own child; there is seriously no greater joy.

    Also, your artistic creations. Your photos, the artwork you produce. I also qualify DALL-E 3 images, ChatGPT and AI art in it!  Why? Ultimately it is your brainchild; doesn’t really matter whether you produced it by yourself by hand or whatever. For example, Matisse in his advanced years apparently lost mobility in his body and hands, and would simply point with the stick to his assistance to create artwork for him.

    Also, Andy Warhol. He was notorious for having an army of assistance producing work for him.

    My thought on artificial intelligence and AI generated art is free. The idea is that the artwork we create is ours.

    One thing I find surprising is that the greatest boon for AI generated art is that it is all open source! Isn’t this phenomenal? 

    Open art

    Art wants to be free! Art wants to propagate into the real world, not be constrained by nothing, whether digital rights management, closed doors or borders etc.

    This is my general idea with open source artwork; I hate that so much of great photos and art is simply trapped within printed books, not easily accessible or findable on the internet. My huge frustration with photography:

    If I am trying to find the book “the Americans“, or any other book out there, any photo book… Why can’t I just Google it or find it online for free?

    I have a very simple suggestion: make the images online for free, everything open source and full resolution… and what you do instead is you charge money for the printed physical book.

    For example, let us say that you’re planning to publish a photo book. The easiest way to approach this is have an open source free full resolution PDF available online to download, to give your potential customer and clients a taste of what to expect. And then if they like your photos enough, they will buy the printed book.

    Why? people like physical things. I think the bias is that people don’t like to pay for digital things, but we are more than happy to pay for physical things.

    For example, a very simple strategy to thrive as a modern day photographer entrepreneur and artist visual artist, Fatar for it to have all of your artwork open, open source, full resolution JPEG or PDF or whatever… and barbell that with charging a lot of money for your products, physical products, embodied workshop experiences etc.


    How to create sublime beauty?

    For me, sublime beauty in the context of photography is high grain, gritty high contrast black-and-white. It is a simple aesthetic taste for myself; to me there is nothing more beautiful more sublime.

    Also, taking photos of your loved ones. This involves your kids, your wife or your spouse, and even yourself.

    Even my friend Josh White said it wisely: At the end of your life, are you going to care about all these photos that you shot of strangers, or are you going to care about photos that you shot of your loved ones? 


    Love

    I think instead of thinking about love, better to think about heart, care, curation, what you care for.

    For example, the word coeur– same as courage, curate, care.

    It all comes down to the heart.

    Just don’t do nothing you don’t care for

    One of the via negativa ways we could live life; just don’t do anything you don’t care for.

    For example when you’re talking to kids, best to ask “What don’t you want to be when you grow up?”

    Also happiness is via negativa; better to ascertain what makes you miserable, what you hate, what you despise… and figuring out how to subtract or delete that from your life, rather than doing things that make you “happy”.

    For example, personal annoyances of myself include being stuck in traffic, dealing with subscriptions and subscription model things, closed source things, modern day news and media and Facebook Instagram, YouTube, family annoyances and drama, other peoples problems etc.

    Also, typically I despise email; and also I typically hate being automatically subscribed to some BS newsletter that I did not opt in. Therefore the silver ethical rule here is interesting:

     If something annoys you, don’t do that to others.

    For example, I hate when people automatically subscribe me to some email newsletter without me checking a button to confirm that actually wanted. Therefore I will never send an email newsletter to anybody who has not intentionally opted in.

    Also, trying to do things for other people that I would myself like. For example, I don’t think I’ve ever received an email or an email newsletter that I actually liked to work for. Therefore as a consequence, my simple strategy is to drive to send emails or email newsletters that people actually look forward to reading. 
    
    Or in other words, make people actually positively excited to check their email inbox!

    What you yourself do

    Ignore the “advice” of others, and also… best to simply observe what other people do.

    Also, the best way to study success is to figure out what people don’t do, what they don’t own, etc. 

    For example, Elon Musk and Kanye West; neither of them wear watches.

    Also, neither has an Instagram, both deleted it.

    Also, Elon Musk doesn’t own a home or live in a home. I think he just rents some sort of random two bedroom one bath home hut somewhere in Austin Texas.

    Also, Elon Musk does not own any Lamborghinis Ferraris or loser cars.
    
    Also, the greatest courage of a Kanye West; he doesn’t censor himself, he says what is really on his mind.

    Maybe is Kanye the most courageous man alive? Maybe. There is no right and wrong, all is permitted. Therefore to not censor yourself in modern-day society is the ultimate act of courage? 

    Sublime thoughts

    Beautiful body, beautiful thoughts.

    How to gain more beautiful thoughts? My simple suggestion is maximum time in the direct sun, ideally topless. Also, sleep early — shoot for 8pm?

    A simple suggestion is limit your coffee and caffeine intake only between 4 AM to 9 AM, or only the morning hours.

    And also during the day, lift weights at least once, maybe even twice.

    Also my supreme luxury; the last few days, in a single day I have done all three: at least one hot yoga session, at least one hike in nature, and at least one weightlifting session.

    A life post-work?

    Why work? I thought which interested me while in Vietnam, when Cindy and I were living in Hanoi, paying only $320 USD a month for rent, a position in which literally even if we wanted to spend all our money, we cannot spend it fast enough. Eating out every day, living in a small hotel room, no possessions no nothing.

    Living in America seems a bit foolish if you don’t need to. I think it is far superior to live in Hanoi, Saigon, Pom pen, ironically even Japan; I think when we were living in Kyoto, we were subbing an apartment for only $500 USD a month.

    SUITS PDF BOOK >

    Why think abroad?

    TRAVEL NOTES (PDF)– the simple financial life leverage is simple:

    Earn US dollars, American standards, live abroad.

    For example, Mexico City, Roma Norte, even Doctores. Condesa — all good.

    Truth be told, if Cindy was not employed in America, I see zero reason to live here. I would probably be living somewhere else; and also assuming I didn’t have a kid, I would definitely be some sort of weird digital nomad. 
    

    Writing is leisure

    People don’t seem to get it; the primary function of writing is meta-thinking, a fun leisure activity. A fun luxury.

    This is where I don’t understand 99.9% of writers; it seems some sort of weird self-flagellation here. Most writers I know… don’t actually enjoy writing. 

    This is where ChatGPT is no threat; honestly we gotta rethink this whole K-12 education and college thing; the point of writing isn’t writing for the sake of good writing; the point of writing is to flesh out our thoughts, to share ideas that we find interesting.

    What is the point of life anyways?

    A simple one is to have offspring; to have at least one kid, perhaps ideally two kids, or if you’re willing… more.

    I think the funny thing about kids and family is that typically we use ourselves in our own life experiences as a barometer and framing. For example, I have one younger sister two years younger than me, and I always wanted to have at least one boy, one girl. It is because that is how I was raised.

    Having kids make sense in so far much as if people stopped having kids, quite literally there would be no future humanity. What’s the point of having all the wealth in the world if there are no future children or humans to enjoy it?


    What do you want your kids to become?

    Being self-employed, probably the best thing is that I literally can just spend all day with Seneca, being his personal trainer and tutor. I think of myself like Chiron the centaur, the private tutor of Achilles. Things I like to do with Seneca include physical activity exercise and exploration, his diet, which is close to 100% carnivore, 100% grass fed beef or Wagyu ground beef, and more recently… Finding this “ancestral blend“ ground beef thing at Erwhon (force of nature brand)– which has the consistency of normal ground beef, but has mixed in it beef liver and beef hard, which are natural steroids.

    In fact I think the optimal diet is a 100% organ meat diet; organ meats are probably at least 100 times higher in nutritional density than even flesh meat.

    Everyone says that eating red meat is bad; how about organ meats?

    People say that eating meat is bad for the planet, but let us consider how much waste and scraps is thrown away from the animal, which include the heart, the liver, the kidneys, the tendons and ligaments, etc.

    So if you really wanted to be a “woke” person, perhaps the wisest way to do this is just only eat a pure organ meat diet.  


    What else?

    START HERE

    New stuff:

    1. EK PODCAST
    2. MODERN PHOTOGRAPHER PDF
    3. TRAVEL NOTES PDF

    Also… more books here!


    When in doubt, go back to the source!

    ERIC KIM BLOG >

    ***

    “Greater fates, greater fortunes.” – Heraclitus


  • Why I Bought Chainlink

    Only show beauty!

    A simple heuristic that I learned from Nassim TALEB; don’t ask people what you should invest in, ask them… What did you invest in? 

    For example, I recently swapped a bunch of my bitcoin for chainlink. Why did I do it? My thoughts: 

    What is chainlink?

    Essentially it is a platform built upon Ethereum, the blockchain… that strives to solve real world problems.

    The first critical issue at hand is the notion of the “Oracle problem”, and cryptographic proof and truth.

    The general gist of the Oracle problem is that you have all these people purporting to say something… How do you know if someone is really telling the truth or not?

    Also, they’re great innovation of a decentralized oracle network. I think anything that is decentralized and can be done offline is a good idea; anything that has to be done when you’re connected to the web is fragile.

    For example, the “internet of things”, which includes all of your home devices, your home stuff etc. I think this includes your home speaker things, your Amazon echo or echo dot, your Apple HomePod thing, your ring Amazon nest devices etc. 

    Enabling transactional value?

    TVE — transactional value enabled?

    Chainlink staking?

    What is the purpose of technology and these things? A very basic idea is that the point is to help enable commerce and other things. Money makes the world go round, Publilius Syrus.

    What is money anyways? Money is movement. Anything that literally physiologically moves human beings in time and space is money.

    For example, if you promise somebody $30 an hour, they will walk around, move their bodies to clean toilets, etc.

    Also, money movement. The whole global economy to me is so fascinating; because we process and move information so quickly and so globally… how do you link it all together?  

    Chain – Link

    I find chainlink to be an interesting concept because wherever you go in real life, there are physical chain links everywhere.

    Also, technically the internet, the World Wide Web, is a bunch of hyperlinks which link websites together.

    My personal thought and prediction is that chainlink could become the next Google; Google indexes the whole internet, and made it easy for you to find any sort of website. What I think chainlink will do is link all of this information on the internet and computers and make them accessible, trustworthy, tamperproof.

    Just read it

    Only read stuff that you find interesting, skip over stuff you find boring.

    About a week or two ago, I reread the original bitcoin white paper, and I was so impressed with how short it was, how minimalistic it was, and how to the point it was. But… reading it… this time around… felt a bit boring.

    And this is the big thing: if something bores you, you gotta get out of it.

    Therefore, I sold or transferred or converted nine of my bitcoin and put it all into chainlink, at the time it was valued at ~20,800 LINK (CHAINLINK), with bitcoin at around $35,000 a bitcoin.

    I think what I try to do is think at least 30 years into the future. 20 or 30 years. It is funny, as I write this at the age of 35, 30 years from now Seneca is only going to be 32 years old, still a few years younger than me. My personal aspiration is to hold onto chainlink for at least 30 years, and then maybe transfer it to Seneca when he grows up. Or I just help him build some sort of company or entrepreneurial venture etc.

    Investing in things actually do something?

    I love bitcoin but maybe one of the big issues here is that bitcoin is like digital money and gold; most people just hold onto it, and I don’t think actually aspire to use it to actually pay for your latte at Starbucks or whatever. I think because bitcoin and cryptocurrency is so volatile; Everybody’s hope and dream and ambition is that their coin will rise value astronomically and they will become rich, buy the Lamborghini or whatever… and be happy.

    Trust nobody who drives a Lamborghini — only trust people who drive Toyota Priuses, in white. 

    Why? If you drive a Toyota Prius, in white… it is a signal that you really don’t care for appearances.

    How do you know if somebody is unsuccessful? 

    If they drive a Range Rover, a Mercedes AMG G wagon, murdered out, all matte black, a baselevel Mercedes car, a baselevel Audi car, like an A3 or a Q3, drive some sort of Audi electric car which is just the same as the Porsche Taycan, don’t forget that the Volkswagen group owns Lamborghini Audi Volkswagen Porsche etc. same thing goes with anybody who drives a BMW car.

    Foreign cars are bad.  

    It is just a game! 

    I think crypto, cryptocurrency speculation is an interesting game; prediction, prediction markets, trying to predict the future… is just a luxury and a fun thing.

    Some predictions are pretty obvious

    When I was in college, my sophomore year, and I was starting to get into trading stocks, daytrading… I had a pretty certain thought that Blockbuster was going to go under. I tried to figure out how to short stocks, but I really couldn’t figure out how to do it.

    Also I remember when the prime mortgage meltdown happened, and the value of Ford went to almost 2 dollars a year. I wanted to buy some Ford stock but I had no money, no capital.

    It is interesting to think about this in hindsight because when I was incorrectly trading pennystock, for some sort of oil producer company which was actually running at a loss… I had no idea because I misread the financials… I lost my whole life savings which was maybe $3500 USD or something. It was insanely tragic. But now that I am playing with higher sums more like $300,000 USD, I realize that it was just a valuable lesson at the time.

    Therefore, with any sort of financial speculation, think about it at the 30 year span. Even when you are 70 or 80 years old, I met this lady at the park who looked phenomenal and she told me she was 82… she looked like a very fit 45-year-old!

    My personal aspiration is when I’m 82 years old, to still be able to lift 1000 pounds. Google or YouTube “ERIC KIM thousand pound atlas lift”

    It seems that the way things are going, I don’t think it’s that ridiculous to think that we can live to be 120 years old. Try to think that far. 


    What is the use of money anyways? 

    I think actually the big thing is that everyone now aspires to buy a house or home or property. It is getting pretty ridiculous, even in Los Angeles, even buying a single-family home in Inglewood… you’re looking easily at around $1.5 million for a whatever house.

    My prediction is that the prices of homes  will continue to soar astronomically high. I think a lot of these $1.5 million homes can easily balloon two $3 million, $5 million, 10 and $15 million, $150 million or whatever. Why? The biggest issue at hand is runaway inflation, which means the value of the US dollar and currency is continually going lower and lower, because the US is what, currently speaking $30 trillion in debt? And what America thinks the smart idea is to just keep printing money ad infinitum, into infinity, in order to “stimulate” the economy.

    But does this work? No.

    For example talking to my friend Noel who works in hygiene, he says that a lot of these young guys, around 25 to 30 years old, are so lazy. Why? After Covid and people started giving away these free checks… and from unemployment you could literally make $5000 USD a month by sitting on your butt and doing nothing… people lost the motivation to work. A lot of people moved back home, live with their parents, and are essentially living for free. As a consequence you have a huge generation of unmotivated people, unwilling to do any sort of manual labor, which is bad because having manual and physical labor is critical.

    For example, being in Beverly Hills a lot; and Holby Hills,  there is this new funny caste systems; really rich people getting mansions built, and the army of construction labor people, mostly from Mexico doing the labor to build these mansions.

    Also, think about Amazon prime delivery drivers, people who bag your food at Whole Foods, Erwhon etc, all these contractors electricians plumbers etc.… the truly critical labor. Doesn’t matter if you pay them $30 $40 $50 or even $60 an hour, it seems at this point money doesn’t really motivate them anymore. Therefore what do you do? It seems that America we are just importing more people from Mexico to do labor for us, because they are motivated. Americans are no longer motivated.

    Crypto, crypto technology and cryptocurrency is optimistic

    I am obsessed with the future. Future thinking, future technologies, new brave worlds to discover.

    Why? I have always been into technology ever since I was a kid, getting my first Acer aspire Pentium one processor computer when I was around 11 years old. Even teaching myself how to program visual basic 3.0 in the early days, creating my own AOL “punter“ etc.

    Also, I still will never forget when I read the Maddox article on why you should beat your kids, in computer class in Bayside Queens at PS 169 when I was in the fifth grade, and all of me and our friends, a bunch of 11-year-old laughing and saying “It is true!”

    Even I remember as a kid, when I first moved to New York, maybe it was I had some sort of school in the Bronx, when kids in the hallway would “the South Park movies “blame Canada, blame Canada”…

    Anyways the generalized thought is I love media information, and also I have a passion to innovate, write and to think, to motivate and to also disprove nonsense.

    Ever since I was young I was always bred with an insanely huge ego; the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, (jang-son), being raised with the “prince disease“, was unusually good for me. Always getting the finest cuts of meat and galbi from my grandmother, always showered with praise love and attention and how smart tall and good-looking I was. Very good for me.

    The US dollar is static

    Anybody who is a wage slave, which means anybody who is paid a biweekly or monthly salary… doesn’t matter if you’re being paid $10 million a year from Apple… You’re still a wage slave.

    A simple heuristic:

    Can you go two years without checking or responding to any of your emails or not?

    If you have to use email for a living, you’re not free. 


    Once you’re a crypto trillionaire, then what?

    Let us say that your cryptocurrency goes to the value of $1 trillion USD. Then what? Then do you just dissolve it all into US dollars, buy a mansion and a yacht somewhere, and live indefinitely into the horizon for infinite bliss?

    This doesn’t seem to be the goal. For me, I think a more interesting life trajectory is to then to no longer care for money, and use your power mind and soul and body for more interesting things which can include philosophy, writing, thinking, doing research, reading, making art, publishing art, etc.

    Money as it means to creative leisure and production.

    Seeking immortal fame and glory?

    One thing I am very happy about is ChatGPT knows exactly who I am, why I am so significant and influential, etc. As a consequence, I already feel like my legacy is secure, and I don’t have anything left to prove to nobody else.

    As a consequence, at this point life is all upside no downside. Even one of the happiest moments of my life, Cindy and I begetting our first son Seneca, at this point life is all upside no downside.

    As a man, as long as you have one male heir, you can die happy. 


    Now what?

    Things that I find interesting use cases of chainlink:

    1. Real estate, homebuying, escrow: even NASSIM TALEB has said that traditionally, most wealth generation in human society is through land, land ownership land property etc. For example let us say that you buy that 1.5 million dollar home, and 20 years from now it’ll be worth $3.2 million. And then let us assume that 30 or 40 years from now it is worth $5.7 million, and your kid inherits it. And when your kid is 57 years old it is worth $22 million, and he will able to pass it on to his son or daughter, and maybe that will be worth $120 million into their future. The whole escrow process and verification process is quite fragmented, unreliable. I think chainlink can be a technology which motivates and enables more streamlined home buying processes.
    2. Identity verification: it is so easy for people to just steal your social security number, and pretend it is you. Imagine a future in which you could use chainlink or some sort of blockchain enabled identification, which can essentially be your global citizen passport to all of the world and the internet? This seems especially useful in today’s world in which everything is so fragmented, between our Apple ID, our Gmail, Etc. Or think about border control; certainly it would be easier to travel if there was some sort of blockchain or global ledger to verify your identity, this could help facilitate movement and verification, and deal with issues of forged passports etc. 

    Military

    I think an inconvenient truth is that truth be told, a lot of the world is run by the military. Certainly there are lots of bad things about the military, but truth be told, without the US military, our precious US dollars would be worth nothing.

    For example, I think the American government we are $31.46 trillion dollars in debt? To where… China?

    As a consequence, how does America’s stay afloat and print more money? Simple, she simply prints more money because she can because we got the military to back us. 

    For example, let’s say that mainland China comes knocking and asks for her money back. Is America going to give it back? No. We will just wave our big stick, and say we are not interested.

    So the interesting use case of chainlink and the US military is especially in the future drone warfare or whatever… It actually does seem that having some sort of crypto technology will be useful here.

    For example the internet of things, chain-link solves this issue. Also, I believe a lot of the US military intervention stuff is going to be unmanned, and having access to some sort of technology which allows automation without meddling in the Internet seems like a good idea.

    Even look at the company Anduril– it has a major investment from founders fund, Peter Thiel’s venture capitalist fund. It looks like the future of autonomous flying drones to bomb the bad guys is going to be the future. 


    So why did I buy it?

    I think in life, big opportunities only come infrequently. As a consequence, I think in life… it seems better to take really big bold bets, rather than just stand on the sidelines.

    At the end of our lives, we will regret more the decisions or the risks we failed to do, rather than the ones we did.

    For example, if a big opportunity comes up, and you’re interested, go for it. You don’t want to be 90 years old on your deathbed, kicking yourself in the butt wishing that you had taken that risk. In hindsight, everything is regret. 


    Think Eric Schmidt

    My personal speculation is that I think chainlink will become the next Google. Why? ERIC Schmidt is on the board of trustees for chainlink, and ERIC Schmidt is the one who built Google into what it is today. Just watch the interview between him and Sergey. In a telling quote, ERIC Schmidt said:

    The secret to success of Google was that we tried to put a little bit of Google into everything.

    Genius. For example, this is evident in how whenever you Google search something, there is a little bit of that Google code in the URL. 

    Therefore my prediction is chainlink… whether you know it or not there will be a little bit of chainlink in everything.  For example, their decentralized oracle network to show accurate prices for any cryptocurrency asset down to the penny. Also, maybe the future of international banking, the SWIFT system… Will be enabled with chainlink? 

    Who is Satoshi?

    Apparently there’s a rumor that Sergey Nazarov might be Satoshi.

    Also the reason why I trust Sergey as a founder is this:

    He doesn’t really care for social appearances.

    I think I learned this from NASSIM TALEB; only trust doctors who look like butchers. Why? When somebody looks too much the part of something, they are not. 

    For example, when you go to a party, who is the real successful person? The person who could show up and meet the prime minister and shake hands wearing T-shirt and jeans and sneakers, just like my friend did meeting the prime minister.

    Also, the really really rich successful person will just drive some sort of white Toyota Prius or old beat up Honda Civic, in silver. Even the family car; very specifically… White Honda Odyssey. Not even a Toyota sienna!

    Even family connections, my $500 million net worth familia– the dad gave all the kids Ford fusions, and even though the dad is a major player in Tesla, they only have a super base level Tesla model three in white. No Tesla model Y, X, S.

    Anyways, the founder Sergey — he always wears the same blue flannel, and really has an air of insouciance that is good. He isn’t the one looking all flashy driving around in the Lamborghini. He probably just drives a Honda Civic or Honda Accord, and I think he is really trying to build something he cares for.

    I think there’s a saying in Silicon Valley amongst venture capital firms, bet on the jockey not the horse. That means, better to invest in the founder of a great thing, rather than the company or the product. For example, it is wise to bet on Elon Musk and anything he built, rather than Other companies which are built by random CEOs and non-visionaries.

    I bet on Sergey N.

    Investors 

    My brother-in-law Khanh told me: if you spent $80,000 to buy a Tesla model S several years ago, that would be worth $500,000 today!

    True investors live like poor people, and speculate on the thing, rather than buying the thing.

    For example, instead of spending $120,000 on Tesla, I would instead prefer to buy $120,000 worth of Tesla stock.

    Why? Things that go up in value overtime versus things that go down in value.

    For example, even though a Tesla car gets software updates over the air, eventually over time, the value of it will slowly depreciate. The battery range will become less, more wear and tear on the vehicle etc. Even the world’s best car can be robust at best, not antifragile.

    What is antifragile? Something that overtime gets better and stronger and more powerful and better and more robust… rather than the opposite.

    This might be the intelligence of collecting rare collector cars, like old Ferraris or whatever… even old Porsche cars, over time, the value of them will go up.

    Even apparently the old Toyota Supra, the one that showed up in fast and the furious, they are worth close to $250,000 now!

    So perhaps the best way to think about things is to think of them like financial investments, rather than toys.

    Other good news 

    It looks like their new chainlink staking, chainlink economics is also doing very well. The full pool has been filled already!

    Now what?

    I think at the end of the day, I don’t really care for money that much, I am more interested in speculation, risk, and thinking and predicting the future. This is my prime joy and bliss.

    Don’t simply sit on the sidelines, twiddling your thumbs for some sort of magical future to get better. I say rather than waiting for the future, speculate and invest in it right now!

    ERIC

    ***

    So what do you want for Christmas this year?

    I think for Christmas, simple things you could do:

    1. For family, invest in a collective experience. This means take a fun family trip somewhere, maybe go to Joshua tree and rent an Airbnb, go on some great hikes etc. Make the experience memorable.
    2. Just write somebody a handwritten card, or just give them a FaceTime call! Love attention and care is the best present you can give.
    3. Buy somebody a good bag of coffee, or, gift them some ERIC KIM Omakase coffee; 100% fine robusta, the best coffee on the planet. It seems that everyone drinks coffee now, even for myself the best random presents I’ve gotten were bags of great coffee! 
    4. Weightlifting equipment like Titan.Fitness, or rogue fitness; gift it to yourself or to a friend or family member! From Titan.fitness — I personally bought some farmers carry handles which I love, a loadable Olympic dumbbell. I bought a rogue fitness 400 pound sandbag, and a Texas power squat bar which I love. Giving the gift of fitness might be one of the best things you could do, or just buy somebody a core power yoga membership, or buy it for yourself! I’m really a big fan of hot yoga; something about the hot temperature sauna and sweating feels therapeutic.
    5. Vibram five finger shoes, the toe shoes. For yourself or a family member. Just go on their website and order three pairs, and keep the one that fits and return the other sizes. 

    What else?

    Some thoughts on sublime beauty:


    Sublime Beauty

    So what are we searching for, what are we looking for?

    I think what we see is some sort of sublime beauty, joy, flourishing.

    How do we attempt to achieve this? Through our cars our homes our clothing etc. 

    However… I think true sublime beauty can only be achieved by yourself, through your own artistic creations.

    For example, your own child, producing begetting and making and birthing your own child; there is seriously no greater joy.

    Also, your artistic creations. Your photos, the artwork you produce. I also qualify DALL-E 3 images, ChatGPT and AI art in it!  Why? Ultimately it is your brainchild; doesn’t really matter whether you produced it by yourself by hand or whatever. For example, Matisse in his advanced years apparently lost mobility in his body and hands, and would simply point with the stick to his assistance to create artwork for him.

    Also, Andy Warhol. He was notorious for having an army of assistance producing work for him.

    My thought on artificial intelligence and AI generated art is free. The idea is that the artwork we create is ours.

    One thing I find surprising is that the greatest boon for AI generated art is that it is all open source! Isn’t this phenomenal? 

    Open art

    Art wants to be free! Art wants to propagate into the real world, not be constrained by nothing, whether digital rights management, closed doors or borders etc.

    This is my general idea with open source artwork; I hate that so much of great photos and art is simply trapped within printed books, not easily accessible or findable on the internet. My huge frustration with photography:

    If I am trying to find the book “the Americans“, or any other book out there, any photo book… Why can’t I just Google it or find it online for free?

    I have a very simple suggestion: make the images online for free, everything open source and full resolution… and what you do instead is you charge money for the printed physical book.

    For example, let us say that you’re planning to publish a photo book. The easiest way to approach this is have an open source free full resolution PDF available online to download, to give your potential customer and clients a taste of what to expect. And then if they like your photos enough, they will buy the printed book.

    Why? people like physical things. I think the bias is that people don’t like to pay for digital things, but we are more than happy to pay for physical things.

    For example, a very simple strategy to thrive as a modern day photographer entrepreneur and artist visual artist, Fatar for it to have all of your artwork open, open source, full resolution JPEG or PDF or whatever… and barbell that with charging a lot of money for your products, physical products, embodied workshop experiences etc.


    How to create sublime beauty?

    For me, sublime beauty in the context of photography is high grain, gritty high contrast black-and-white. It is a simple aesthetic taste for myself; to me there is nothing more beautiful more sublime.

    Also, taking photos of your loved ones. This involves your kids, your wife or your spouse, and even yourself.

    Even my friend Josh White said it wisely: At the end of your life, are you going to care about all these photos that you shot of strangers, or are you going to care about photos that you shot of your loved ones? 


    Love

    I think instead of thinking about love, better to think about heart, care, curation, what you care for.

    For example, the word coeur– same as courage, curate, care.

    It all comes down to the heart.

    Just don’t do nothing you don’t care for

    One of the via negativa ways we could live life; just don’t do anything you don’t care for.

    For example when you’re talking to kids, best to ask “What don’t you want to be when you grow up?”

    Also happiness is via negativa; better to ascertain what makes you miserable, what you hate, what you despise… and figuring out how to subtract or delete that from your life, rather than doing things that make you “happy”.

    For example, personal annoyances of myself include being stuck in traffic, dealing with subscriptions and subscription model things, closed source things, modern day news and media and Facebook Instagram, YouTube, family annoyances and drama, other peoples problems etc.

    Also, typically I despise email; and also I typically hate being automatically subscribed to some BS newsletter that I did not opt in. Therefore the silver ethical rule here is interesting:

     If something annoys you, don’t do that to others.

    For example, I hate when people automatically subscribe me to some email newsletter without me checking a button to confirm that actually wanted. Therefore I will never send an email newsletter to anybody who has not intentionally opted in.

    Also, trying to do things for other people that I would myself like. For example, I don’t think I’ve ever received an email or an email newsletter that I actually liked to work for. Therefore as a consequence, my simple strategy is to drive to send emails or email newsletters that people actually look forward to reading. 
    
    Or in other words, make people actually positively excited to check their email inbox!

    What you yourself do

    Ignore the “advice” of others, and also… best to simply observe what other people do.

    Also, the best way to study success is to figure out what people don’t do, what they don’t own, etc. 

    For example, Elon Musk and Kanye West; neither of them wear watches.

    Also, neither has an Instagram, both deleted it.

    Also, Elon Musk doesn’t own a home or live in a home. I think he just rents some sort of random two bedroom one bath home hut somewhere in Austin Texas.

    Also, Elon Musk does not own any Lamborghinis Ferraris or loser cars.
    
    Also, the greatest courage of a Kanye West; he doesn’t censor himself, he says what is really on his mind.

    Maybe is Kanye the most courageous man alive? Maybe. There is no right and wrong, all is permitted. Therefore to not censor yourself in modern-day society is the ultimate act of courage? 

    Sublime thoughts

    Beautiful body, beautiful thoughts.

    How to gain more beautiful thoughts? My simple suggestion is maximum time in the direct sun, ideally topless. Also, sleep early — shoot for 8pm?

    A simple suggestion is limit your coffee and caffeine intake only between 4 AM to 9 AM, or only the morning hours.

    And also during the day, lift weights at least once, maybe even twice.

    Also my supreme luxury; the last few days, in a single day I have done all three: at least one hot yoga session, at least one hike in nature, and at least one weightlifting session.

    A life post-work?

    Why work? I thought which interested me while in Vietnam, when Cindy and I were living in Hanoi, paying only $320 USD a month for rent, a position in which literally even if we wanted to spend all our money, we cannot spend it fast enough. Eating out every day, living in a small hotel room, no possessions no nothing.

    Living in America seems a bit foolish if you don’t need to. I think it is far superior to live in Hanoi, Saigon, Pom pen, ironically even Japan; I think when we were living in Kyoto, we were subbing an apartment for only $500 USD a month.

    SUITS PDF BOOK >

    Why think abroad?

    TRAVEL NOTES (PDF)– the simple financial life leverage is simple:

    Earn US dollars, American standards, live abroad.

    For example, Mexico City, Roma Norte, even Doctores. Condesa — all good.

    Truth be told, if Cindy was not employed in America, I see zero reason to live here. I would probably be living somewhere else; and also assuming I didn’t have a kid, I would definitely be some sort of weird digital nomad. 
    

    Writing is leisure

    People don’t seem to get it; the primary function of writing is meta-thinking, a fun leisure activity. A fun luxury.

    This is where I don’t understand 99.9% of writers; it seems some sort of weird self-flagellation here. Most writers I know… don’t actually enjoy writing. 

    This is where ChatGPT is no threat; honestly we gotta rethink this whole K-12 education and college thing; the point of writing isn’t writing for the sake of good writing; the point of writing is to flesh out our thoughts, to share ideas that we find interesting.

    What is the point of life anyways?

    A simple one is to have offspring; to have at least one kid, perhaps ideally two kids, or if you’re willing… more.

    I think the funny thing about kids and family is that typically we use ourselves in our own life experiences as a barometer and framing. For example, I have one younger sister two years younger than me, and I always wanted to have at least one boy, one girl. It is because that is how I was raised.

    Having kids make sense in so far much as if people stopped having kids, quite literally there would be no future humanity. What’s the point of having all the wealth in the world if there are no future children or humans to enjoy it?


    What do you want your kids to become?

    Being self-employed, probably the best thing is that I literally can just spend all day with Seneca, being his personal trainer and tutor. I think of myself like Chiron the centaur, the private tutor of Achilles. Things I like to do with Seneca include physical activity exercise and exploration, his diet, which is close to 100% carnivore, 100% grass fed beef or Wagyu ground beef, and more recently… Finding this “ancestral blend“ ground beef thing at Erwhon (force of nature brand)– which has the consistency of normal ground beef, but has mixed in it beef liver and beef hard, which are natural steroids.

    In fact I think the optimal diet is a 100% organ meat diet; organ meats are probably at least 100 times higher in nutritional density than even flesh meat.

    Everyone says that eating red meat is bad; how about organ meats?

    People say that eating meat is bad for the planet, but let us consider how much waste and scraps is thrown away from the animal, which include the heart, the liver, the kidneys, the tendons and ligaments, etc.

    So if you really wanted to be a “woke” person, perhaps the wisest way to do this is just only eat a pure organ meat diet.  


  • Current market sentiment of bitcoin

    Bitcoin is robust.

    ”Resilient Bitcoin”

    chatgpt as insanely fascinating to analyze overall sentiment and market trends?

    Also — the question .. why?

    The positive market sentiment towards Bitcoin in November 2023 can be attributed to several factors:

    1. Technical Indicators and Price Trends: The presence of a solid uptrend in Bitcoin’s price, as evidenced by futures prices and daily bar charts, typically generates confidence among investors and traders. This uptrend suggests that the market is responding positively to Bitcoin’s performance and its potential future trajectory.
    2. Yearly Highs and Price Recovery: Bitcoin reaching new yearly highs and its significant recovery from lower price points earlier in the year signal strength and resilience. This kind of price movement often attracts more investors, as it indicates a potential for further gains.
    3. Market Psychology – Fear & Greed Index: The shift in the Bitcoin Fear and Greed Index from fear to greed indicates a change in investor sentiment. This index reflects the emotions and sentiments of market participants; a shift towards greed suggests that investors are becoming more optimistic and are willing to take on more risk in expectation of higher returns.
    4. Overall Crypto Market Performance: The bullish trend in the broader cryptocurrency market, as seen throughout 2023, can also contribute to positive sentiment towards Bitcoin. As a leading cryptocurrency, Bitcoin often mirrors or influences wider market trends.
    5. Historical Patterns and Predictions: Anticipated movements, like Bitcoin surpassing key price levels (e.g., $45,000), based on historical patterns and expert predictions, can fuel optimism. Investors often look to past trends and expert analysis as indicators of future performance.
    6. Macro-Economic Factors: While not specified in the cited sources, broader macroeconomic factors, such as inflation rates, global economic stability, and technology adoption trends, can also influence Bitcoin’s market sentiment. For example, in times of economic uncertainty, Bitcoin is sometimes viewed as a digital gold or a hedge against traditional financial markets.

    These factors collectively contribute to shaping the market’s view of Bitcoin, leading to the neutral-to-bullish sentiment observed in November 2023.

    The current market sentiment for Bitcoin as of November 2023 is generally positive, though it exhibits a mix of neutrality and bullish tendencies:

    1. As of November 22, 2023, the market sentiment is neutral, with the Fear & Greed index indicating a state of greed. Key support levels are identified at around $37,011, $36,556, and $36,203, with resistance levels at $37,818, $38,171, and $38,626 oai_citation:1,Bitcoin Price Prediction – BTC Price Estimated to Reach … – CoinCodex.
    2. Bitcoin futures prices showed an upward trend in early November trading, suggesting a bullish market sentiment. The daily bar chart for Bitcoin indicated a firm uptrend in prices, hinting at a shift in market sentiment towards a more positive outlook oai_citation:2,Bitcoin November 10 daily chart alert – The trend is the bulls’ friend ….
    3. In November 2023, Bitcoin and several other altcoins reached new yearly highs, with predictions suggesting Bitcoin could move above $45,000. This indicates a bullish sentiment in the cryptocurrency market oai_citation:3,The Biggest Crypto Predictions for November 2023.
    4. The 2023 crypto market overall has seen a moderately bullish trend, with a strong rally in the first quarter and the fourth quarter marking the highest point of the year. This trend is led by a resilient Bitcoin, adding to the optimistic outlook oai_citation:4,Bitcoin Market Recap 2023: Bullish Trends, Bitcoin Halving, and ….
    5. Bitcoin’s price increased significantly over the year, rising from $16,605 at the start of 2023 to around $36,500. The Bitcoin Fear and Greed index moved from a state of fear in August to greed in November, further reinforcing the bullish sentiment in the market oai_citation:5,Bitcoin Price Prediction 2023, 2024, 2025, 2030 – Techopedia.

    Overall, the market sentiment for Bitcoin in November 2023 leans towards a positive outlook, with a mix of neutral and bullish tendencies.

  • Chainlink price

    Hmmm … using ChatGPT to analyze crypto prices is actually really fascinating:

    The price of Chainlink (LINK) as of November 22, 2023, has been subject to significant movement and speculation. Here are some key details:

    1. Recent Performance: Chainlink experienced a remarkable 22% surge in its value within a single day, reaching its highest price in months. This surge saw LINK’s price rise beyond the $9 mark oai_citation:1,Chainlink’s Pre Bull Run 22% Price Jump Explained.
    2. Current Price: As per the latest updates, the Chainlink price was around $14.3 USD. Predictions suggested that its value would increase by approximately 7.76%, potentially reaching $16.39 by November 22, 2023 oai_citation:2,Chainlink (LINK) Price Prediction 2023 2024 2025 2026 – 2030 – Changelly.
    3. Price Forecast and Market Sentiment: There’s a bullish sentiment in the market regarding Chainlink, with forecasts indicating a range for the year 2023 between $18 to $22. This trend is a part of a broader elevated trend observed since the beginning of the final quarter of the year, marked by a significant influx of buying volume oai_citation:3,Chainlink Price Prediction: LINK Marines Poised to Lift the Price ….

    These insights reflect the dynamic and volatile nature of cryptocurrency markets, where prices can fluctuate widely based on a variety of factors, including market sentiment, investor behavior, and broader economic trends.

    Why did it go up?

    The recent increase in Chainlink’s (LINK) price can be attributed to several factors:

    1. Network Activity and Whale Transactions: An analysis by Santiment, an on-chain intelligence platform, revealed heightened activity on the Chainlink network. This included over 220 whale transactions exceeding $100,000 each, and nearly 5,000 distinct addresses were engaged with LINK. Additionally, LINK’s trading volume surpassed 800 million, indicating a potential accumulation trend oai_citation:1,Chainlink’s Pre Bull Run 22% Price Jump Explained – Crypto Daily.
    2. Chainlink’s Developments and Partnerships: Chainlink’s role in the evolving landscape of traditional finance and cryptocurrencies has been highlighted. It acts as a decentralized oracle network bridging the gap between smart contracts on the blockchain and real-world data. Speculations about its potential involvement with Hong Kong’s central bank digital currency (CBDC) and its partnerships, such as with the Depository Trust & Clearing Corporation (DTCC), have also contributed to the positive sentiment oai_citation:2,Why Chainlink ($LINK) Could Be Headed Toward $200, Explains Crypto Analyst | Cryptoglobe.
    3. Institutional Interest and Network Growth: The increasing institutional interest, as shown by the 200% surge in the Grayscale Chainlink Trust, alongside the growth in the number of active addresses and transactions on the LINK network, underscores broader acceptance and utilization of Chainlink’s infrastructure. This growing institutional interest, coupled with Chainlink’s unique position in the smart contract ecosystem, is a significant driver of its price increase oai_citation:3,Chainlink (LINK) on the Rise: A Strong Recovery Story – Crypto News Flash.

    These factors collectively contribute to Chainlink’s price dynamics, reflecting the complex interplay of market sentiment, institutional interest, network activity, and investor behavior in the cryptocurrency market.

  • FREE PDF EBOOK: 100 Lessons From the Masters of Street Photography

    FREE PDF EBOOK: 100 Lessons From the Masters of Street Photography

    Conquer street photography:

    Dropbox PDF Download >>>

    Also — GOOGLE DRIVE DOWNLOAD

    Also, if you want the MEGA DOWNLOAD of all the lessons from the masters, check out this GOOGLE DRIVE LINK. PDF LINK

    (more…)
  • Street Photography and Pork Belly (삼겹살) Thoughts

    Street Photography and Pork Belly (삼겹살) Thoughts

    PDF TEXT

    Some thoughts on Street Photography and some thoughts on Pork Belly (ssamgyupsal, 삼겹살):


    Does Street Photography Need to Be Shot Without Permission, or Candidly?

    Even the word “candid“, means more being straight forward and honest”— not about being “posed” or “unposed”.

    Even the Latin “candidus” means “white”, from “candeo”— I shine.

    Why the differentiation?

    First, we must consider our our personal history and origin. Whether we like it or not, Henri Cartier Bresson is our granddaddy. Any notion of mobile photography, starting with the compact 35mm camera comes from him.

    My personal theory is that Henri Cartier Bresson himself was kind of this pretentious fellow. If you watch these old documentaries on him, he himself loved to photograph other people, but he himself hated being photographed. I found this discrepancy quite cowardly; for a photographer to thrive, a photographer must be comfortable being on both sides of the lens.

    Therefore, I think the reason why Henri Cartier Bresson was such a huge proponent of not interacting with your subject was that he himself was kind of antisocial. Maybe he lacked the courage to interact with strangers, and he preferred being a fly on the wall.

    However, a lot of his famous photos were actually shot with permission or some sort of acknowledgment from the subject. For example, his famous photo of three women in a triangle composition; if you inspect his contact sheet, you can see there was a clear interaction between him and subjects.

    Also, it seemed that Henri Cartier person had a passion for portrait photography. And this is the grey zone; certainly his subjects knew that they were being photographed, but what Henri Cartier Bresson was trying to do was capture his unique perspective of them which wasn’t his overt style of posing. What he seemed instead was something deeper, something more profound and interesting.

    And this is the big thing about photography; photography doesn’t need to be about posed or not posed. Rather, you as an artist striving to make some sort of image that you yourself find beautiful and interesting.


    Pork Belly (삼겹살)

    Something I’m very curious about; why is it that in so many world religions Judaism, Islam, etc., eating pork is prohibited and is not considered Halal?

    Some theories:

    1. Is it really harder to digest?

    Something I get very very suspicious about is when Asian people say that eating meat, red meat, beef, etc. is hard to digest. Their claims are not scientific at all; my personal theory is that it is a moralistic thing; because meat, beef is considered so expensive compared to just eating rice and noodles, being a person who eats a ton of meat, and only meat is considered immoral.

    Also, if you grew up poor, or poverty stricken, there is a general Asian notion that everyone must suffer together. There is a funny Vietnamese saying that says something like, “if one horse is sick, none of the horses eat.” It is a basic notion of collective suffering and compassion.

    2. Do not trust Bill Gates

    One individual who I am very anti-and suspicious of is Bill Gates. It seems nowadays, he is generally seen with an aura of being ultra compassionate, and altruistic. But in truth, I think he is probably a closet asshole; I think history will show in the long run that he was in fact, probably more of a closet asshole than Steve Jobs, who was at least a more honest overt asshole.

    I don’t want to court. Statistics, but I once heard some interview on the Joe Rogan podcast that Bill Gates owns much farmland in America. One low-key suspicion I have is this; anyone who promotes a plant-based lifestyle, and is generally anti-eating red meat, but they personally own a lot of farmland, and they make money from selling plant products should be avoided.

    For example, there are lots of new Netflix documentaries about why eating meat is bad for you. However, who produces these things? A lot of these producers own pea protein protein powder processing factories and plants; the more of their plant-based protein we consume, the richer they become.

    Just follow the money. The only people you could really really trust a little more is people who do not have financial conflicts of interest.

    3. Is it true that everyone has a different digestive system?

    A funny thing I heard is that apparently East Asians have a slightly different digestive system than northern Europeans; that apparently either the small intestine or the large intestine is shorter. I have no idea whether this is true or not, but, it certainly makes sense that from a global perspective, superficial genetic differences in our body digestive system are different.

    As a funny example, when I was in college, and really into bodybuilding, there was this funny concept of GOMAD, which stands for a “gallon of milk a day.” The basic idea was that in order to get super super buff and put on a lot of muscle mass, just drink a gallon of whole milk a day, and do very very heavy squats at the gym.

    But what I soon discovered is this; even though I enjoyed drinking whole milk in college, I could not tolerate a gallon of milk in a day. Even consuming Lactaid that I bought from Costco, did not help. Essentially I was farting all day, and my mom hated it.

    Traditionally, East Asians, and people of Korean descent
    do not have a long history of consuming cow milk products. However, if you’re a northern European, for example a Swedish person, you probably have more of a history of consuming dairy and cow milk products. There are lots of people who could drink milk just fine, but now I am so lactose intolerant that even eating butter or ghee (clarified butter which apparently has “no lactose” or “very little lactose”) gives me an upset stomach.

    4. Koreans love to drink “mak-ggul-ee” and soju, beer and wine is a new concept.

    It seems that universally, most cultures around the world enjoys some sort of ferment alcoholic beverage. For the Koreans, it is Soju and traditionally “mmak-ggul-ee”, which are alcoholic products which are extracted and fermented from rice products.

    It is the more new recent addition that Koreans got into drinking beer, wine, etc. And actually my theory is that Koreans and East Asians cannot tolerate these alcoholic types of products well, as once again, there is not a history of exposure.

    The same thing goes with gluten-based products, bread, etc. I am certain that historically, it was very very common for either the French, or the ancient Greeks to consume lots of bread, and red wine. But in Asia, east Asia, Southeast Asia, etc., it was mostly rice.

    Therefore, I think it is a good idea to think about your genetic heritage, and in fact, if you desire to maximize your strength, adopting a certain diet, lifestyle, or living in a certain climate which accords to your genetic predisposition is a good idea.

    For example, why is it that African immigrants get so miserable in London? And why it is so soul crushing for Vietnamese people to live in Minnesota? Typically if you look at skin pigment, it is a reflection of sun exposure. For example, the northern Swedish people have very light pigment, because during the winter months, there might literally only be 30 minutes of sun a day.

    Being Korean is interesting, because Korea prides itself for having four distinct seasons, we have a very hot and humid summer, a snowy winter, and a chilly fall, and a beautiful spring. Maybe this is why I preferred living on the East Coast in Providence Rhode Island than in California. I actually quite liked the snow and the changes of seasons on the east coast in New England.

    Certainly the great innovation of mankind is that we are able to disregard our genetic background and do as we please. However, if your life goal is maximal physical health, it seems wise to experiment with where to live, climate, altitude, etc.

    5. Why do Koreans like to eat pork belly, ssamgyup-ssal so much?

    It seems in Korea the typical go to meal is pork belly and soju. Even if you are super rich, there seems to be something very pleasant about the nostalgia of eating ssamgyupsal and soju in some sort of “ppojang-matcha” (imagine a scrappy outdoor eating pub) in the rain.

    However, if you disregard background, I think most people would prefer eating beef over pork. Why? My personal theory is that beef, cows, oxen, etc. has greater amounts of nutrition than pork. For example, the ancient Greeks; why did they prefer to eat oxen and ox‘s instead of pigs and pork? the notion of a “hectacomb”; to sacrifice 100 oxen to appease the gods. Even the currency of the ancient Greeks were head of oxen; the notion of capital comes from “caput”, literally a single head of an ox.

    It seems there might have been to practical considerations; you could use an ox to till the fields, or you could also eat them. Also back then, it seems that the preferred the fatty legs and thighs.

    Another theory I have about beef is because it is so much more red than pork. I researched this, and apparently beef is more red than pork because it contains more hemoglobin, or oxygen. It is my theory that animal products with more hemoglobin or more nutrient-rich and dense.

    For example, if you go to South America, they do not consider chicken as “meat”. Even my friend Tim Flangan when he lived in South America, when he would tell villagers that he was a vegetarian and didn’t eat meat, they nodded their head and cooked him chicken instead.

    Even for myself superficially, eating fatty cuts of even the most organic chicken (free range, pasture, “walking chicken” as they call it in Vietnamese) is never as satisfying as eating pork belly, beef ribs, or beef belly.

    According to people who subscribe to the notion of the ketogenic diet, the body is preferred source of energy is fat. I am also a little bit suspicious of this, because fat comes in many different types and flavors. As much as I love eating meat, when the meat is too fatty, it makes me feel nauseous. I like a nice blend of both fat and lean meat. It seems that if you fry pork belly well on the pan, it strikes a nice balance. As much as I love beef ribs and beef belly, sometimes it is too fatty for me.

    6. Financial considerations

    In most of the world, pork is almost always cheaper than beef. This holds true in both America and South Korea.

    Why is this? It seems that it is easier financially to fatten up a pig then to fatten up a cow. Also, if you think about land, a cow requires much more space than a pig. I am also not certain if this is true, but apparently pigs are less discerning about what you feed them, which I think is the bias against eating pork, certain religious food-laws, to prevent their people from getting sick. It makes sense back in the day, following and being observant of strict religious food eating laws probably prevented many Jewish people from dying of disease, whereas non-Jewish people who did not observe such strict laws probably perished at higher rates.

    Also, circumcision. The general superstition is that maybe in the past, the reason why people got circumcised was to prevent disease on the foreskin of a male child. However, the more historical account of an ancient Roman historian (TACITUS Histories) says that jewish people did it as a means to differentiate themselves from other non-Jewish people. In other words, it was a form of bodily differentiation, in order to strengthen the Jewish tribe.

    For example, many halal laws require that certain types of meat and food be washed in separate sinks and containers. From a modern Western perspective, this probably did in fact prevent much disease.

    But apparently nowadays, you don’t really need to cook pork that well as was once suspicious in the past. Even myself now, I am very reticent to eat pork that is not super well cooked, because of my personal if you’re ever getting sick. And this makes sense, playing it safe and not getting sick is generally a good idea.

    I don’t think I’ve ever gotten sick from eating pork that wasn’t cooked well enough. In fact, I might have even gotten sick from this Japanese Yakiniku restaurant in Vietnam, maybe even from beef that was either not hygienically prepared or something.

    Anyways, hygiene is very important. The reason I am also averse to eating street food in a lot of Asia and southeast Asia is that when you see them wash the dishes right next to the gutter, for me even a 1% percent chance of getting sick is not worth it.

    7. How would I eat if I were Jeff Bezos?

    If I were Jeff Bezos rich, a quadrillionaire I would probably eat only the worlds most expensive cuts of wagyu beef which according to my palate. Also, lots of fermented kimchi which was made without the aid of sugar. Also lots of dark leafy greens like kale, Collard greens, green mustard, etc.

    It is my funny personal ambition to eat at least 4 pounds of meat a day, assuming that I also have regular access to a gym to lift weights. My personal ideal is being 200 pounds of pure muscle, at the height of 5 foot 11, with a 6-pack.

    8. Is what you eat more important than your phone?

    The nice thing about being a modern human is that you could eat however you want. You could either be a carnivore, vegetarian, vegan, etc. As long as there are no legal laws prohibiting the way that you consume food, it is all good.

    My simple suggestion and thought is that at least for myself, our personal physique and physiology matters.

    For example, when I superficially look at people who are either raw vegetarian or vegan, they simply look sickly and anemic. Also a lot of them are very overfat.

    Also, I may be the only person that I know who adopts such a heavy carnivore diet, while also intermittent fasting, and not consuming any sugars, starches, snacks or sweets, and doesn’t drink alcohol. I am unique in this regard. Also, the only person I know who could deadlift 551 pounds and does not even consume protein powder.

    Your body physiology doesn’t lie. Also, your personal physique doesn’t care for your political thinking and affiliations. For example, I think it is totally legitimate that many people desire not to eat meat because of religious observances, or their own personal ethical reasons. However, that which seems to be categorically false is that one could become the world strongest human being, on a pure of vegetarian or vegan diet.

    Once again, do you think Patrick B, the famous vegetarian strongman — do you think he could deadlift 502 kilograms (1,200+ pounds)? I think not. Also, you must consider that most likely, all vegetarian or vegan bodybuilders, fitness idols, competitors are also probably on some sort of steroids, testosterone enhancers, etc, as long as the steroids or testosterone enhancers are “plant-based” (my joke).

    9. I care for value

    Currently between me and Cindy, I could afford to buy two Lamborghinis. Therefore in theory, I could technically afford to eat however I please. But at the end of the day, I think I still care for value. Being here in Korea, that is why I still prefer to eat pork belly, because it is the most “bang for the buck“ type of meat There. For me it is incredibly delicious, easily accessible, and quite affordable.

    Also, my great joy of Costco and the Costco business center back in the states; how I could buy beef ribs for so cheap at the local Costco business Center, also, being able to buy 100% grass fed frozen meat burger patties from Costco.

    10. What you eat and your artistic creation?

    My personal passion is turbo thoughts. That is, coming up or thinking of certain ideas and thoughts which I personally find interesting and meaningful, and I have a strong desire to share them with others.

    I am very certain that what you decide to eat affects the types of thoughts you have.

    Or, how you eat. That is, how many meals a day you decide to consume. For me, no breakfast or lunch, only one insanely big dinner once a day. This gives me more clarity of thought during the waking hours, and while the sun is up. Also, I eat Ramadan style; I only eat once the sun sets, and I do this every day, and have done it every day for nearly 6 years. People often asked me if this is hard, actually not really. At least I could drink water, coffee, and tea. If you are observing Ramadan, you are not allowed to even drink water!

    11. Why notions of calories is unscientific

    There is a notion of “scientism“, that is, something sounds more scientific and “truthy” if you attach numbers to it and quantify it. For example, the calorie myth. The idea that let’s say the average human “burns” about 2000 calories a day, and as long as you keep your calorie limit under that mark, you will not get fat.

    I am under the suspicion that the Coca-Cola corporation, which even owns “topo-chico” desires the calorie myth to propagate. Why? If you think about it, let us say that you eat a “healthy diet,” of 1800 calories a day. Therefore if you just drink “just one“ Coca-Cola soda, you will not get fat.

    However, this logic makes absolutely no sense. That is, let us assume that you did in fact, “require” 2000 calories a day. Then what if you eat only 1999 calories a day, for a whole year? In theory, you should “lose weight” (when Americans talk about “losing weight” what they mean to say is lose fat, body fat, adipose tissue). But this does not happen.

    What we must think instead is hormonal; that when you consume a sweet product, even a “0 calorie” product, like Coca-Cola zero, your body reacts to the sweet substance by pumping more insulin into your body. This huge surge of insulin into your body is what spikes your fat deposit mechanisms.

    If you think about it, almost all modern-day diseases are based on metabolic disease, or “metabolic syndrome“, that your body and hormonal system is going haywire, because of the frequent and high spikes of insulin signal in your body. And what spikes your insulin the most? White sugar, brown sugar (which is essentially just white sugar mixed with molasses), high fructose corn syrup, modern day fruit, starch, starchy vegetables like potatoes and broccoli, bread, rice, flour, beer, wine, etc.

    12. Why do I care about this so much?

    Apparently, a lot of new scientific research is starting to suggest that Alzheimer’s is actually “type three diabetes“. And diabetes, assuming that it is not type one diabetes, is purely affected by what you eat and drink.

    Also, at the end the day, technology doesn’t really matter that much. What actually matters more is what you eat and drink. And how you eat and drink.

    Also, thinking about my son Seneca. One of my great concerns is once he enters school, and public education, what kind of crap they will feed him. This thought alone makes me want to try to attempt some sort of hippie schooling system instead.

    13. We will probably be OK at the end of the day

    Thinking about myself, I grew up on cocoa puffs, and all this Costco frozen food, corn dogs, and hot pockets. I actually did turn out just fine, discovering diet and fitness as a result of becoming a very fat 12 year old, on account of the fact that I ate at least three hot pockets a day.

    What I am personally interested in is this; how to adopt a certain diet, and mode of eating, which can maximize the individual human potential.

    Then my takeaway point is this:

    Disregard politics and ethics when it comes to food and beverages. Instead, just strive to think about what gives you the most physiological power, zeal, and strength.

    ERIC


    Food theories

    1. Why eat meat?
    2. The anti meat conspiracy
    3. Muscle by KIM

    Eric Kim diet >

    Ketogenic diet?

    Intermittent Fasting and Ketogenic Diet for Photographers and Content Creators


    New thoughts

    1. Military thoughts vlog
    2. Lululemon for men

    ERIC KIM EXPERIENCE

    See minimalist in DOWNTOWN LA


    EQUIPMENT BY KIM

    HENRI NECK STRAP MARK IV: Conquer photography.


    Share the love

    Fun new thoughts? Feel free to republish or share with a friend!

    ERIC KIM NEWS


    Other thoughts to ruminate on

    1. Is it better for individuals of Asian an East Asian descent to drink green tea instead of coffee?
    2. Is living at a higher elevation, in which you have a higher altitude, and the quality of the air and the oxygen levels are different, does this contribute to more interesting and elevated thoughts?
    3. The future is bilingual; and it does seem that English is the dominant language. Therefore in order for you to thrive, write it both in the local language and English.
    4. Why Chinese in Mandarin is not the future; first of all, it is too hard to learn. Secondly, culture, music, etc. Mainland Chinese people will listen to BLACKPINK, who sing and rap both in Korean and English. Also, young rich young Chinese kids like Balenciaga shoes, Kanye West Yeezy sneakers, etc.
    5. If you feel that your health is poor, perhaps going to some sort of mountainside retreat for a month or two is actually a good way of recovering. Something about the clean mountain air, the clean mountain water, and the quiet is quite rejuvenative. 

    Other thoughts

    1. Assuming it is not snowing, and assuming it is not insanely cold, it does seem that Vibram five fingers shoes are supreme. 
    2. No two rocks are alike; the infinite curiosity of Seneca picking up rocks of varying sizes shapes and forms, and throwing it into ponds and rivers; he never bores of this. Also, when I look at all the rocks, there might be 100000,000,000 rocks. Maybe 1 billion rocks is more interesting than 1 billion dollars.
    3. Currently being here in the mountains side, no gym. A good way of physical fitness is just sprinting up the hill, doing chin-ups inside the house with a chinup bar, and throwing rocks around. 

    More thoughts to come!
    ERIC

    ERIC KIM THOUGHT STREAM


  • Pork Belly (삼겹살)

    Pork Belly (삼겹살)

    Something I’m very curious about; why is it that in so many world religions Judaism, Islam, etc., eating pork is prohibited and is not considered Halal?

    Some theories:

    1. Is it really harder to digest?

    Something I get very very suspicious about is when Asian people say that eating meat, red meat, beef, etc. is hard to digest. Their claims are not scientific at all; my personal theory is that it is a moralistic thing; because meat, beef is considered so expensive compared to just eating rice and noodles, being a person who eats a ton of meat, and only meat is considered immoral.

    Also, if you grew up poor, or poverty stricken, there is a general Asian notion that everyone must suffer together. There is a funny Vietnamese saying that says something like, “if one horse is sick, none of the horses eat.” It is a basic notion of collective suffering and compassion.

    2. Do not trust Bill Gates

    One individual who I am very anti-and suspicious of is Bill Gates. It seems nowadays, he is generally seen with an aura of being ultra compassionate, and altruistic. But in truth, I think he is probably a closet asshole; I think history will show in the long run that he was in fact, probably more of a closet asshole than Steve Jobs, who was at least a more honest overt asshole.

    I don’t want to court. Statistics, but I once heard some interview on the Joe Rogan podcast that Bill Gates owns much farmland in America. One low-key suspicion I have is this; anyone who promotes a plant-based lifestyle, and is generally anti-eating red meat, but they personally own a lot of farmland, and they make money from selling plant products should be avoided.

    For example, there are lots of new Netflix documentaries about why eating meat is bad for you. However, who produces these things? A lot of these producers own pea protein protein powder processing factories and plants; the more of their plant-based protein we consume, the richer they become.

    Just follow the money. The only people you could really really trust a little more is people who do not have financial conflicts of interest.

    3. Is it true that everyone has a different digestive system?

    A funny thing I heard is that apparently East Asians have a slightly different digestive system than northern Europeans; that apparently either the small intestine or the large intestine is shorter. I have no idea whether this is true or not, but, it certainly makes sense that from a global perspective, superficial genetic differences in our body digestive system are different.

    As a funny example, when I was in college, and really into bodybuilding, there was this funny concept of GOMAD, which stands for a “gallon of milk a day.” The basic idea was that in order to get super super buff and put on a lot of muscle mass, just drink a gallon of whole milk a day, and do very very heavy squats at the gym.

    But what I soon discovered is this; even though I enjoyed drinking whole milk in college, I could not tolerate a gallon of milk in a day. Even consuming Lactaid that I bought from Costco, did not help. Essentially I was farting all day, and my mom hated it.

    Traditionally, East Asians, and people of Korean descent
    do not have a long history of consuming cow milk products. However, if you’re a northern European, for example a Swedish person, you probably have more of a history of consuming dairy and cow milk products. There are lots of people who could drink milk just fine, but now I am so lactose intolerant that even eating butter or ghee (clarified butter which apparently has “no lactose” or “very little lactose”) gives me an upset stomach.

    4. Koreans love to drink “mak-ggul-ee” and soju, beer and wine is a new concept.

    It seems that universally, most cultures around the world enjoys some sort of ferment alcoholic beverage. For the Koreans, it is Soju and traditionally “mmak-ggul-ee”, which are alcoholic products which are extracted and fermented from rice products.

    It is the more new recent addition that Koreans got into drinking beer, wine, etc. And actually my theory is that Koreans and East Asians cannot tolerate these alcoholic types of products well, as once again, there is not a history of exposure.

    The same thing goes with gluten-based products, bread, etc. I am certain that historically, it was very very common for either the French, or the ancient Greeks to consume lots of bread, and red wine. But in Asia, east Asia, Southeast Asia, etc., it was mostly rice.

    Therefore, I think it is a good idea to think about your genetic heritage, and in fact, if you desire to maximize your strength, adopting a certain diet, lifestyle, or living in a certain climate which accords to your genetic predisposition is a good idea.

    For example, why is it that African immigrants get so miserable in London? And why it is so soul crushing for Vietnamese people to live in Minnesota? Typically if you look at skin pigment, it is a reflection of sun exposure. For example, the northern Swedish people have very light pigment, because during the winter months, there might literally only be 30 minutes of sun a day.

    Being Korean is interesting, because Korea prides itself for having four distinct seasons, we have a very hot and humid summer, a snowy winter, and a chilly fall, and a beautiful spring. Maybe this is why I preferred living on the East Coast in Providence Rhode Island than in California. I actually quite liked the snow and the changes of seasons on the east coast in New England.

    Certainly the great innovation of mankind is that we are able to disregard our genetic background and do as we please. However, if your life goal is maximal physical health, it seems wise to experiment with where to live, climate, altitude, etc.

    5. Why do Koreans like to eat pork belly, ssamgyup-ssal so much?

    It seems in Korea the typical go to meal is pork belly and soju. Even if you are super rich, there seems to be something very pleasant about the nostalgia of eating ssamgyupsal and soju in some sort of “ppojang-matcha” (imagine a scrappy outdoor eating pub) in the rain.

    However, if you disregard background, I think most people would prefer eating beef over pork. Why? My personal theory is that beef, cows, Oxon, etc. has greater amounts of nutrition than pork. For example, the ancient Greeks; why did they prefer to eat oxen and ox‘s instead of pigs and pork? the notion of a “hectacomb”; to sacrifice 100 oxen to appease the gods. Even the currency of the ancient Greeks were head of oxen; the notion of capital comes from “caput”, literally a single head of an ox.

    It seems there might have been to practical considerations; you could use an ox to till the fields, or you could also eat them. Also back then, it seems that the preferred the fatty legs and thighs.

    Another theory I have about beef is because it is so much more red than pork. I researched this, and apparently beef is more red than pork because it contains more hemoglobin, or oxygen. It is my theory that animal products with more hemoglobin or more nutrient-rich and dense.

    For example, if you go to South America, they do not consider chicken as “meat”. Even my friend Tim Flangan when he lived in South America, when he would tell villagers that he was a vegetarian and didn’t eat meat, they nodded their head and cooked him chicken instead.

    Even for myself superficially, eating fatty cuts of even the most organic chicken (free range, pasture, “walking chicken” as they call it in Vietnamese) is never as satisfying as eating pork belly, beef ribs, or beef belly.

    According to people who subscribe to the notion of the ketogenic diet, the body is preferred source of energy is fat. I am also a little bit suspicious of this, because fat comes in many different types and flavors. As much as I love eating meat, when the meat is too fatty, it makes me feel nauseous. I like a nice blend of both fat and lean meat. It seems that if you fry pork belly well on the pan, it strikes a nice balance. As much as I love beef ribs and beef belly, sometimes it is too fatty for me.

    6. Financial considerations

    In most of the world, pork is almost always cheaper than beef. This holds true in both America and South Korea.

    Why is this? It seems that it is easier financially to fatten up a pig then to fatten up a cow. Also, if you think about land, a cow requires much more space than a pig. I am also not certain if this is true, but apparently pigs are less discerning about what you feed them, which I think is the bias against eating pork, certain religious food-laws, to prevent their people from getting sick. It makes sense back in the day, following and being observant of strict religious food eating laws probably prevented many Jewish people from dying of disease, whereas non-Jewish people who did not observe such strict laws probably perished at higher rates.

    Also, circumcision. The general superstition is that maybe in the past, the reason why people got circumcised was to prevent disease on the foreskin of a male child. However, the more historical account of an ancient Roman historian says that jewish people did it as a means to differentiate themselves from other non-Jewish people. In other words, it was a form of bodily differentiation, in order to strengthen the Jewish tribe.

    For example, many halal laws require that certain types of meat and food be washed in separate sinks and containers. From a modern Western perspective, this probably did in fact prevent much disease.

    But apparently nowadays, you don’t really need to cook pork that well as was once suspicious in the past. Even myself now, I am very reticent to eat pork that is not super well cooked, because of my personal if you’re ever getting sick. And this makes sense, playing it safe and not getting sick is generally a good idea.

    I don’t think I’ve ever gotten sick from eating pork that wasn’t cooked well enough. In fact, I might have even gotten sick from this Japanese Yakiniku restaurant in Vietnam, maybe even from beef that was either not hygienically prepared or something.

    Anyways, hygiene is very important. The reason I am also averse to eating street food in a lot of Asia and southeast Asia is that when you see them wash the dishes right next to the gutter, for me even a 1% percent chance of getting sick is not worth it.

    7. How would I eat if I were Jeff Bezos?

    If I were Jeff Bezos rich, a wuadrillionaire I would probably eat only the worlds most expensive cuts of wagyu beef which according to my palate. Also, lots of fermented kimchi which was made without the aid of sugar. Also lots of dark leafy greens like kale, Collard greens, green mustard, etc.

    It is my funny personal ambition to eat at least 4 pounds of meat a day, assuming that I also have regular access to a gym to lift weights. My personal ideal is being 200 pounds of pure muscle, at the height of 5 foot 11, with a 6-pack.

    8. Is what you eat more important than your phone?

    The nice thing about being a modern human is that you could eat however you want. You could either be a carnivore, vegetarian, vegan, etc. As long as there are no legal laws prohibiting the way that you consume food, it is all good.

    My simple suggestion and thought is that at least for myself, our personal physique and physiology matters.

    For example, when I superficially look at people who are either raw vegetarian or vegan, they simply look sickly and anemic. Also a lot of them are very overfat.

    Also, I may be the only person that I know who adopts such a heavy carnivore diet, while also intermittent fasting, and not consuming any sugars, starches, snacks or sweets, and doesn’t drink alcohol. I am unique in this regard. Also, the only person I know who could deadlift 551 pounds and does not even consume protein powder.

    Your body physiology doesn’t lie. Also, your personal physique doesn’t care for your political thinking and affiliations. For example, I think it is totally legitimate that many people desire not to eat meat because of religious observances, or their own personal ethical reasons. However, that which seems to be categorically false is that one could become the world strongest human being, on a pure of vegetarian or vegan diet.

    Once again, do you think Patrick B, the famous vegetarian strongman — do you think he could deadlift 502 kilograms (1,200+ pounds)? I think not. Also, you must consider that most likely, all vegetarian or vegan bodybuilders, fitness idols, competitors are also probably on some sort of steroids, testosterone enhancers, etc, as long as the steroids or testosterone enhancers are “plant-based” (my joke).

    9. I care for value

    Currently between me and Cindy, I could afford to buy two Lamborghinis. Therefore in theory, I could technically afford to eat however I please. But at the end of the day, I think I still care for value. Being here in Korea, that is why I still prefer to eat pork belly, because it is the most “bang for the buck“ type of meat There. For me it is incredibly delicious, easily accessible, and quite affordable.

    Also, my great joy of Costco and the Costco business center back in the states; how I could buy beef ribs for so cheap at the local Costco business Center, also, being able to buy 100% grass fed frozen meat burger patties from Costco.

    10. What you eat and your artistic creation?

    My personal passion is turbo thoughts. That is, coming up or thinking of certain ideas and thoughts which I personally find interesting and meaningful, and I have a strong desire to share them with others.

    I am very certain that what you decide to eat affects the types of thoughts you have.

    Or, how you eat. That is, how many meals a day you decide to consume. For me, no breakfast or lunch, only one insanely big dinner once a day. This gives me more clarity of thought during the waking hours, and while the sun is up. Also, I eat Ramadan style; I only eat once the sun sets, and I do this every day, and have done it every day for nearly 6 years. People often asked me if this is hard, actually not really. At least I could drink water, coffee, and tea. If you are observing Ramadan, you are not allowed to even drink water!

    11. Why notions of calories is unscientific

    There is a notion of “scientism“, that is, something sounds more scientific and “truthy” if you attach numbers to it and quantify it. For example, the calorie myth. The idea that let’s say the average human “burns” about 2000 calories a day, and as long as you keep your calorie limit under that mark, you will not get fat.

    I am under the suspicion that the Coca-Cola corporation, which even owns “topo-chico” desires the calorie myth to propagate. Why? If you think about it, let us say that you eat a “healthy diet,” of 1800 calories a day. Therefore if you just drink “just one“ Coca-Cola soda, you will not get fat.

    However, this logic makes absolutely no sense. That is, let us assume that you did in fact, “require” 2000 calories a day. Then what if you eat only 1999 calories a day, for a whole year? In theory, you should “lose weight” (when Americans talk about “losing weight” what they mean to say is lose fat, body fat, adipose tissue). But this does not happen.

    What we must think instead is hormonal; that when you consume a sweet product, even a “0 calorie” product, like Coca-Cola zero, your body reacts to the sweet substance by pumping more insulin into your body. This huge surge of insulin into your body is what spikes your fat deposit mechanisms.

    If you think about it, almost all modern-day diseases are based on metabolic disease, or “metabolic syndrome“, that your body and hormonal system is going haywire, because of the frequent and high spikes of insulin signal in your body. And what spikes your insulin the most? White sugar, brown sugar (which is essentially just white sugar mixed with molasses), high fructose corn syrup, modern day fruit, starch, starchy vegetables like potatoes and broccoli, bread, rice, flour, beer, wine, etc.

    12. Why do I care about this so much?

    Apparently, a lot of new scientific research is starting to suggest that Alzheimer’s is actually “type three diabetes“. And diabetes, assuming that it is not type one diabetes, is purely affected by what you eat and drink.

    Also, at the end the day, technology doesn’t really matter that much. What actually matters more is what you eat and drink. And how you eat and drink.

    Also, thinking about my son Seneca. One of my great concerns is once he enters school, and public education, what kind of crap they will feed him. This thought alone makes me want to try to attempt some sort of hippie schooling system instead.

    13. We will probably be OK at the end of the day

    Thinking about myself, I grew up on cocoa puffs, and all this Costco frozen food, corn dogs, and hot pockets. I actually did turn out just fine, discovering diet and fitness as a result of becoming a very fat 12 year old, on account of the fact that I ate at least three hot pockets a day.

    What I am personally interested in is this; how to adopt a certain diet, and mode of eating, which can maximize the individual human potential.

    Then my takeaway point is this:

    Disregard politics and ethics when it comes to food and beverages. Instead, just strive to think about what gives you the most physiological power, zeal, and strength.

    ERIC

  • 10 Philosophical Lessons Piet Mondrian Has Taught Me About Art

    10 Philosophical Lessons Piet Mondrian Has Taught Me About Art

    Piet Mondrian is one of my favorite artists and thinkers/philosophers.

    (more…)
  • Henri Cartier-Bresson Photography Philosophy

    Henri Cartier-Bresson Photography Philosophy

    Henri Cartier-Bresson: the godfather of all contemporary photography and street-documentary-reportage photography:

    (more…)

  • 11 Lessons Steve McCurry Has Taught Me About Photography

    11 Lessons Steve McCurry Has Taught Me About Photography

    Steve McCurry: easily one of the most iconic photographers of all time.

    (more…)

  • On Nihilism

    Baudrillard-on nihilism

    by Baudrillard:


     

    ON NIHILISM

    Nihilism no longer wears the dark, Wagnerian, Spenglerian, fuliginous colors of the end of the century. It no longer comes from a Weltanschauung of decadence nor from a metaphysical radicality born of the death of God and of all the consequences that must be taken from this death. Today’s nihilism is one of transparency, and it is in some sense more radical, more crucial than in its prior and historical forms, because this transparency, this irresolution is indissolubly that of the system, and that of all the theory that still pretends to analyze it. When God died, there was still Nietzsche to say so – the great nihilist before the Eternal and the cadaver of the Eternal. But before the simulated transparency of all things, before the simulacrum of the materialist or idealist realization of the world in hyperreality (God is not dead, he has become hyper-real), there is no longer a theoretical or critical God to recognize his own.

    The universe, and all of us, have entered live into simulation, into the malefic, not even malefic, indifferent, sphere of deterrence: in a bizarre fashion, nihilism has been entirely realized no longer through destruction, but through simulation and deterrence. From the active, violent phantasm, from the phantasm of the myth and the stage that it also was, historically, it has passed into the transparent, falsely transparent, operation of things. What then remains of a possible nihilism in theory? What new scene can unfold, where nothing and death could be replayed as a challenge, as a stake?

    We are in a new, and without a doubt insoluble, position in relation to prior forms of nihilism:

    Romanticism is its first great manifestation: it, along with the Enlightenment’s Revolution, corresponds to the destruction of the order of appearances.

    Surrealism, dada, the absurd, and political nihilism are the second great manifestation, which corresponds to the destruction of the order of meaning.

    The first is still an aesthetic form of nihilism (dandyism), the second, a political, historical, and metaphysical form (terrorism).

    These two forms no longer concern us except in part, or not at all. The nihilism of transparency is no longer either aesthetic or political, no longer borrows from either the extermination of appearances, nor from extinguishing the embers of meaning, nor from the last nuances of an apocalypse. There is no longer an apocalypse (only aleatory terrorism still tries to reflect it, but it is certainly no longer political, and it only has one mode of manifestation left that is at the same time a mode of disappearance: the media – now the media are not a stage where something is played, they are a strip, a track, a perforated map of which we are no longer even spectators: receivers). The apocalypse is finished, today it is the precession of the neutral, of forms of the neutral and of indifference. I will leave it to be considered whether there can be a romanticism, an aesthetic of the neutral therein. I don’t think so – all that remains, is the fascination for desertlike and indifferent forms, for the very operation of the system that annihilates us. Now, fascination (in contrast to seduction, which was attached to appearances, and to

    dialectical reason, which was attached to meaning) is a nihilistic passion par excellence, it is the passion proper to the mode of disappearance. We are fascinated by all forms of disappearance, of our disappearance. Melancholic and fascinated, such is our general situation in an era of involuntary transparency.

    I am a nihilist.

    I observe, I accept, I assume the immense process of the destruction of appearances (and of the seduction of appearances) in the service of meaning (representation, history, criticism, etc.) that is the fundamental fact of the nineteenth century. The true revolution of the nineteenth century, of modernity, is the radical destruction of appearances, the disenchantment of the world and its abandonment to the violence of interpretation and of history.

    I observe, I accept, I assume, I analyze the second revolution, that of the twentieth century, that of postmodernity, which is the immense process of the destruction of meaning, equal to the earlier destruction of appearances. He who strikes with meaning is killed by meaning.

    The dialectic stage, the critical stage is empty. There is no more stage. There is no therapy of meaning or therapy through meaning: therapy itself is part of the generalized process of indifferentiation.

    The stage of analysis itself has become uncertain, aleatory: theories float (in fact, nihilism is impossible, because it is still a desperate but determined theory, an imaginary of the end, a weltanschauung of catastrophe).*1

    Analysis is itself perhaps the decisive element of the immense process of the freezing over of meaning. The surplus of meaning that theories bring, their competition at the level of meaning is completely secondary in relation to their coalition in the glacial and four-tiered operation of dissection and transparency. One must be conscious that, no matter how the analysis proceeds, it proceeds toward the freezing over of meaning, it assists in the precession of simulacra and of indifferent forms. The desert grows.

    Implosion of meaning in the media. Implosion of the social in the masses. Infinite growth of the masses as a function of the acceleration of the system. Energetic impasse. Point of inertia.

    A destiny of inertia for a saturated world. The phenomena of inertia are accelerating (if one can say that). The arrested forms proliferate, and growth is immobilized in excrescence. Such is also the secret of the hypertelie, of what goes further than its own end. It would be our own mode of destroying finalities: going further, too far in the same direction – destruction of meaning through simulation, hypersimulation, hypertelie. Denying its own end through hyperfinality (the crustacean, the statues of Easter Island) – is this not also the obscene secret of cancer? Revenge of excrescence on growth, revenge of speed on inertia.

    The masses themselves are caught up in a gigantic process of inertia through

    acceleration. They are this excrescent, devouring, process that annihilates all growth and all surplus meaning. They are this circuit short-circuited by a monstrous finality.

    It is this point of inertia and what happens outside this point of inertia that today is fascinating, enthralling (gone, therefore, the discreet charm of the dialectic). If it is nihilistic to privilege this point of inertia and the analysis of this irreversibility of systems up to the point of no return, then I am a nihilist.

    If it is nihilistic to be obsessed by the mode of disappearance, and no longer by the mode of production, then I am a nihilist. Disappearance, aphanisis, implosion, Fury of Verschwindens. Transpolitics is the elective sphere of the mode of disappearance (of the real, of meaning, of the stage, of history, of the social, of the individual). To tell the truth, it is no longer so much a question of nihilism: in disappearance, in the desertlike, aleatory, and indifferent form, there is no longer even pathos, the pathetic of nihilism – that mythical energy that is still the force of nihilism, of radicality, mythic denial, dramatic anticipation. It is no longer even disenchantment, with the seductive and nostalgic, itself enchanted, tonality of disenchantment. It is simply disappearance.

    The trace of this radicality of the mode of disappearance is already found in Adorno and Benjamin, parallel to a nostalgic exercise of the dialectic. Because there is a nostalgia of the dialectic, and without a doubt the most subtle dialectic is nostalgic to begin with. But more deeply, there is in Benjamin and Adorno another tonality, that of a melancholy attached to the system itself, one that is incurable and beyond any dialectic. It is this melancholia of systems that today takes the upper hand through the ironically transparent forms that surround us. It is this melancholia that is becoming our fundamental passion.

    It is no longer the spleen or the vague yearnings of the fin-de-siecle soul. It is no longer nihilism either, which in some sense aims at normalizing everything through destruction, the passion of resentment (ressentiment).*2 No, melancholia is the fundamental tonality of functional systems, of current systems of simulation, of programming and information. Melancholia is the inherent quality of the mode of the disappearance of meaning, of the mode of the volatilization of meaning in operational systems. And we are all melancholic.

    Melancholia is the brutal disaffection that characterizes our saturated systems. Once the hope of balancing good and evil, true and false, indeed of confronting some values of the same order, once the more general hope of a relation of forces and a stake has vanished. Everywhere, always, the system is too strong: hegemonic.

    Against this hegemony of the system, one can exalt the ruses of desire, practice revolutionary micrology of the quotidian, exalt the molecular drift or even defend cooking. This does not resolve the imperious necessity of checking the system in broad daylight.

    This, only terrorism can do.

    It is the trait of reversion that effaces the remainder, just as a single ironic smile effaces a whole discourse, just as a single flash of denial in a slave effaces all the power and

    pleasure of the master.

    The more hegemonic the system, the more the imagination is struck by the smallest of its reversals. The challenge, even infinitesimal, is the image of a chain failure. Only this reversibility without a counterpart is an event today, on the nihilistic and disaffected stage of the political. Only it mobilizes the imaginary.

    If being a nihilist, is carrying, to the unbearable limit of hegemonic systems, this radical trait of derision and of violence, this challenge that the system is summoned to answer through its own death, then I am a terrorist and nihilist in theory as the others are with their weapons. Theoretical violence, not truth, is the only resource left us.

    But such a sentiment is Utopian. Because it would be beautiful to be a nihilist, if there were still a radicality – as it would be nice to be a terrorist, if death, including that of the terrorist, still had meaning.

    But it is at this point that things become insoluble. Because to this active nihilism of radicality, the system opposes its own, the nihilism of neutralization. The system is itself also nihilistic, in the sense that it has the power to pour everything, including what denies it, into indifference.

    In this system, death itself shines by virtue of its absence. (The Bologna train station, the Oktoberfest in Munich: the dead are annulled by indifference, that is where terrorism is the involuntary accomplice of the whole system, not politically, but in the accelerated form of indifference that it contributes to imposing.) Death no longer has a stage, neither phantasmatic nor political, on which to represent itself, to play itself out, either a ceremonial or a violent one. And this is the victory of the other nihilism, of the other terrorism, that of the system.

    There is no longer a stage, not even the minimal illusion that makes events capable of adopting the force of reality-no more stage either of mental or political solidarity: what do Chile, Biafra, the boat people, Bologna, or Poland matter? All of that comes to be annihilated on the television screen. We are in the era of events without consequences (and of theories without consequences).

    There is no more hope for meaning. And without a doubt this is a good thing: meaning is mortal. But that on which it has imposed its ephemeral reign, what it hoped to liquidate in order to impose the reign of the Enlightenment, that is, appearances, they, are immortal, invulnerable to the nihilism of meaning or of non-meaning itself.

    This is where seduction begins. * NOTES *

    1. There are cultures that have no imaginary except of their origin and have no imaginary of their end. There are those that are obsessed by both… Two other types of figures are possible… Having no imaginary except of the end (our culture, nihilistic). No longer having any imaginary, neither of the origin nor of the end (that which is coming,

    aleatory).

    2. Cf. Nietzsche’s use of the word “ressentiment” throughout Thus Spoke Zaralhustra.- TRANS.

    THE PRECESSION OF SIMULACRA

    The simulacrum is never what hides the truth – it is truth that hides the fact that there is none.

    The simulacrum is true.

    -Ecclesiastes

    If once we were able to view the Borges fable in which the cartographers of the Empire draw up a map so detailed that it ends up covering the territory exactly (the decline of the Empire witnesses the fraying of this map, little by little, and its fall into ruins, though some shreds are still discernible in the deserts – the metaphysical beauty of this ruined abstraction testifying to a pride equal to the Empire and rotting like a carcass, returning to the substance of the soil, a bit as the double ends by being confused with the real through aging) – as the most beautiful allegory of simulation, this fable has now come full circle for us, and possesses nothing but the discrete charm of second-order simulacra.*1

    Today abstraction is no longer that of the map, the double, the mirror, or the concept. Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being, or a substance. It is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal. The territory no longer precedes the map, nor does it survive it. It is nevertheless the map that precedes the territory – precession of simulacra – that engenders the territory, and if one must return to the fable, today it is the territory whose shreds slowly rot across the extent of the map. It is the real, and not the map, whose vestiges persist here and there in the deserts that are no longer those of the Empire, but ours. The desert of the real itself.

    In fact, even inverted, Borges’s fable is unusable. Only the allegory of the Empire, perhaps, remains. Because it is with this same imperialism that present-day simulators attempt to make the real, all of the real, coincide with their models of simulation. But it is no longer a question of either maps or territories. Something has disappeared: the sovereign difference, between one and the other, that constituted the charm of abstraction. Because it is difference that constitutes the poetry of the map and the charm of the territory, the magic of the concept and the charm of the real. This imaginary of representation, which simultaneously culminates in and is engulfed by the cartographers mad project of the ideal coextensivity of map and territory, disappears in the simulation whose operation is nuclear and genetic, no longer at all specular or discursive. It is all of metaphysics that is lost. No more mirror of being and appearances, of the real and its concept. No more imaginary coextensivity: it is genetic miniaturization that is the dimension of simulation. The real is produced from miniaturized cells, matrices, and memory banks, models of control – and it can be reproduced an indefinite number of times from these. It no longer needs to be rational, because it no longer measures itself against either an ideal or negative instance. It is no longer anything but operational. In fact, it is no longer really the real, because no imaginary envelops it anymore. It is a hyperreal, produced from a radiating synthesis of combinatory models in a hyperspace without atmosphere.

    By crossing into a space whose curvature is no longer that of the real, nor that of truth, the era of simulation is inaugurated by a liquidation of all referentials – worse: with their

    artificial resurrection in the systems of signs, a material more malleable than meaning, in that it lends itself to all systems of equivalences, to all binary oppositions, to all combinatory algebra. It is no longer a question of imitation, nor duplication, nor even parody. It is a question of substituting the signs of the real for the real, that is to say of an operation of deterring every real process via its operational double, a programmatic, metastable, perfectly descriptive machine that offers all the signs of the real and short- circuits all its vicissitudes. Never again will the real have the chance to produce itself – such is the vital function of the model in a system of death, or rather of anticipated resurrection, that no longer even gives the event of death a chance. A hyperreal henceforth sheltered from the imaginary, and from any distinction between the real and the imaginary, leaving room only for the orbital recurrence of models and for the simulated generation of differences.

    THE DIVINE IRREFERENCE OF IMAGES

    To dissimulate is to pretend not to have what one has. To simulate is to feign to have what one doesn’t have. One implies a presence, the other an absence. But it is more complicated than that because simulating is not pretending: “Whoever fakes an illness can simply stay in bed and make everyone believe he is ill. Whoever simulates an illness produces in himself some of the symptoms” (Littré). Therefore, pretending, or dissimulating, leaves the principle of reality intact: the difference is always clear, it is simply masked, whereas simulation threatens the difference between the “true” and the “false,” the “real” and the “imaginary.” Is the simulator sick or not, given that he produces “true” symptoms? Objectively one cannot treat him as being either ill or not ill. Psychology and medicine stop at this point, forestalled by the illness’s henceforth undiscoverable truth. For if any symptom can be “produced,” and can no longer be taken as a fact of nature, then every illness can be considered as simulatable and simulated, and medicine loses its meaning since it only knows how to treat “real” illnesses according to their objective causes. Psychosomatics evolves in a dubious manner at the borders of the principle of illness. As to psychoanalysis, it transfers the symptom of the organic order to the unconscious order: the latter is new and taken for “real” more real than the other – but why would simulation be at the gates of the unconscious? Why couldn’t the “work” of the unconscious be “produced” in the same way as any old symptom of classical medicine? Dreams already are.

    Certainly, the psychiatrist purports that “for every form of mental alienation there is a particular order in the succession of symptoms of which the simulator is ignorant and in the absence of which the psychiatrist would not be deceived.” This (which dates from 1865) in order to safeguard the principle of a truth at all costs and to escape the interrogation posed by simulation – the knowledge that truth, reference, objective cause have ceased to exist. Now, what can medicine do with what floats on either side of illness, on either side of health, with the duplication of illness in a discourse that is no longer either true or false? What can psychoanalysis do with the duplication of the discourse of the unconscious in the discourse of simulation that can never again be unmasked, since it is not false either?*2

    What can the army do about simulators? Traditionally it unmasks them and punishes

    them, according to a clear principle of identification. Today it can discharge a very good simulator as exactly equivalent to a “real” homosexual, a heart patient, or a madman. Even military psychology draws back from Cartesian certainties and hesitates to make the distinction between true and false, between the “produced” and the authentic symptom. “If he is this good at acting crazy, it’s because he is.” Nor is military psychology mistaken in this regard: in this sense, all crazy people simulate, and this lack of distinction is the worst kind of subversion. It is against this lack of distinction that classical reason armed itself in all its categories. But it is what today again outflanks them, submerging the principle of truth.

    Beyond medicine and the army favored terrains of simulation, the question returns to religion and the simulacrum of divinity: “I forbade that there be any simulacra in the temples because the divinity that animates nature can never be represented.” Indeed it can be. But what becomes of the divinity when it reveals itself in icons, when it is multiplied in simulacra? Does it remain the supreme power that is simply incarnated in images as a visible theology? Or does it volatilize itself in the simulacra that, alone, deploy their power and pomp of fascination – the visible machinery of icons substituted for the pure and intelligible Idea of God? This is precisely what was feared by Iconoclasts, whose millennial quarrel is still with us today.*3 This is precisely because they predicted this omnipotence of simulacra, the faculty simulacra have of effacing God from the conscience of man, and the destructive, annihilating truth that they allow to appear – that deep down God never existed, that only the simulacrum ever existed, even that God himself was never anything but his own simulacrum – from this came their urge to destroy the images. If they could have believed that these images only obfuscated or masked the Platonic Idea of God, there would have been no reason to destroy them. One can live with the idea of distorted truth. But their metaphysical despair came from the idea that the image didn’t conceal anything at all, and that these images were in essence not images, such as an original model would have made them, but perfect simulacra, forever radiant with their own fascination. Thus this death of the divine referential must be exorcised at all costs.

    One can see that the iconoclasts, whom one accuses of disdaining and negating images, were those who accorded them their true value, in contrast to the iconolaters who only saw reflections in them and were content to venerate a filigree God. On the other hand, one can say that the icon worshipers were the most modern minds, the most adventurous, because, in the guise of having God become apparent in the mirror of images, they were already enacting his death and his disappearance in the epiphany of his representations (which, perhaps, they already knew no longer represented anything, that they were purely a game, but that it was therein the great game lay – knowing also that it is dangerous to unmask images, since they dissimulate the fact that there is nothing behind them).

    This was the approach of the Jesuits, who founded their politics on the virtual disappearance of God and on the worldly and spectacular manipulation of consciences – the evanescence of God in the epiphany of power – the end of transcendence, which now only serves as an alibi for a strategy altogether free of influences and signs. Behind the baroqueness of images hides the éminence grise of politics.

    This way the stake will always have been the murderous power of images, murderers of

    the real, murderers of their own model, as the Byzantine icons could be those of divine identity. To this murderous power is opposed that of representations as a dialectical power, the visible and intelligible mediation of the Real. All Western faith and good faith became engaged in this wager on representation: that a sign could refer to the depth of meaning, that a sign could be exchanged for meaning and that something could guarantee this exchange – God of course. But what if God himself can be simulated, that is to say can be reduced to the signs that constitute faith? Then the whole system becomes weightless, it is no longer itself anything but a gigantic simulacrum – not unreal, but a simulacrum, that is to say never exchanged for the real, but exchanged for itself, in an uninterrupted circuit without reference or circumference.

    Such is simulation, insofar as it is opposed to representation. Representation stems from the principle of the equivalence of the sign and of the real (even if this equivalence is Utopian, it is a fundamental axiom). Simulation, on the contrary, stems from the Utopia of the principle of equivalence, from the radical negation of the sign as value, from the sign as the reversion and death sentence of every reference. Whereas representation attempts to absorb simulation by interpreting it as a false representation, simulation envelops the whole edifice of representation itself as a simulacrum.

    Such would be the successive phases of the image:

    it is the reflection of a profound reality;
    it masks and denatures a profound reality; it masks the absence of a profound reality; it has no relation to any reality whatsoever; it is its own pure simulacrum.

    In the first case, the image is a good appearance – representation is of the sacramental order. In the second, it is an evil appearance – it is of the order of maleficence. In the third, it plays at being an appearance – it is of the order of sorcery. In the fourth, it is no longer of the order of appearances, but of simulation.

    The transition from signs that dissimulate something to signs that dissimulate that there is nothing marks a decisive turning point. The first reflects a theology of truth and secrecy (to which the notion of ideology still belongs). The second inaugurates the era of simulacra and of simulation, in which there is no longer a God to recognize his own, no longer a Last Judgment to separate the false from the true, the real from its artificial resurrection, as everything is already dead and resurrected in advance.

    When the real is no longer what it was, nostalgia assumes its full meaning. There is a plethora of myths of origin and of signs of reality – a plethora of truth, of secondary objectivity, and authenticity. Escalation of the true, of lived experience, resurrection of the figurative where the object and substance have disappeared. Panic-stricken production of the real and of the referential, parallel to and greater than the panic of material production: this is how simulation appears in the phase that concerns us – a strategy of the real, of the neoreal and the hyperreal that everywhere is the double of a strategy of deterrence.

    RAMSES, OR THE ROSY-COLORED RESURRECTION

    Ethnology brushed up against its paradoxical death in 1971, the day when the Philippine government decided to return the few dozen Tasaday who had just been discovered in the depths of the jungle, where they had lived for eight centuries without any contact with the rest of the species, to their primitive state, out of the reach of colonizers, tourists, and ethnologists. This at the suggestion of the anthropologists themselves, who were seeing the indigenous people disintegrate immediately upon contact, like mummies in the open air.

    In order for ethnology to live, its object must die; by dying, the object takes its revenge for being “discovered” and with its death defies the science that wants to grasp it.

    Doesn’t all science live on this paradoxical slope to which it is doomed by the evanescence of its object in its very apprehension, and by the pitiless reversal that the dead object exerts on it? Like Orpheus, it always turns around too soon, and, like Eurydice, its object falls back into Hades.

    It is against this hell of the paradox that the ethnologists wished to protect themselves by cordoning off the Tasaday with virgin forest. No one can touch them anymore: as in a mine the vein is closed down. Science loses precious capital there, but the object will be safe, lost to science, but intact in its “virginity.” It is not a question of sacrifice (science never sacrifices itself, it is always murderous), but of the simulated sacrifice of its object in order to save its reality principle. The Tasaday, frozen in their natural element, will provide a perfect alibi, an eternal guarantee. Here begins an antiethnology that will never end and to which Jaulin, Castaneda, Clastres are various witnesses. In any case, the logical evolution of a science is to distance itself increasingly from its object, until it dispenses with it entirely: its autonomy is only rendered even more fantastic – it attains its pure form.

    The Indian thus returned to the ghetto, in the glass coffin of the virgin forest, again becomes the model of simulation of all the possible Indians from before ethnology. This model thus grants itself the luxury to incarnate itself beyond itself in the “brute” reality of these Indians it has entirely reinvented – Savages who are indebted to ethnology for still being Savages: what a turn of events, what a triumph for this science that seemed dedicated to their destruction!

    Of course, these savages are posthumous: frozen, cryogenized, sterilized, protected to death, they have become referential simulacra, and science itself has become pure simulation. The same holds true at Cruesot, at the level of the “open” museum where one museumified in situ, as “historical” witnesses of their period, entire working-class neighborhoods, living metallurgic zones, an entire culture, men, women, and children included – gestures, languages, customs fossilized alive as in a snapshot. The museum, instead of being circumscribed as a geometric site, is everywhere now, like a dimension of life. Thus ethnology, rather than circumscribing itself as an objective science, will today, liberated from its object, be applied to all living things and make itself invisible, like an omnipresent fourth dimension, that of the simulacrum. We are all Tasadays, Indians who have again become what they were – simulacral Indians who at last proclaim

    the universal truth of ethnology.

    We have all become living specimens in the spectral light of ethnology, or of antiethnology, which is nothing but the pure form of triumphal ethnology, under the sign of dead differences, and of the resurrection of differences. It is thus very naive to look for ethnology in the Savages or in some Third World – it is here, everywhere, in the metropolises, in the White community, in a world completely cataloged and analyzed, then artificially resurrected under the auspices of the real, in a world of simulation, of the hallucination of truth, of the blackmail of the real, of the murder of every symbolic form and of its hysterical, historical retrospection – a murder of which the Savages, noblesse oblige, were the first victims, but that for a long time has extended to all Western societies.

    But in the same breath ethnology grants us its only and final lesson, the secret that kills it (and which the Savages knew better than it did): the vengeance of the dead.

    The confinement of the scientific object is equal to the confinement of the mad and the dead. And just as all of society is irremediably contaminated by this mirror of madness that it has held up to itself, science can’t help but die contaminated by the death of this object that is its inverse mirror. It is science that masters the objects, but it is the objects that invest it with depth, according to an unconscious reversion, which only gives a dead and circular response to a dead and circular interrogation.

    Nothing changes when society breaks the mirror of madness (abolishes the asylums, gives speech back to the insane, etc.) nor when science seems to break the mirror of its objectivity (effacing itself before its object, as in Castaneda, etc.) and to bend down before the “differences.” The form produced by confinement is followed by an innumerable, diffracted, slowed-down mechanism. As ethnology collapses in its classical institution, it survives in an antiethnology whose task it is to reinject the difference fiction, the Savage fiction everywhere, to conceal that it is this world, ours, which has again become savage in its way, that is to say, which is devastated by difference and by death.

    In the same way, with the pretext of saving the original, one forbade visitors to enter the Lascaux caves, but an exact replica was constructed five hundred meters from it, so that everyone could see them (one glances through a peephole at the authentic cave, and then one visits the reconstituted whole). It is possible that the memory of the original grottoes is itself stamped in the minds of future generations, but from now on there is no longer any difference: the duplication suffices to render both artificial.

    In the same way science and technology were recently mobilized to save the mummy of Ramses II, after it was left to rot for several dozen years in the depths of a museum. The West is seized with panic at the thought of not being able to save what the symbolic order had been able to conserve for forty centuries, but out of sight and far from the light of day. Ramses does not signify anything for us, only the mummy is of an inestimable worth because it is what guarantees that accumulation has meaning. Our entire linear and accumulative culture collapses if we cannot stockpile the past in plain view. To this end the pharaohs must be brought out of their tomb and the mummies out of their silence. To

    this end they must be exhumed and given military honors. They are prey to both science and worms. Only absolute secrecy assured them this millennial power – the mastery over putrefaction that signified the mastery of the complete cycle of exchanges with death. We only know how to place our science in service of repairing the mummy, that is to say restoring a visible order, whereas embalming was a mythical effort that strove to immortalize a hidden dimension.

    We require a visible past, a visible continuum, a visible myth of origin, which reassures us about our end. Because finally we have never believed in them. Whence this historic scene of the reception of the mummy at the Orly airport. Why? Because Ramses was a great despotic and military figure? Certainly. But mostly because our culture dreams, behind this defunct power that it tries to annex, of an order that would have had nothing to do with it, and it dreams of it because it exterminated it by exhuming it as its own past.

    We are fascinated by Ramses as Renaissance Christians were by the American Indians, those (human?) beings who had never known the word of Christ. Thus, at the beginning of colonization, there was a moment of stupor and bewilderment before the very possibility of escaping the universal law of the Gospel. There were two possible responses: either admit that this Law was not universal, or exterminate the Indians to efface the evidence. In general, one contented oneself with converting them, or even simply discovering them, which would suffice to slowly exterminate them.

    Thus it would have been enough to exhume Ramses to ensure his extermination by museumification. Because mummies don’t rot from worms: they die from being transplanted from a slow order of the symbolic, master over putrefaction and death, to an order of history, science, and museums, our order, which no longer masters anything, which only knows how to condemn what preceded it to decay and death and subsequently to try to revive it with science. Irreparable violence toward all secrets, the violence of a civilization without secrets, hatred of a whole civilization for its own foundation.

    And just as with ethnology, which plays at extricating itself from its object to better secure itself in its pure form, demuseumification is nothing but another spiral in artificiality. Witness the cloister of Saint-Michel de Cuxa, which one will repatriate at great cost from the Cloisters in New York to reinstall it in “its original site.” And everyone is supposed to applaud this restitution (as they did “the experimental campaign to take back the sidewalks” on the Champs Elysees!). Well, if the exportation of the cornices was in effect an arbitrary act, if the Cloisters in New York are an artificial mosaic of all cultures (following a logic of the capitalist centralization of value), their reimportation to the original site is even more artificial: it is a total simulacrum that links up with “reality” through a complete circumvolution.

    The cloister should have stayed in New York in its simulated environment, which at least fooled no one. Repatriating it is nothing but a supplementary subterfuge, acting as if nothing had happened and indulging in retrospective hallucination.

    In the same way, Americans flatter themselves for having brought the population of Indians back to pre-Conquest levels. One effaces everything and starts over. They even

    flatter themselves for doing better, for exceeding the original number. This is presented as proof of the superiority of civilization: it will produce more Indians than they themselves were able to do. (With sinister derision, this overproduction is again a means of destroying them: for Indian culture, like all tribal culture, rests on the limitation of the group and the refusal of any “unlimited” increase, as can be seen in Ishi’s case. In this way, their demographic “promotion” is just another step toward symbolic extermination.)

    Everywhere we live in a universe strangely similar to the original – things are doubled by their own scenario. But this doubling does not signify, as it did traditionally, the imminence of their death – they are already purged of their death, and better than when they were alive; more cheerful, more authentic, in the light of their model, like the faces in funeral homes.

    THE HYPERREAL AND THE IMAGINARY

    Disneyland is a perfect model of all the entangled orders of simulacra. It is first of all a play of illusions and phantasms: the Pirates, the Frontier, the Future World, etc. This imaginary world is supposed to ensure the success of the operation. But what attracts the crowds the most is without a doubt the social microcosm, the religious, miniaturized pleasure of real America, of its constraints and joys. One parks outside and stands in line inside, one is altogether abandoned at the exit. The only phantasmagoria in this imaginary world lies in the tenderness and warmth of the crowd, and in the sufficient and excessive number of gadgets necessary to create the multitudinous effect. The contrast with the absolute solitude of the parking lot – a veritable concentration camp – is total. Or, rather: inside, a whole panoply of gadgets magnetizes the crowd in directed flows – outside, solitude is directed at a single gadget: the automobile. By an extraordinary coincidence (but this derives without a doubt from the enchantment inherent to this universe), this frozen, childlike world is found to have been conceived and realized by a man who is himself now cryogenized: Walt Disney, who awaits his resurrection through an increase of 180 degrees centigrade.

    Thus, everywhere in Disneyland the objective profile of America, down to the morphology of individuals and of the crowd, is drawn. All its values are exalted by the miniature and the comic strip. Embalmed and pacified. Whence the possibility of an ideological analysis of Disneyland (L. Marin did it very well in Utopiques, jeux d’espace [Utopias, play of space]): digest of the American way of life, panegyric of American values, idealized transposition of a contradictory reality. Certainly. But this masks something else and this “ideological” blanket functions as a cover for a simulation of the third order: Disneyland exists in order to hide that it is the “real” country, all of “real” America that is Disneyland (a bit like prisons are there to hide that it is the social in its entirety, in its banal omnipresence, that is carceral). Disneyland is presented as imaginary in order to make us believe that the rest is real, whereas all of Los Angeles and the America that surrounds it are no longer real, but belong to the hyperreal order and to the order of simulation. It is no longer a question of a false representation of reality (ideology) but of concealing the fact that the real is no longer real, and thus of saving the reality principle.

    The imaginary of Disneyland is neither true nor false, it is a deterrence machine set up in

    order to rejuvenate the fiction of the real in the opposite camp. Whence the debility of this imaginary, its infantile degeneration. This world wants to be childish in order to make us believe that the adults are elsewhere, in the “real” world, and to conceal the fact that true childishness is everywhere – that it is that of the adults themselves who come here to act the child in order to foster illusions as to their real childishness.

    Disneyland is not the only one, however. Enchanted Village, Magic Mountain, Marine World: Los Angeles is surrounded by these imaginary stations that feed reality, the energy of the real to a city whose mystery is precisely that of no longer being anything but a network of incessant, unreal circulation – a city of incredible proportions but without space, without dimension. As much as electrical and atomic power stations, as much as cinema studios, this city, which is no longer anything but an immense scenario and a perpetual pan shot, needs this old imaginary like a sympathetic nervous system made up of childhood signals and faked phantasms.

    Disneyland: a space of the regeneration of the imaginary as waste-treatment plants are elsewhere, and even here. Everywhere today one must recycle waste, and the dreams, the phantasms, the historical, fairylike, legendary imaginary of children and adults is a waste product, the first great toxic excrement of a hyperreal civilization. On a mental level, Disneyland is the prototype of this new function. But all the sexual, psychic, somatic recycling institutes, which proliferate in California, belong to the same order. People no longer look at each other, but there are institutes for that. They no longer touch each other, but there is contactotherapy. They no longer walk, but they go jogging, etc. Everywhere one recycles lost faculties, or lost bodies, or lost sociality, or the lost taste for food. One reinvents penury, asceticism, vanished savage naturalness: natural food, health food, yoga. Marshall Sahlins’s idea that it is the economy of the market, and not of nature at all, that secretes penury, is verified, but at a secondary level: here, in the sophisticated confines of a triumphal market economy is reinvented a penury/sign, a penury/simulacrum, a simulated behavior of the underdeveloped (including the adoption of Marxist tenets) that, in the guise of ecology, of energy crises and the critique of capital, adds a final esoteric aureole to the triumph of an esoteric culture. Nevertheless, maybe a mental catastrophe, a mental implosion and involution without precedent lies in wait for a system of this kind, whose visible signs would be those of this strange obesity, or the incredible coexistence of the most bizarre theories and practices, which correspond to the improbable coalition of luxury, heaven, and money, to the improbable luxurious materialization of life and to undiscoverable contradictions.

    POLITICAL INCANTATION

    Watergate. The same scenario as in Disneyland (effect of the imaginary concealing that reality no more exists outside than inside the limits of the artificial perimeter): here the scandal effect hiding that there is no difference between the facts and their denunciation (identical methods on the part of the CIA and of the Washington Post journalists). Same operation, tending to regenerate through scandal a moral and political principle, through the imaginary, a sinking reality principle.

    The denunciation of scandal is always an homage to the law. And Watergate in particular succeeded in imposing the idea that Watergate was a scandal – in this sense it was a

    prodigious operation of intoxication. A large dose of political morality reinjected on a world scale. One could say along with Bourdieu: “The essence of every relation of force is to dissimulate itself as such and to acquire all its force only because it dissimulates itself as such,” understood as follows: capital, immoral and without scruples, can only function behind a moral superstructure, and whoever revives this public morality (through indignation, denunciation, etc.) works spontaneously for the order of capital. This is what the journalists of the Washington Post did.

    But this would be nothing but the formula of ideology, and when Bourdieu states it, he takes the “relation of force” for the truth of capitalist domination, and he himself denounces this relation of force as scandal – he is thus in the same deterministic and moralistic position as the Washington Post journalists are. He does the same work of purging and reviving moral order, an order of truth in which the veritable symbolic violence of the social order is engendered, well beyond all the relations of force, which are only its shifting and indifferent configuration in the moral and political consciences of men.

    All that capital asks of us is to receive it as rational or to combat it in the name of rationality, to receive it as moral or to combat it in the name of morality. Because these are the same, which can be thought of in another way: formerly one worked to dissimulate scandal – today one works to conceal that there is none.

    Watergate is not a scandal, this is what must be said at all costs, because it is what everyone is busy concealing, this dissimulation masking a strengthening of morality, of a moral panic as one approaches the primitive (mise en) scène of capital: its instantaneous cruelty, its incomprehensible ferocity, its fundamental immorality – that is what is scandalous, unacceptable to the system of moral and economic equivalence that is the axiom of leftist thought, from the theories of the Enlightenment up to Communism. One imputes this thinking to the contract of capital, but it doesn’t give a damn – it is a monstrous unprincipled enterprise, nothing more. It is “enlightened” thought that seeks to control it by imposing rules on it. And all the recrimination that replaces revolutionary thought today comes back to incriminate capital for not following the rules of the game. “Power is unjust, its justice is a class justice, capital exploits us, etc.” – as if capital were linked by a contract to the society it rules. It is the Left that holds out the mirror of equivalence to capital hoping that it will comply, comply with this phantasmagoria of the social contract and fulfill its obligations to the whole of society (by the same token, no need for revolution: it suffices that capital accommodate itself to the rational formula of exchange).

    Capital, in fact, was never linked by a contract to the society that it dominates. It is a sorcery of social relations, it is a challenge to society, and it must be responded to as such. It is not a scandal to be denounced according to moral or economic rationality, but a challenge to take up according to symbolic law.

    MÖBIUS – SPIRALING NEGATIVETY

    Watergate was thus nothing but a lure held out by the system to catch its adversaries – a simulation of scandal for regenerative ends. In the film, this is embodied by the character

    of “Deep Throat,” who was said to be the eminence grise of the Republicans, manipulating the left-wing journalists in order to get rid of Nixon – and why not? All hypotheses are possible, but this one is superfluous: the Left itself does a perfectly good job, and spontaneously, of doing the work of the Right. Besides, it would be naive to see an embittered good conscience at work here. Because manipulation is a wavering causality in which positivity and negativity are engendered and overlap, in which there is no longer either an active or a passive. It is through the arbitrary cessation of this spiraling causality that a principle of political reality can be saved. It is through the simulation of a narrow, conventional field of perspective in which the premises and the consequences of an act or of an event can be calculated, that a political credibility can be maintained (and of course “objective” analysis, the struggle, etc.). If one envisions the entire cycle of any act or event in a system where linear continuity and dialectical polarity no longer exist, in a field unhinged by simulation, all determination evaporates, every act is terminated at the end of the cycle having benefited everyone and having been scattered in all directions.

    Is any given bombing in Italy the work of leftist extremists, or extreme-right provocation, or a centrist mise-en-scène to discredit all extreme terrorists and to shore up its own failing power, or again, is it a police-inspired scenario and a form of blackmail to public security? All of this is simultaneously true, and the search for proof, indeed the objectivity of the facts does not put an end to this vertigo of interpretation. That is, we are in a logic of simulation, which no longer has anything to do with a logic of facts and an order of reason. Simulation is characterized by a precession of the model, of all the models based on the merest fact – the models come first, their circulation, orbital like that of the bomb, constitutes the genuine magnetic field of the event. The facts no longer have a specific trajectory, they are born at the intersection of models, a single fact can be engendered by all the models at once. This anticipation, this precession, this short circuit, this confusion of the fact with its model (no more divergence of meaning, no more dialectical polarity, no more negative electricity, implosion of antagonistic poles), is what allows each time for all possible interpretations, even the most contradictory – all true, in the sense that their truth is to be exchanged, in the image of the models from which they derive, in a generalized cycle.

    The Communists attack the Socialist Party as if they wished to shatter the union of the Left. They give credence to the idea that these resistances would come from a more radical political need. In fact, it is because they no longer want power. But do they not want power at this juncture, one unfavorable to the Left in general, or unfavorable to them within the Union of the Left – or do they no longer want it, by definition? When Berlinguer declares: “There is no need to be afraid to see the Communists take power in Italy,” it simultaneously signifies:

    -: that there is no need to be afraid, since the Communists, if they come to power, will change nothing of its fundamental capitalist mechanism;
    -: that there is no risk that they will ever come to power (because they don’t want to) – and even if they occupy the seat of power, they will never exercise it except by proxy; -: that in fact, power, genuine power no longer exists, and thus there is no risk whoever seizes power or seizes it again;

    -: but further: I, Berlinguer, am not afraid to see the Communists take power in Italy – which may seem self-evident, but not as much as you might think, because

    -: it could mean the opposite (no need for psychoanalysis here): I am afraid to see the Communists take power (and there are good reasons for that, even for a Communist).

    All of this is simultaneously true. It is the secret of a discourse
    that is no longer simply ambiguous, as political discourses can be, but that conveys the impossibility of a determined position of power, the impossibility of a determined discursive position. And this logic is neither that of one party nor of another. It traverses all discourses without them wanting it to.

    Who will unravel this imbroglio? The Gordian knot can at least be cut. The Möbius strip, if one divides it, results in a supplementary spiral without the reversibility of surfaces being resolved (here the reversible continuity of hypotheses). Hell of simulation, which is no longer one of torture, but of the subtle, maleficent, elusive twisting of meaning*4 – where even the condemned at Burgos are still a gift from Franco to Western democracy, which seizes the occasion to regenerate its own flagging humanism and whose indignant protest in turn consolidates Franco’s regime by uniting the Spanish masses against this foreign intervention? Where is the truth of all that, when such collusions admirably knot themselves together without the knowledge of their authors?

    Conjunction of the system and of its extreme alternative like the two sides of a curved mirror, a “vicious” curvature of a political space that is henceforth magnetized, circularized, reversibilized from the right to the left, a torsion that is like that of the evil spirit of commutation, the whole system, the infinity of capital folded back on its own surface: transfinite? And is it not the same for desire and the libidinal space? Conjunction of desire and value, of desire and capital. Conjunction of desire and the law, the final pleasure as the metamorphosis of the law (which is why it is so widely the order of the day): only capital takes pleasure, said Lyotard, before thinking that we now take pleasure in capital. Overwhelming versatility of desire in Deleuze, an enigmatic reversal that brings desire “revolutionary in itself, and as if involuntarily, wanting what it wants,” to desire its own repression and to invest in paranoid and fascist systems? A malign torsion that returns this revolution of desire to the same fundamental ambiguity as the other, the historical revolution.

    All the referentials combine their discourses in a circular, Möbian compulsion. Not so long ago, sex and work were fiercely opposed terms; today both are dissolved in the same type of demand. Formerly the discourse on history derived its power from violently opposing itself to that of nature, the discourse of desire to that of power – today they exchange their signifiers and their scenarios.

    It would take too long to traverse the entire range of the operational negativity of all those scenarios of deterrence, which, like Watergate, try to regenerate a moribund principle through simulated scandal, phantasm, and murder – a sort of hormonal treatment through negativity and crisis. It is always a question of proving the real through the imaginary, proving truth through scandal, proving the law through transgression, proving work through striking, proving the system through crisis, and capital through revolution, as it is elsewhere (the Tasaday) of proving ethnology through the dispossession of its object – without taking into account:

    the proof of theater through antitheater;
    the proof of art through antiart;
    the proof of pedagogy through antipedagogy;
    the proof of psychiatry through antipsychiatry, etc.

    Everything is metamorphosed into its opposite to perpetuate itself in its expurgated form. All the powers, all the institutions speak of themselves through denial, in order to attempt, by simulating death, to escape their real death throes. Power can stage its own murder to rediscover a glimmer of existence and legitimacy. Such was the case with some American presidents: the Kennedys were murdered because they still had a political dimension. The others, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, only had the right to phantom attempts, to simulated murders. But this aura of an artificial menace was still necessary to conceal that they were no longer anything but the mannequins of power. Formerly, the king (also the god) had to die, therein lay his power. Today, he is miserably forced to feign death, in order to preserve the blessing of power. But it is lost.

    To seek new blood in its own death, to renew the cycle through the mirror of crisis, negativity, and antipower: this is the only solution – alibi of every power, of every institution attempting to break the vicious circle of its irresponsibility and of its fundamental nonexistence, of its already seen and of its already dead.

    THE STRATEGY OF THE REAL

    The impossibility of rediscovering an absolute level of the real is of the same order as the impossibility of staging illusion. Illusion is no longer possible, because the real is no longer possible. It is the whole political problem of parody, of hypersimulation or offensive simulation, that is posed here.

    For example: it would be interesting to see whether the repressive apparatus would not react more violently to a simulated holdup than to a real holdup. Because the latter does nothing but disturb the order of things, the right to property, whereas the former attacks the reality principle itself. Transgression and violence are less serious because they only contest the distribution of the real. Simulation is infinitely more dangerous because it always leaves open to supposition that, above and beyond its object, law and order themselves might be nothing but simulation.

    But the difficulty is proportional to the danger. How to feign a violation and put it to the test? Simulate a robbery in a large store: how to persuade security that it is a simulated robbery? There is no “objective” difference: the gestures, the signs are the same as for a real robbery, the signs do not lean to one side or another. To the established order they are always of the order of the real.

    Organize a fake holdup. Verify that your weapons are harmless, and take the most trustworthy hostage, so that no human life will be in danger (or one lapses into the criminal). Demand a ransom, and make it so that the operation creates as much commotion as possible – in short, remain close to the “truth,” in order to test the reaction of the apparatus to a perfect simulacrum. You won’t be able to do it: the network of artificial signs will become inextricably mixed up with real elements (a policeman will

    really fire on sight; a client of the bank will faint and die of a heart attack; one will actually pay you the phony ransom), in short, you will immediately find yourself once again, without wishing it, in the real, one of whose functions is precisely to devour any attempt at simulation, to reduce everything to the real – that is, to the established order itself, well before institutions and justice come into play.

    It is necessary to see in this impossibility of isolating the process of simulation the weight of an order that cannot see and conceive of anything but the real, because it cannot function anywhere else. The simulation of an offense, if it is established as such, will either be punished less severely (because it has no “consequences”) or punished as an offense against the judicial system (for example if one sets in motion a police operation “for nothing”) – but never as simulation since it is precisely as such that no equivalence with the real is possible, and hence no repression either. The challenge of simulation is never admitted by power. How can the simulation of virtue be punished? However, as such it is as serious as the simulation of crime. Parody renders submission and transgression equivalent, and that is the most serious crime, because it cancels out the difference upon which the law is based. The established order can do nothing against it, because the law is a simulacrum of the second order, whereas simulation is of the third order, beyond true and false, beyond equivalences, beyond rational distinctions upon which the whole of the social and power depend. Thus, lacking the real, it is there that we must aim at order.

    This is certainly why order always opts for the real. When in doubt, it always prefers this hypothesis (as in the army one prefers to take the simulator for a real madman). But this becomes more and more difficult, because if it is practically impossible to isolate the process of simulation, through the force of inertia of the real that surrounds us, the opposite is also true (and this reversibility itself is part of the apparatus of simulation and the impotence of power): namely, it is now impossible to isolate the process of the real, or to prove the real.

    This is how all the holdups, airplane hijackings, etc. are now in some sense simulation holdups in that they are already inscribed in the decoding and orchestration rituals of the media, anticipated in their presentation and their possible consequences. In short, where they function as a group of signs dedicated exclusively to their recurrence as signs, and no longer at all to their “real” end. But this does not make them harmless. On the contrary, it is as hyperreal events, no longer with a specific content or end, but indefinitely refracted by each other (just like so-called historical events: strikes, demonstrations, crises, etc.),*5 it is in this sense that they cannot be controlled by an order that can only exert itself on the real and the rational, on causes and ends, a referential order that can only reign over the referential, a determined power that can only reign over a determined world, but that cannot do anything against this indefinite recurrence of simulation, against this nebula whose weight no longer obeys the laws of gravitation of the real, power itself ends by being dismantled in this space and becoming a simulation of power (disconnected from its ends and its objectives, and dedicated to the effects of power and mass simulation).

    The only weapon of power, its only strategy against this defection, is to reinject the real and the referential everywhere, to persuade us of the reality of the social, of the gravity of

    the economy and the finalities of production. To this end it prefers the discourse of crisis, but also, why not? that of desire. “Take your desires for reality!” can be understood as the ultimate slogan of power since in a nonreferential world, even the confusion of the reality principle and the principle of desire is less dangerous than contagious hyperreality. One remains among principles, and among those power is always in the right.

    Hyperreality and simulation are deterrents of every principle and every objective, they turn against power the deterrent that it used so well for such a long time. Because in the end, throughout its history it was capital that first fed on the destructuration of every referential, of every human objective, that shattered every ideal distinction between true and false, good and evil, in order to establish a radical law of equivalence and exchange, the iron law of its power. Capital was the first to play at deterrence, abstraction, disconnection, deterritorialization, etc., and if it is the one that fostered reality, the reality principle, it was also the first to liquidate it by exterminating all use value, all real equivalence of production and wealth, in the very sense we have of the unreality of the stakes and the omnipotence of manipulation. Well, today it is this same logic that is even more set against capital. And as soon as it wishes to combat this disastrous spiral by secreting a last glimmer of reality, on which to establish a last glimmer of power, it does nothing but multiply the signs and accelerate the play of simulation.

    As long as the historical threat came at it from the real, power played at deterrence and simulation, disintegrating all the contradictions by dint of producing equivalent signs. Today when the danger comes at it from simulation (that of being dissolved in the play of signs), power plays at the real, plays at crisis, plays at remanufacturing artificial, social, economic, and political stakes. For power, it is a question of life and death. But it is too late.

    Whence the characteristic hysteria of our times: that of the production and reproduction of the real. The other production, that of values and commodities, that of the belle epoque of political economy, has for a long time had no specific meaning. What every society looks for in continuing to produce, and to overproduce, is to restore the real that escapes it. That is why today this “material” production is that of the hyperreal itself. It retains all the features, the whole discourse of traditional production, but it is no longer anything but its scaled-down refraction (thus hyper-realists fix a real from which all meaning and charm, all depth and energy of representation have vanished in a hallucinatory resemblance). Thus everywhere the hyperrealism of simulation is translated by the hallucinatory resemblance of the real to itself.

    Power itself has for a long time produced nothing but the signs of its resemblance. And at the same time, another figure of power comes into play: that of a collective demand for signs of power – a holy union that is reconstructed around its disappearance. The whole world adheres to it more or less in terror of the collapse of the political. And in the end the game of power becomes nothing but the critical obsession with power – obsession with its death, obsession with its survival, which increases as it disappears. When it has totally disappeared, we will logically be under the total hallucination of power – a haunting memory that is already in evidence everywhere, expressing at once the compulsion to get rid of it (no one wants it anymore, everyone unloads it on everyone else) and the panicked nostalgia over its loss. The melancholy of societies without power:

    this has already stirred up fascism, that overdose of a strong referential in a society that cannot terminate its mourning.

    With the extenuation of the political sphere, the president comes increasingly to resemble that Puppet of Power who is the head of primitive societies (Clastres).

    All previous presidents pay for and continue to pay for Kennedy’s murder as if they were the ones who had suppressed it – which is true phantasmatically, if not in fact. They must efface this defect and this complicity with their simulated murder. Because, now it can only be simulated. Presidents Johnson and Ford were both the object of failed assassination attempts which, they were not staged, were at least perpetrated by simulation. The Kennedys died because they incarnated something: the political, political substance, whereas the new presidents are nothing but caricatures and fake film – curiously, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, all have this simian mug, the monkeys of power.

    Death is never an absolute criterion, but in this case it is significant: the era of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and the Kennedys, of those who really died simply because they had a mythic dimension that implies death (not for romantic reasons, but because of the fundamental principle of reversal and exchange) – this era is long gone. It is now the era of murder by simulation, of the generalized aesthetic of simulation, of the murder-alibi – the allegorical resurrection of death, which is only there to sanction the institution of power, without which it no longer has any substance or an autonomous reality.

    These staged presidential assassinations are revealing because they signal the status of all negativity in the West: political opposition, the “Left,” critical discourse, etc. – a simulacral contrast through which power attempts to break the vicious circle of its nonexistence, of its fundamental irresponsibility, of its “suspension.” Power floats like money, like language, like theory. Criticism and negativity alone still secrete a phantom of the reality of power. If they become weak for one reason or another, power has no other recourse but to artificially revive and hallucinate them.

    It is in this way that the Spanish executions still serve as a stimulant to Western liberal democracy, to a dying system of democratic values. Fresh blood, but for how much longer? The deterioration of all power is irresistibly pursued: it is not so much the “revolutionary forces” that accelerate this process (often it is quite the opposite), it is the system itself that deploys against its own structures this violence that annuls all substance and all finality. One must not resist this process by trying to confront the system and destroy it, because this system that is dying from being dispossessed of its death expects nothing but that from us: that we give the system back its death, that we revive it through the negative. End of revolutionary praxis, end of the dialectic. Curiously, Nixon, who was not even found worthy of dying at the hands of the most insignificant, chance, unbalanced person (and though it is perhaps true that presidents are assassinated by unbalanced types, this changes nothing: the leftist penchant for detecting a rightist conspiracy beneath this brings out a false problem – the function of bringing death to, or the prophecy, etc., against power has always been fulfilled, from primitive societies to the present, by demented people, crazy people, or neurotics, who nonetheless carry out a social function as fundamental as that of presidents), was nevertheless ritually put to death by Watergate. Watergate is still a mechanism for the ritual murder of power (the

    American institution of the presidency is much more thrilling in this regard than the European: it surrounds itself with all the violence and vicissitudes of primitive powers, of savage rituals). But already impeachment is no longer assassination: it happens via the Constitution. Nixon has nevertheless arrived at the goal of which all power dreams: to be taken seriously enough, to constitute a mortal enough danger to the group to be one day relieved of his duties, denounced, and liquidated. Ford doesn’t even have this opportunity anymore: a simulacrum of an already dead power, he can only accumulate against himself the signs of reversion through murder – in fact, he is immunized by his impotence, which infuriates him.

    In contrast to the primitive rite, which foresees the official and sacrificial death of the king (the king or the chief is nothing without the promise of his sacrifice), the modern political imaginary goes increasingly in the direction of delaying, of concealing for as long as possible, the death of the head of state. This obsession has accumulated since the era of revolutions and of charismatic leaders: Hitler, Franco, Mao, having no “legitimate” heirs, no filiation of power, see themselves forced to perpetuate themselves indefinitely – popular myth never wishes to believe them dead. The pharaohs already did this: it was always one and the same person who incarnated the successive pharaohs.

    Everything happens as if Mao or Franco had already died several times and had been replaced by his double. From a political point of view, that a head of state remains the same or is someone else doesn’t strictly change anything, so long as they resemble each other. For a long time now a head of state – no matter which one – is nothing but the simulacrum of himself, and only that gives him the power and the quality to govern. No one would grant the least consent, the least devotion to a real person. It is to his double, he being always already dead, to which allegiance is given. This myth does nothing but translate the persistence, and at the same time the deception, of the necessity of the king’s sacrificial death.

    We are still in the same boat: no society knows how to mourn the real, power, the social itself, which is implicated in the same loss. And it is through an artificial revitalization of all this that we try to escape this fact. This situation will no doubt end up giving rise to socialism. Through an unforeseen turn of events and via an irony that is no longer that of history, it is from the death of the social that socialism will emerge, as it is from the death of God that religions emerge. A twisted advent, a perverse event, an unintelligible reversion to the logic of reason. As is the fact that power is in essence no longer present except to conceal that there is no more power. A simulation that can last indefinitely, because, as distinct from “true” power – which is, or was, a structure, a strategy, a relation of force, a stake – it is nothing but the object of a social demand, and thus as the object of the law of supply and demand, it is no longer subject to violence and death. Completely purged of a political dimension, it, like any other commodity, is dependent on mass production and consumption. Its spark has disappeared, only the fiction of a political universe remains.

    The same holds true for work. The spark of production, the violence of its stakes no longer exist. The whole world still produces, and increasingly, but subtly work has become something else: a need (as Marx ideally envisioned it but not in the same sense), the object of a social “demand,” like leisure, to which it is equivalent in the course of

    everyday life. A demand exactly proportional to the loss of a stake in the work process.*6 Same change in fortune as for power: the scenario of work is there to conceal that the real of work, the real of production, has disappeared. And the real of the strike as well, which is no longer a work stoppage, but its alternate pole in the ritual scansion of the social calendar. Everything occurs as if each person had, after declaring a strike, “occupied” his place and work station and recommenced production, as is the norm in a “self-managed” occupation, exactly in the same terms as before, all while declaring himself (and in virtually being) permanently on strike.

    This is not a dream out of science fiction: everywhere it is a question of doubling the process of work. And of a doubling of the process of going on strike – striking incorporated just as obsolescence is in objects, just as crisis is in production. So, there is no longer striking, nor work, but both simultaneously, that is to say something else: a magic of work, a trompel’oeil, a scenodrama (so as not to say a melodrama) of production, a collective dramaturgy on the empty stage of the social.

    It is no longer a question of the ideology of work – the traditional ethic that would obscure the “real” process of work and the “objective” process of exploitation – but of the scenario of work. In the same way, it is no longer a question of the ideology of power, but of the scenario of power. Ideology only corresponds to a corruption of reality through signs; simulation corresponds to a short circuit of reality and to its duplication through signs. It is always the goal of the ideological analysis to restore the objective process, it is always a false problem to wish to restore the truth beneath the simulacrum.

    This is why in the end power is so much in tune with ideological discourses and discourses on ideology, that is they are discourses of truth – always good for countering the mortal blows of simulation, even and especially if they are revolutionary.

    THE END OF THE PANOPTICON

    It is still to this ideology of lived experience – exhumation of the real in its fundamental banality, in its radical authenticity – that the American TV verite experiment attempted on the Loud family in 1971 refers: seven months of uninterrupted shooting, three hundred hours of nonstop broadcasting, without a script or a screenplay, the odyssey of a family, its dramas, its joys, its unexpected events, nonstop – in short, a “raw” historical document, and the “greatest television performance, comparable, on the scale of our day- to-day life, to the footage of our landing on the moon.” It becomes more complicated because this family fell apart during the filming: a crisis erupted, the Louds separated, etc. Whence that insoluble controversy: was TV itself responsible? What would have happened if TV hadn’t been there?

    More interesting is the illusion of filming the Louds as if TV weren’t there. The producer’s triumph was to say: “They lived as if we were not there.” An absurd, paradoxical formula – neither true nor false: Utopian. The “as if we were not there” being equal to “as if you were there.” It is this Utopia, this paradox that fascinated the twenty million viewers, much more than did the “perverse” pleasure of violating someone’s privacy. In the “verite” experience it is not a question of secrecy or perversion, but of a sort of frisson of the real, or of an aesthetics of the hyperreal, a frisson of vertiginous and

    phony exactitude, a frisson of simultaneous distancing and magnification, of distortion of scale, of an excessive transparency. The pleasure of an excess of meaning, when the bar of the sign falls below the usual waterline of meaning: the nonsignifier is exalted by the camera angle. There one sees what the real never was (but “as if you were there”), without the distance that gives us perspectival space and depth vision (but “more real than nature”). Pleasure in the microscopic simulation that allows the real to pass into the hyperreal. (This is also somewhat the case in porno, which is fascinating more on a metaphysical than on a sexual level.)

    Besides, this family was already hyperreal by the very nature of its selection: a typical ideal American family, California home, three garages, five children, assured social and professional status, decorative housewife, upper-middle-class standing. In a way it is this statistical perfection that dooms it to death. Ideal heroine of the American way of life, it is, as in ancient sacrifices, chosen in order to be glorified and to die beneath the flames of the medium, a modern fatum. Because heavenly fire no longer falls on corrupted cities, it is the camera lens that, like a laser, comes to pierce lived reality in order to put it to death. “The Louds: simply a family who agreed to deliver themselves into the hands of television, and to die by it,” the director will say. Thus it is a question of a sacrificial process, of a sacrificial spectacle offered to twenty million Americans. The liturgical drama of a mass society.

    TV verite. A term admirable in its ambiguity, does it refer to the truth of this family or to the truth of TV? In fact, it is TV that is the truth of the Louds, it is TV that is true, it is TV that renders true. Truth that is no longer the reflexive truth of the mirror, nor the perspectival truth of the panoptic system and of the gaze, but the manipulative truth of the test that sounds out and interrogates, of the laser that touches and pierces, of computer cards that retain your preferred sequences, of the genetic code that controls your combinations, of cells that inform your sensory universe. It is to this truth that the Loud family was subjected by the medium of TV, and in this sense it amounts to a death sentence (but is it still a question of truth?).

    End of the panoptic system. The eye of TV is no longer the source of an absolute gaze, and the ideal of control is no longer that of transparency. This still presupposes an objective space (that of the Renaissance) and the omnipotence of the despotic gaze. It is still, if not a system of confinement, at least a system of mapping. More subtly, but always externally, playing on the opposition of seeing and being seen, even if the panoptic focal point may be blind.

    Something else in regard to the Louds. “You no longer watch TV, it is TV that watches you (live),” or again: “You are no longer listening to Don’t Panic, it is Don’t Panic that is listening to you” – a switch from the panoptic mechanism of surveillance (Discipline and Punish [Surveiller et punir]) to a system of deterrence, in which the distinction between the passive and the active is abolished. There is no longer any imperative of submission to the model, or to the gaze “YOU are the model!” “YOU are the majority!” Such is the watershed of a hyperreal sociality, in which the real is confused with the model, as in the statistical operation, or with the medium, as in the Louds’ operation. Such is the last stage of the social relation, ours, which is no longer one of persuasion (the classical age of propaganda, of ideology, of publicity, etc.) but one of deterrence: “YOU are information,

    you are the social, you are the event, you are involved, you have the word, etc.” An about-face through which it becomes impossible to locate one instance of the model, of power, of the gaze, of the medium itself, because you are always already on the other side. No more subject, no more focal point, no more center or periphery: pure flexion or circular inflexion. No more violence or surveillance: only “information,” secret virulence, chain reaction, slow implosion, and simulacra of spaces in which the effect of the real again comes into play.

    We are witnessing the end of perspectival and panoptic space (which remains a moral hypothesis bound up with all the classical analyses on the “objective” essence of power), and thus to the very abolition of the spectacular. Television, for example in the case of the Louds, is no longer a spectacular medium. We are no longer in the society of the spectacle, of which the situationists spoke, nor in the specific kinds of alienation and repression that it implied. The medium itself is no longer identifiable as such, and the confusion of the medium and the message (McLuhan)*7 is the first great formula of this new era. There is no longer a medium in the literal sense: it is now intangible, diffused, and diffracted in the real, and one can no longer even say that the medium is altered by it.

    Such a blending, such a viral, endemic, chronic, alarming presence of the medium, without the possibility of isolating the effects – spectralized, like these advertising laser sculptures in the empty space of the event filtered by the medium – dissolution of TV in life, dissolution of life in TV – indiscernible chemical solution: we are all Louds doomed not to invasion, to pressure, to violence and blackmail by the media and the models, but to their induction, to their infiltration, to their illegible violence.

    But one must watch out for the negative turn that discourse imposes: it is a question neither of disease nor of a viral infection. One must think instead of the media as if they were, in outer orbit, a kind of genetic code that directs the mutation of the real into the hyperreal, just as the other micromolecular code controls the passage from a representative sphere of meaning to the genetic one of the programmed signal.

    It is the whole traditional world of causality that is in question: the perspectival, determinist mode, the “active,” critical mode, the analytic mode – the distinction between cause and effect, between active and passive, between subject and object, between the end and the means. It is in this sense that one can say: TV is watching us, TV alienates us, TV manipulates us, TV informs us … In all this, one remains dependent on the analytical conception of the media, on an external active and effective agent, on “perspectival” information with the horizon of the real and of meaning as the vanishing point.

    Now, one must conceive of TV along the lines of DNA as an effect in which the opposing poles of determination vanish, according to a nuclear contraction, retraction, of the old polar schema that always maintained a minimal distance between cause and effect, between subject and object: precisely the distance of meaning, the gap, the difference, the smallest possible gap (PPEP!),*8 irreducible under pain of reabsorption into an aleatory and indeterminate process whose discourse can no longer account for it, because it is itself a determined order.

    It is this gap that vanishes in the process of genetic coding, in which indeterminacy is not so much a question of molecular randomness as of the abolition, pure and simple, of the relation. In the process of molecular control, which “goes” from the DNA nucleus to the “substance” that it “informs,” there is no longer the traversal of an effect, of an energy, of a determination, of a message. “Order, signal, impulse, message”: all of these attempt to render the thing intelligible to us, but by analogy, retranscribing in terms of inscription, of a vector, of decoding, a dimension of which we know nothing – it is no longer even a “dimension,” or perhaps it is the fourth (which is denned, however, in Einsteinian relativity by the absorption of the distinct poles of space and time). In fact, this whole process can only be understood in its negative form: nothing separates one pole from another anymore, the beginning from the end; there is a kind of contraction of one over the other, a fantastic telescoping, a collapse of the two traditional poles into each other: implosion – an absorption of the radiating mode of causality, of the differential mode of determination, with its positive and negative charge – an implosion of meaning. That is where simulation begins.

    Everywhere, in no matter what domain – political, biological, psychological, mediatized – in which the distinction between these two poles can no longer be maintained, one enters into simulation, and thus into absolute manipulation – not into passivity, but into the differentiation of the active and the passive. DNA realizes this aleatory reduction at the level of living matter. Television, in the case of the Louds, also reaches this indefinite limit in which, vis-à-vis TV, they are neither more nor less active or passive than a living substance is vis-a-vis its molecular code. Here and there, a single nebula whose simple elements are indecipherable, whose truth is indecipherable.

    THE ORBITAL AND THE NUCLEAR

    The apotheosis of simulation: the nuclear. However, the balance of terror is never anything but the spectacular slope of a system of deterrence that has insinuated itself from the inside into all the cracks of daily life. Nuclear suspension only serves to seal the trivialized system of deterrence that is at the heart of the media, of the violence without consequences that reigns throughout the world, of the aleatory apparatus of all the choices that are made for us. The most insignificant of our behaviors is regulated by neutralized, indifferent, equivalent signs, by zero-sum signs like those that regulate the “strategy of games” (but the true equation is elsewhere, and the unknown is precisely that variable of simulation which makes of the atomic arsenal itself a hyperreal form, a simulacrum that dominates everything and reduces all “ground-level” events to being nothing but ephemeral scenarios, transforming the life left us into survival, into a stake without stakes – not even into a life insurance policy: into a policy that already has no value).

    It is not the direct threat of atomic destruction that paralyzes our lives, it is deterrence that gives them leukemia. And this deterrence comes from that fact that even the real atomic clash is precluded – precluded like the eventuality of the real in a system of signs. The whole world pretends to believe in the reality of this threat (this is understandable on the part of the military, the gravity of their exercise and the discourse of their “strategy” are at stake), but it is precisely at this level that there are no strategic stakes. The whole originality of the situation lies in the improbability of destruction.

    Deterrence precludes war – the archaic violence of expanding systems. Deterrence itself is the neutral, implosive violence of metastable systems or systems in involution. There is no longer a subject of deterrence, nor an adversary nor a strategy – it is a planetary structure of the annihilation of stakes. Atomic war, like the Trojan War, will not take place. The risk of nuclear annihilation only serves as a pretext, through the sophistication of weapons (a sophistication that surpasses any possible objective to such an extent that it is itself a symptom of nullity), for installing a universal security system, a universal lockup and control system whose deterrent effect is not at all aimed at an atomic clash (which was never in question, except without a doubt in the very initial stages of the cold war, when one still confused the nuclear apparatus with conventional war) but, rather, at the much greater probability of any real event, of anything that would be an event in the general system and upset its balance. The balance of terror is the terror of balance.

    Deterrence is not a strategy, it circulates and is exchanged between nuclear protagonists exactly as is international capital in the orbital zone of monetary speculation whose fluctuations suffice to control all global exchanges. Thus the money of destruction (without any reference to real destruction, any more than floating capital has a real referent of production) that circulates in nuclear orbit suffices to control all the violence and potential conflicts around the world.

    What is hatched in the shadow of this mechanism with the pretext of a maximal, “objective,” threat, and thanks to Damocles’ nuclear sword, is the perfection of the best system of control that has ever existed. And the progressive satellization of the whole planet through this hypermodel of security.

    The same goes for peaceful nuclear power stations. Pacification does not distinguish between the civil and the military: everywhere where irreversible apparatuses of control are elaborated, everywhere where the notion of security becomes omnipotent, everywhere where the norm replaces the old arsenal of laws and violence (including war), it is the system of deterrence that grows, and around it grows the historical, social, and political desert. A gigantic involution that makes every conflict, every finality, every confrontation contract in proportion to this blackmail that interrupts, neutralizes, freezes them all. No longer can any revolt, any story be deployed according to its own logic because it risks annihilation. No strategy is possible any longer, and escalation is only a puerile game given over to the military. The political stake is dead, only simulacra of conflicts and carefully circumscribed stakes remain.

    The “space race” played exactly the same role as nuclear escalation. This is why the space program was so easily able to replace it in the 1960s (Kennedy/Khrushchev), or to develop concurrently as a form of “peaceful coexistence.” Because what, ultimately, is the function of the space program, of the conquest of the moon, of the launching of satellites if not the institution of a model of universal gravitation, of satellization of which the lunar module is the perfect embryo? Programmed microcosm, where nothing can be left to chance. Trajectory, energy, calculation, physiology, psychology, environment – nothing can be left to contingencies, this is the total universe of the norm – the Law no longer exists, it is the operational immanence of every detail that is law. A universe purged of all threat of meaning, in a state of asepsis and weightlessness – it is

    this very perfection that is fascinating. The exaltation of the crowds was not a response to the event of Rinding on the moon or of sending a man into space (this would be, rather, the fulfillment of an earlier dream), rather, we are dumbfounded by the perfection of the programming and the technical manipulation, by the immanent wonder of the programmed unfolding of events. Fascination with the maximal norm and the mastery of probability. Vertigo of the model, which unites with the model of death, but without fear or drive. Because if the law, with its aura of transgression, if order, with its aura of violence, still taps a perverse imaginary, the norm fixes, fascinates, stupefies, and makes every imaginary involute. One no longer fantasizes about the minutiae of a program. Just watching it produces vertigo. The vertigo of a world without flaws.

    Now, it is the same model of programmatic infallibility, of maximum security and deterrence that today controls the spread of the social. There lies the true nuclear fallout: the meticulous operation of technology serves as a model for the meticulous operation of the social. Here as well, nothing will be left to chance, moreover this is the essence of socialization, which began centuries ago, but which has now entered its accelerated phase, toward a limit that one believed would be explosive (revolution), but which for the moment is translated by an inverse, implosive, irreversible process: the generalized deterrence of chance, of accident, of transversality, of finality, of contradiction, rupture, or complexity in a sociality illuminated by the norm, doomed to the descriptive transparency of mechanisms of information. In fact, the spatial and nuclear models do not have their own ends: neither the discovery of the moon, nor military and strategic superiority. Their truth is to be the models of simulation, the model vectors of a system of planetary control (where even the superpowers of this scenario are not free – the whole world is satellized).*9

    Resist the evidence: in satellization, he who is satellized is not who one might think. Through the orbital inscription of a spatial object, it is the planet earth that becomes a satellite, it is the terrestrial principle of reality that becomes eccentric, hyperreal, and insignificant. Through the orbital instantiation of a system of control like peaceful coexistence, all the terrestrial microsystems are satellized and lose their autonomy. All energy, all events are absorbed by this eccentric gravitation, everything condenses and implodes toward the only micromodel of control (the orbital satellite), as conversely, in the other, biological, dimension, everything converges and implodes on the molecular micromodel of the genetic code. Between the two, in this forking of the nuclear and the genetic, in the simultaneous assumption of the two fundamental codes of deterrence, every principle of meaning is absorbed, every deployment of the real is impossible.

    The simultaneity of two events in the month of July 1975 illustrated this in a striking manner: the linkup in space of the two American and Soviet supersatellites, apotheosis of peaceful coexistence – the suppression by the Chinese of ideogrammatic writing and conversion to the Roman alphabet. The latter signifies the “orbital” instantiation of an abstract and modelized system of signs, into whose orbit all the once unique forms of style and writing will be reabsorbed. The satellization of language: the means for the Chinese to enter the system of peaceful coexistence, which is inscribed in their heavens at precisely the same time by the linkup of the two satellites. Orbital flight of the Big Two, neutralization and homogenization of everyone else on earth.

    Yet, despite this deterrence by the orbital power – the nuclear or molecular code – events continue at ground level, misfortunes are even more numerous, given the global process of the contiguity and simultaneity of data. But, subtly, they no longer have any meaning, they are no longer anything but the duplex effect of simulation at the summit. The best example can only be that of the war in Vietnam, because it took place at the intersection of a maximum historical and “revolutionary” stake, and of the installation of this deterrent authority. What meaning did this war have, and wasn’t its unfolding a means of sealing the end of history in the decisive and culminating historic event of our era?

    Why did this war, so hard, so long, so ferocious, vanish from one day to the next as if by magic?

    Why did this American defeat (the largest reversal in the history of the USA) have no internal repercussions in America? If it had really signified the failure of the planetary strategy of the United States, it would necessarily have completely disrupted its internal balance and the American political system. Nothing of the sort occurred.

    Something else, then, took place. This war, at bottom, was nothing but a crucial episode of peaceful coexistence. It marked the arrival of China to peaceful coexistence. The nonintervention of China obtained and secured after many years, Chinas apprenticeship to a global modus vivendi, the shift from a global strategy of revolution to one of shared forces and empires, the transition from a radical alternative to political alternation in a system now essentially regulated (the normalization of Peking – Washington relations): this was what was at stake in the war in Vietnam, and in this sense, the USA pulled out of Vietnam but won the war.

    And the war ended “spontaneously” when this objective was achieved. That is why it was deescalated, demobilized so easily.

    This same reduction of forces can be seen on the field. The war lasted as long as elements irreducible to a healthy politics and discipline of power, even a Communist one, remained unliquidated. When at last the war had passed into the hands of regular troops in the North and escaped that of the resistance, the war could stop: it had attained its objective. The stake is thus that of a political relay. As soon as the Vietnamese had proved that they were no longer the carriers of an unpredictable subversion, one could let them take over. That theirs is a Communist order is not serious in the end: it had proved itself, it could be trusted. It is even more effective than capitalism in the liquidation of “savage” and archaic precapitalist structures.

    Same scenario in the Algerian war.

    The other aspect of this war and of all wars today: behind the armed violence, the murderous antagonism of the adversaries – which seems a matter of life and death, which is played out as such (or else one could never send people to get themselves killed in this kind of thing), behind this simulacrum of fighting to the death and of ruthless global stakes, the two adversaries are fundamentally in solidarity against something else, unnamed, never spoken, but whose objective outcome in war, with the equal complicity of the two adversaries, is total liquidation. Tribal, communitarian, precapitalist structures,

    every form of exchange, of language, of symbolic organization, that is what must be abolished, that is the object of murder in war – and war itself, in its immense, spectacular death apparatus, is nothing but the medium of this process of the terrorist rationalization of the social – the murder on which sociality will be founded, whatever its allegiance, Communist or capitalist. Total complicity, or division of labor between two adversaries (who may even consent to enormous sacrifices for it) for the very end of reshaping and domesticating social relations.

    “The North Vietnamese were advised to countenance a scenario for liquidating the American presence in the course of which, of course, one must save face.”

    This scenario: the extremely harsh bombardments of Hanoi. Their untenable character must not conceal the fact that they were nothing but a simulacrum to enable the Vietnamese to seem to countenance a compromise and for Nixon to make the Americans swallow the withdrawal of their troops. The game was already won, nothing was objectively at stake but the verisimilitude of the final montage.

    The moralists of war, the holders of high wartime values should not be too discouraged: the war is no less atrocious for being only a simulacrum – the flesh suffers just the same, and the dead and former combatants are worth the same as in other wars. This objective is always fulfilled, just like that of the charting of territories and of disciplinary sociality. What no longer exists is the adversity of the adversaries, the reality of antagonistic causes, the ideological seriousness of war. And also the reality of victory or defeat, war being a process that triumphs well beyond these appearances.

    In any case, the pacification (or the deterrence) that dominates us today is beyond war and peace, it is that at every moment war and peace are equivalent. “War is peace,” said Orwell. There also, the two differential poles implode into each other, or recycle one another – a simultaneity of contradictions that is at once the parody and the end of every dialectic. Thus one can completely miss the truth of a war: namely, that it was finished well before it started, that there was an end to war at the heart of the war itself, and that perhaps it never started. Many other events (the oil crisis, etc.) never started, never existed, except as artificial occurrences – abstract, ersatz, and as artifacts of history, catastrophes and crises destined to maintain a historical investment under hypnosis. The media and the official news service are only there to maintain the illusion of an actuality, of the reality of the stakes, of the objectivity of facts. All the events are to be read backward, or one becomes aware (as with the Communists “in power” in Italy the retro, posthumous rediscovery of the gulags and Soviet dissidents like the almost contemporary discovery, by a moribund ethnology, of the lost “difference” of Savages) that all these things arrived too late, with a history of delay, a spiral of delay, that they long ago exhausted their meaning and only live from an artificial effervescence of signs, that all these events succeed each other without logic, in the most contradictory, complete equivalence, in a profound indifference to their consequences (but this is because there are none: they exhaust themselves in their spectacular promotion) – all “newsreel” footage thus gives the sinister impression of kitsch, of retro and porno at the same time – doubtless everyone knows this, and no one really accepts it. The reality of simulation is unbearable – crueler than Artaud’s Theater of Cruelty, which was still an attempt to create a dramaturgy of life, the last gasp of an ideality of the body, of blood, of violence in a

    system that was already taking it away, toward a reabsorption of all the stakes without a trace of blood. For us the trick has been played. All dramaturgy, and even all real writing of cruelty has disappeared. Simulation is the master, and we only have a right to the retro, to the phantom, parodic rehabilitation of all lost referentials. Everything still unfolds around us, in the cold light of deterrence (including Artaud, who has the right like everything else to his revival, to a second existence as the referential of cruelty).

    This is why nuclear proliferation does not increase the risk of either an atomic clash or an accident – save in the interval when the “young” powers could be tempted to make a nondeterrent, “real” use of it (as the Americans did in Hiroshima – but precisely only they had a right to this “use value” of the bomb, all of those who have acquired it since will be deterred from using it by the very fact of possessing it). Entry into the atomic club, so prettily named, very quickly effaces (as unionization does in the working world) any inclination toward violent intervention. Responsibility, control, censure, self-deterrence always grow more rapidly than the forces or the weapons at our disposal: this is the secret of the social order. Thus the very possibility of paralyzing a whole country by flicking a switch makes it so that the electrical engineers will never use this weapon: the whole myth of the total and revolutionary strike crumbles at the very moment when the means are available – but alas precisely because those means are available. Therein lies the whole process of deterrence.

    It is thus perfectly probable that one day we will see nuclear powers export atomic reactors, weapons, and bombs to every latitude. Control by threat will be replaced by the more effective strategy of pacification through the bomb and through the possession of the bomb. The “little” powers, believing that they are buying their independent striking force, will buy the virus of deterrence, of their own deterrence. The same goes for the atomic reactors that we have already sent them: so many neutron bombs knocking out all historical virulence, all risk of explosion. In this sense, the nuclear everywhere inaugurates an accelerated process of implosion, it freezes everything around it, it absorbs all living energy.

    The nuclear is at once the culminating point of available energy and the maximization of energy control systems. Lockdown and control increase in direct proportion to (and undoubtedly even faster than) liberating potentialities. This was already the aporia of the modern revolution. It is still the absolute paradox of the nuclear. Energies freeze in their own fire, they deter themselves. One can no longer imagine what project, what power, what strategy, what subject could exist behind this enclosure, this vast saturation of a system by its own forces, now neutralized, unusable, unintelligible, nonexplosive – except for the possibility of an explosion toward the center, of an implosion where all these energies would be abolished in a catastrophic process (in the literal sense, that is to say in the sense of a reversion of the whole cycle toward a minimal point, of a reversion of energies toward a minimal threshold).

    * NOTES *

    1. Cf. J. Baudrillard, “L’ordre des simulacres” (The order of simulacra), in L’echange symbolique et la mort (Symbolic exchange and death) (Paris: Gallimard, 1976).

    2. A discourse that is itself not susceptible to being resolved in transference. It is the entanglement of these two discourses that renders psychoanalysis interminable.

    3. Cf. M. Perniola, Icônes, visions, simulacres (Icons, visions, simulacra), 39.

    4. This does not necessarily result in despairing of meaning, but just as much in the improvisation of meaning, of nonmeaning, of many simultaneous meanings that destroy each other.

    5. Taken together, the energy crisis and the ecological mise-en-scène are themselves a disaster movie, in the same style (and with the same value) as those that currently comprise the golden days of Hollywood. It is useless to laboriously interpret these films in terms of their relation to an “objective” social crisis or even to an “objective” phantasm of disaster. It is in another sense that it must be said that it is the social itself that, in contemporary discourse, is organised along the lines of a disaster-movie script. (Cf. M. Makarius, La stratégic de la catastrophe [The strategy of disaster], 115.)

    6. To this flagging investment in work corresponds a parallel decline in the investment in consumption. Goodbye to use value or to the prestige of the automobile, goodbye amorous discourses that neatly opposed the object of enjoyment to the object of work. Another discourse takes hold that is a discourse of work on the object of consumption aiming for an active, constraining, puritan reinvestment (use less gas, watch out for your safety, you’ve gone over the speed limit, etc.) to which the characteristics of automobiles pretend to adapt. Rediscovering a stake through the transposition of these two poles. Work becomes the object of a need, the car becomes the object of work. There is no better proof of the lack of differentiation among all the stakes. It is through the same slippage between the “right” to vote and electoral “duty” that the divestment of the political sphere is signaled.

    7. The medium/message confusion is certainly a corollary of that between the sender and the receiver, thus sealing the disappearance of all dual, polar structures that formed the discursive organization of language, of all determined articulation of meaning reflecting Jakobson’s famous grid of functions. That discourse “circulates” is to be taken literally: that is, it no longer goes from one point to another, but it traverses a cycle that without distinction includes the positions of transmitter and receiver, now unlocatable as such. Thus there is no instance of power, no instance of transmission – power is something that circulates and whose source can no longer be located, a cycle in which the positions of the dominator and the dominated are exchanged in an endless reversion that is also the end of power in its classical definition. The circularization of power, of knowledge, of discourse puts an end to any localization of instances and poles. In the psychoanalytic interpretation itself, the “power” of the interpreter does not come from any outside instance but from the interpreted himself. This changes everything, because one can always ask of the traditional holders of power where they get their power from. Who made you duke? The king. Who made you king? God. Only God no longer answers. But to the question: who made you a psychoanalyst? the analyst can well reply: You. Thus is expressed, by an inverse simulation, the passage from the “analyzed” to the “analysand,” from passive to active, which simply describes the spiraling effect of the shifting of poles, the effect of circularity in which power is lost, is dissolved, is resolved in perfect

    manipulation (it is no longer of the order of directive power and of the gaze, but of the order of tactility and commutation). See also the state/family circularity assured by the fluctuation and metastatic regulation of the images of the social and the private (J. Donzelot, La police des/amilles [The policing of families]).

    Impossible now to pose the famous question: “From what position do you speak?” – “How do you know?” “From where do you get your power?” without hearing the immediate response: “But it is of you (from you) that I speak” – meaning, it is you who are speaking, you who know, you who are the power. Gigantic circumvolution, circumlocution of the spoken word, which is equal to a blackmail with no end, to a deterrence that cannot be appealed of the subject presumed to speak, leaving him without a reply, because to the question that he poses one ineluctably replies: but you are the answer, or: your question is already an answer, etc. – the whole strangulatory sophistication of intercepting speech, of the forced confession in the guise of freedom of expression, of trapping the subject in his own interrogation, of the precession of the reply to the question (all the violence of interpretation lies there, as well as that of the conscious or unconscious management of the “spoken word” [parole]).

    This simulacrum of the inversion or the involution of poles, this clever subterfuge, which is the secret of the whole discourse of manipulation and thus, today, in every domain, the secret of any new power in the erasure of the scene of power, in the assumption of all words from which has resulted this fantastic silent majority characteristic of our time – all of this started without a doubt in the political sphere with the democractic simulacrum, which today is the substitution for the power of God with the power of the people as the source of power, and of power as emanation with power as representation. Anti- Copernican revolution: no transcendental instance either of the sun or of the luminous sources of power and knowledge – everything comes from the people and everything returns to them. It is with this magnificent recycling that the universal simulacrum of manipulation, from the scenario of mass suffrage to the present-day phantoms of opinion polls, begins to be put in place.

    8. PPEP is an acronym for smallest possible gap, or “plus petit écart possible.”-TRANS.

    9. Paradox: all bombs are clean: their only pollution is the system of security and of control they radiate as long as they don’t explode.

  • George Washington

    George Washington

    I hold the maxim no less applicable to public than to private affairs, that honesty is always the best policy.

    George Washington (22 February 1732 – 14 December1799) was the successful Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army in the American Revolutionary Warfrom 1775 to 1783, and later became the first President of the United States of America, an office to which he was elected, unanimously, twice and remained in from 1789 to 1797. He is generally regarded as the “Father of his country”.

    Quotes

    1750s

    • Nothing is a greater stranger to my breast, or a sin that my soul more abhors, than that black and detestable one, ingratitude.
      • Letter to Governor Dinwiddie (29 May 1754)
    • Discipline is the soul of an army. It makes small numbers formidable; procures success to the weak, and esteem to all.
      • Letter of Instructions to the Captains of the Virginia Regiments (29 July 1759)

    1770s

    Discipline is the soul of an army. It makes small numbers formidable; procures success to the weak, and esteem to all.

    The Marquis de Lafayette is extremely solicitous of having a command equal to his rank … he is sensible; discreet in his manners; has made great proficiency in our language; and, from the disposition he discovered at the battle of Brandywine, possesses a large share of bravery and military ardor.

    • The General is sorry to be informed —, that the foolish and wicked practice of profane cursing and swearing, a vice heretofore little known in an American army, is growing into a fashion; — he hopes the officers will, by example as well as influence, endeavor to check it, and that both they and the men will reflect that we can have little hope of the blessing of Heaven on our arms, if we insult it by impiety and folly; added to this, it is a vice so mean and low, without any temptation, that every man of sense and character detests and despises it.
    • Unhappy it is though to reflect, that a Brother’s Sword has been sheathed in a Brother’s breast, and that, the once happy and peaceful plains of America are either to be drenched with Blood, or Inhabited by Slaves. Sad alternative! But can a virtuous Man hesitate in his choice?
    • But lest some unlucky event should happen unfavorable to my reputation, I beg it may be remembered by every gentleman in the room that I this day declare with the utmost sincerity, I do not think myself equal to the command I am honored with.
      • Washington’s formal acceptance of command of the Army (16 June 1775), quoted in The Writings of George Washington : Life of Washington(1837) edited by Jared Sparks, p. 141
    • Every post is honorable in which a man can serve his country.
    • The reflection upon my situation, and that of this army, produces many an uneasy hour, when all around me are wrapped in sleep. Few people know the predicament we are in, on a thousand accounts; fewer still will believe, if any disaster happens to these lines, from what cause it flows. I have often thought how much happier I should have been, if instead of accepting of a command under such circumstances, I had taken my musket upon my shoulders and entered the rank, or if I could have justified the measure of posterity, and my own conscience, had retired to the back country, and lived in a wigwam. If I shall be able to rise superior to these, and many other difficulties which might be enumerated, I shall most religiously believe that the finger of Providence is in it, to blind the eyes of our enemies; for surely if we get well through this month, it must be for want of their knowing the disadvantages we labor under. Could I have foreseen the difficulties which have come upon us, could I have known that such a backwardness would have been discovered in the old soldiers to the service, all the generals upon earth should not have convinced me of the propriety of delaying an attack upon Boston till this time.
      • In a letter to Joseph Reed, during the siege of Boston (14 January 1776), quoted in History of the Siege of Boston, and of the Battles of Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill (1849) by Richard Frothingham, p. 286
    • To expect … the same service from raw and undisciplined recruits, as from veteran soldiers, is to expect what never did and perhaps never will happen. Men, who are familiarized to danger, meet it without shrinking; whereas troops unused to service often apprehend danger where no danger is.
      • Letter to the President of Congress (9 February 1776)
    • Let us therefore animate and encourage each other, and show the whole world that a Freeman, contending for liberty on his own ground, is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth.
      • General Orders, Headquarters, New York (2 July 1776)
    • The General hopes and trusts that every officer and man will endeavor to live and act as becomes a Christian soldier defending the dearest rights and liberties of his country.
      • General Order (9 July 1776) George Washington Papers at the Library of Congress, 1741-1799: Series 3g Varick Transcripts
    • The time is now near at hand which must probably determine whether Americans are to be freemen or slaves; whether they are to have any property they can call their own; whether their houses and farms are to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned to a state of wretchedness from which no human efforts will deliver them. The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us only the choice of brave resistance, or the most abject submission. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or die.
    • There is nothing that gives a man consequence, and renders him fit for command, like a support that renders him independent of everybody but the State he serves.
      • Letter to the president of Congress, Heights of Harlem (24 September 1776)
    • To place any dependence upon militia, is, assuredly, resting upon a broken staff. Men just dragged from the tender scenes of domestic life – unaccustomed to the din of arms – totally unacquainted with every kind of military skill, which being followed by a want of confidence in themselves when opposed to troops regularly trained, disciplined, and appointed, superior in knowledge, and superior in arms, makes them timid and ready to fly from their own shadows.
      • Letter to the president of Congress, Heights of Harlem (24 September 1776)
    • My brave fellows, you have done all I asked you to do, and more than can be reasonably expected; but your country is at stake, your wives, your houses and all that you hold dear. You have worn yourselves out with fatigues and hardships, but we know not how to spare you. If you will consent to stay one month longer, you will render that service to the cause of liberty, and to your country, which you probably can never do under any other circumstances.
      • Encouraging his men to re-enlist in the army (31 December 1776)
    • The Marquis de Lafayette is extremely solicitous of having a command equal to his rank. I do not know in what light Congress will view the matter, but it appears to me, from a consideration of his illustrious and important connexions, the attachment which he has manifested for our cause, and the consequences which his return in disgust might produce, that it will be advisable to gratify him in his wishes; and the more so, as several gentlemen from France, who came over under some assurances, have gone back disappointed in their expectations. His conduct with respect to them stands in a favorable point of view; having interested himself to remove their uneasiness, and urged the impropriety of their making any unfavorable representations upon their arrival at home; and in all his letters he has placed our affairs in the best situation he’ could. Besides, he is sensible; discreet in his manners; has made great proficiency in our language; and, from the disposition he discovered at the battle of Brandywine, possesses a large share of bravery and military ardor.
    • A great and lasting war can never be supported on this principle [patriotism] alone. It must be aided by a prospect of interest, or some reward.
      • Letter to John Banister, Valley Forge (21 April 1778)
    • While we are zealously performing the duties of good citizens and soldiers, we certainly ought not to be inattentive to the higher duties of religion. To the distinguished character of Patriot, it should be our highest glory to add the more distinguished character of Christian.
      • General Orders (2 May 1778); published in Writings of George Washington (1932), Vol.XI, pp. 342-343
    • It is not a little pleasing, nor less wonderful to contemplate, that after two years’ manoeuvring and undergoing the strangest vicissitudes, that perhaps ever attended any one contest since the creation, both armies are brought back to the very point they set out from, and that which was the offending party in the beginning is now reduced to the use of the spade and pickaxe for defence. The hand of Providence has been so conspicuous in all this, that he must be worse than an infidel that lacks faith, and more than wicked, that has not gratitude enough to acknowledge his obligations. But it will be time enough for me to turn preacher, when my present appointment ceases…
      • Letter to Brigadier-General Nelson, 20 August 1778, in Ford’s Writings of George Washington (1890), vol. VII, p. 161. Part of this is often attached to a fragment of a letter to John Armstrong of 11 March 1782; it is also often prefaced with the spurious “governing without God” sentence, as this 1867 example from Henry Wilson (Testimonies of American Statesmen and Jurists to the Truths of Christianity) shows:
        • It is impossible to govern the world without God. It is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the Providence of Almighty God, to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits and humbly implore his protection and favor. I am sure there never was a people who had more reason to acknowledge a divine interposition in their affairs, than those of the United States; and I should be pained to believe that they have forgotten that agency which was so often manifested during the revolution; or that they failed to consider the omnipotence of Him, who is alone able to protect them. He must be worse than an infidel that lacks faith, and more than wicked, that has not gratitude enough to acknowledge his obligations.
    • It gives me very sincere pleasure to find that there is likely to be a coalition of the Whigs in your State (a few only excepted) and that the Assembly of it, are so well disposed to second your endeavors in bringing those murderers of our cause—the Monopolizers—forestallers—& Engrossers—to condign punishment. It is much to be lamented that each State, long ’ere this, has not hunted them down as the pests of Society, & the greatest enemies we have, to the happiness of America. I would to God that one of the most attrocious in each State was hung in Gibbets, up on a gallows five times as high as the one prepared by Haman—No punishment, in my opinion, is too great for the Man, who can build “his greatness upon his Country’s ruin.”
      • George Washington to Joseph Reed, 12 December 1778, Founders Online, National Archives. Source: The Papers of George Washington, Revolutionary War Series, vol. 18, 1 November 1778 – 14 January 1779, ed. Edward G. Lengel. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2008, pp. 396–398. Page images at American Memory (Library of Congress)
    • In the last place, though first in importance I shall ask—is there any thing doing, or that can be done to restore the credit of our currency? The depreciation of it is got to so alarming a point—that a waggon load of money will scarcely purchase a waggon load of provision.
      • Letter to John Jay, 23 April 1779, Founders Online, National Archives. Source: The Papers of George Washington, Revolutionary War Series, vol. 20, 8 April–31 May 1779, ed. Edward G. Lengel. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2010, p. 177. Also found in The Life John Jay With Selections from His Correspondence and Miscellaneous Papers. by His Son, William Jay in Two Volumes, Vol. II., 1833
    • Few men have virtue to withstand the highest bidder.
      • Letter to Major-General Robert Howe (17 August 1779), published in “The Writings of George Washington”: 1778-1779, edited by Worthington Chauncey Ford (1890)
      • Paraphrased variants:
      • Few men have the virtue to withstand the highest bidder.
      • Few men have virtue enough to withstand the highest bidder
    • Know my good friend that no distance can keep anxious lovers long asunder, and that the wonders of former ages may be revived in this— But alas! will you not remark that amidst all the wonders recorded in holy writ no instance can be produced where a young Woman from real inclinationhas prefered an old man — This is so much against me that I shall not be able I fear to contest the prize with you — yet, under the encouragement you have given me I shall enter the list for so inestimable a jewell.
    • A slender acquaintance with the world must convince every man, that actions, not words, are the true criterion of the attachment of his friends, and that the most liberal professions of good will are very far from being the surest marks of it. I should be happy that my own experience had afforded fewer examples of the little dependence to be placed upon them.
      • Letter to Major-General John Sullivan (15 December 1779), published in The Writings of George Washington (1890) by Worthington Chauncey Ford, Vol. 8, p. 139

    Letter to John Hancock (1775)

    • [F]ree Negroes who have served in this army are very much dissatisfied at being discarded. As it is to be apprehended that they may seek employ in the Ministerial Army, I have … given license for their being enlisted.

    Letter to Phyllis Wheatley (1776)

    Letter to Phyllis Wheatley (28 February 1776)
    • Mrs. Phillis: Your favour of the 26th of October did not reach my hands ’till the middle of December. Time enough, you will say, to have given an answer ere this. Granted. But a variety of important occurrences, continually interposing to distract the mind and withdraw the attention, I hope will apologize for the delay, and plead my excuse for the seeming, but not real neglect.
    • I thank you most sincerely for your polite notice of me, in the elegant Lines you enclosed; and however undeserving I may be of such encomium and panegyrick, the style and manner exhibit a striking proof of your great poetical Talents. In honour of which, and as a tribute justly due to you, I would have published the Poem, had I not been apprehensive, that, while I only meant to give the World this new instance of your genius, I might have incurred the imputation of Vanity. This and nothing else, determined me not to give it place in the public Prints.
    • If you should ever come to Cambridge, or near Head Quarters, I shall be happy to see a person so favoured by the Muses, and to whom Nature has been so liberal and beneficent in her dispensations. I am, with great Respect, etc.

    Letter to Henry Laurens (1779)

    • I am not clear that a discrimination will not render slavery more irksome to those who remain in it. Most of the good and evil things in this life are judged of by comparison; and I fear a comparison in this case will be productive of much discontent in those who are held in servitude.

    1780s

    I am sure there never was a people, who had more reason to acknowledge a divine interposition in their affairs, than those of the United States; and I should be pained to believe, that they have forgotten that agency, which was so often manifested during our revolution, or that they failed to consider the omnipotence of that God, who is alone able to protect them.

    The preservation of the sacred fire of liberty, and the destiny of the republican model of government, are justly considered as deeply, perhaps as finally staked, on the experiment entrusted to the hands of the American people.

    • [A]bolish the name and appearance of a Black Corps.
      • Recommendations to reorganize two Rhode Island regiments into integrated rather than segregated groups, in a letter to Major General William Heath (29 July 1780), in The Writings of George Washington, 19:93. According to historian Robert A. Selig, the Continental Army exhibited a degree of integration not reached by the American army again for 200 years (until after World War II).
    • Example, whether it be good or bad, has a powerful influence.
      • Letter to Lord Stirling (5 March 1780)
    • The many remarkable interpositions of the divine government, in the hours of our deepest distress and darkness, have been too luminous to suffer me to doubt the happy issue of the present contest.
    • The Commander in Chief earnestly recommends that the troops not on duty should universally attend with that seriousness of Deportment and gratitude of Heart which the recognition of such reiterated and astonishing interpositions of Providence demand of us.
      • Notes on general orders to the troops, (20 October 1781), as quoted in The Writings of George Washington (1835) edited by Jared Sparks, Vol. 8, p. 189
    • Without a decisive naval force we can do nothing definitive. And with it, everything honorable and glorious.
    • I am sure there never was a people, who had more reason to acknowledge a divine interposition in their affairs, than those of the United States; and I should be pained to believe, that they have forgotten that agency, which was so often manifested during our revolution, or that they failed to consider the omnipotence of that God, who is alone able to protect them.
      • Letter to John Armstrong, 11 March 1782, in Ford’s Writings of George Washington (1891), vol. XII, p. 111. This is frequently attached to part of a letter to Brigadier-General Nelson of 20 August 1778, as in this 1864 example from B. F. Morris, The Christian Life and Character of the Civil Institutions of the United States, pp. 33-34:
        • I am sure that there never was a people who had more reason to acknowledge a divine interposition in their affairs than those of the United States; and I should be pained to believe that they have forgotten that agency which was so often manifested during the Revolution, or that they failed to consider the omnipotence of that God who is alone able to protect them. He must be worse than an infidel that lacks faith, and more than wicked that has not gratitude enough to acknowledge his obligations.
    • Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence; true friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation.
    • Do not conceive that fine Clothes make fine Men, any more than fine feathers make fine Birds—A plain genteel dress is more admired and obtains more credit than lace & embroidery in the Eyes of the judicious and sensible.
    • Happy, thrice happy shall they be pronounced hereafter, who have contributed any thing, who have performed the meanest office in erecting this stupendous fabrick of Freedom and Empire on the broad basis of Independency; who have assisted in protecting the rights of humane nature and establishing an Asylum for the poor and oppressed of all nations and religions.
      • General Orders (18 April 1783)
    • It may be laid down, as a primary position, and the basis of our system, that every citizen who enjoys the protection of a free government, owes not only a proportion of his property, but even of his personal services to the defence of it, and consequently that the Citizens of America (with a few legal and official exceptions) from 18 to 50 Years of Age should be borne on the Militia Rolls, provided with uniform Arms, and so far accustomed to the use of them, that the Total strength of the Country might be called forth at Short Notice on any very interesting Emergency.
      • “Sentiments on a Peace Establishment” in a letter to Alexander Hamilton(2 May 1783); published in The Writings of George Washington (1938), edited by John C. Fitzpatrick, Vol. 26, p. 289
    • I now make it my earnest prayer, that God would have you, and the State over which you preside, in his holy protection; that he would incline the hearts of the citizens to cultivate a spirit of subordination and obedience to Government; to entertain a brotherly affection and love for one another, for their fellow citizens of the United States at large; and, particularly, for their brethren who have served in the Geld; and finally, that he would most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with that charity, humility, and pacifick temper of the mind, which were the characteristicks of the divine Author of our blessed religion ; without an humble imitation of whose example, in these things, we can never hope to be a happy Nation.
      • Circular Letter to the Governours of the several States (18 June 1783). Misreported as “I make it my constant prayer that God would most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with that charity, humility, and pacific temper of mind, which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed religion; without a humble imitation of whose example in these things, we can never hope to be a happy nation”, in Josiah Hotchkiss Gilbert, Dictionary of Burning Words of Brilliant Writers (1895), p. 315
    • The bosom of America is open to receive not only the Opulent and respectable Stranger, but the oppressed and persecuted of all Nations And Religions; whom we shall wellcome to a participation of all our rights and previleges, if by decency and propriety of conduct they appear to merit the enjoyment.
      • Letter to the members of the Volunteer Association and other Inhabitants of the Kingdom of Ireland who have lately arrived in the City of New York (2 December 1783), as quoted in John C. Fitzpatrick, ed., The Writings of George Washington (1938), vol. 27, p. 254
    • Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great theatre of Action; and bidding an Affectionate farewell to this August body under whose orders I have so long acted, I here offer my commission, and take my leave of all the employments of public life.
      • Address to Congress resigning his commission (23 December 1783)
    • I am become a private citizen on the banks of the Potomac, and under the shadow of my own Vine and my own Fig-tree, free from the bustle of a camp and the busy scenes of public life, I am solacing myself with those tranquil enjoyments, of which the Soldier who is ever in pursuit of fame, the Statesman whose watchful days and sleepless nights are spent in devising schemes to promote the welfare of his own, perhaps the ruin of other countries, as if this globe was insufficient for us all, and the Courtier who is always watching the countenance of his Prince, in hopes of catching a gracious smile, can have very little conception. I am not only retired from all public employments, but I am retiring within myself; and shall be able to view the solitary walk, and tread the paths of private life with heartfelt satisfaction. Envious of none, I am determined to be pleased with all; and this my dear friend, being the order for my march, I will move gently down the stream of life, until I sleep with my Fathers.
    • A people… who are possessed of the spirit of commerce, who see and who will pursue their advantages may achieve almost anything.
    • Democratical States must always feel before they can see: it is this that makes their Governments slow, but the people will be right at last.
    • As the complexion of European politics seems now (from letters I have received from the Marqs. de la Fayette, Chevrs. Chartellux, De la Luzerne, &c.,) to have a tendency to Peace, I will say nothing of war, nor make any animadversions upon the contending powers; otherwise, I might possibly have said that the retreat from it seemed impossible after the explicit declaration of the parties: My first wish is to see this plague to mankind banished from off the Earth, and the sons and Daughters of this world employed in more pleasing and innocent amusements, than in preparing implements and exercising them for the destruction of mankind: rather than quarrel about territory let the poor, the needy and oppressed of the Earth, and those who want Land, resort to the fertile plains of our western country, the second Promise, and there dwell in peace, fulfilling the first and great commandment.
      • Letter to David Humphreys (25 July 1785), published in The Writings of George Washington, edited by John C. Fitzpatrick, Vol. 28, pp. 202-3. The W. W. Abbot transcription (given at Founders Online) differs slightly:
        • My first wish is, to see this plague to Mankind banished from the Earth; & the Sons & daughters of this World employed in more pleasing & innocent amusements than in preparing implements, & exercising them for the destruction of the human race.
    • We are either a united people, or we are not. If the former, let us, in all matters of general concern act as a Nation, which have national objects to promote, and a national character to support. If we are not, let us no longer act a farce by pretending to it.
    • My manner of living is plain. I do not mean to be put out of it. A glass of wine and a bit of mutton are always ready; and such as will be content to partake of them are always welcome. Those, who expect more, will be disappointed, but no change will be effected by it.
      • Letter to George William Fairfax (25 June 1786), published in The Writings Of George Washington (1835) by Jared Sparks, p. 175
    • There is not a man living who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for the abolition of slavery.
    • If you tell the Legislatures they have violated the treaty of peace and invaded the prerogatives of the confederacy they will laugh in your face. What then is to be done? Things cannot go on in the same train forever. It is much to be feared, as you observe, that the better kind of people being disgusted with the circumstances will have their minds prepared for any revolution whatever. We are apt to run from one extreme into another. To anticipate & prevent disasterous contingencies would be the part of wisdom & patriotism.
      What astonishing changes a few years are capable of producing! I am told that even respectable characters speak of a monarchical form of government without horror. From thinking proceeds speaking, thence to acting is often but a single step. But how irrevocable & tremendous! What a triumph for the advocates of despotism to find that we are incapable of governing ourselves, and that systems founded on the basis of equal liberty are merely ideal & falacious! Would to God that wise measures may be taken in time to avert the consequences we have but too much reason to apprehend.
      Retired as I am from the world, I frankly acknowledge I cannot feel myself an unconcerned spectator. Yet having happily assisted in bringing the ship into port & having been fairly discharged; it is not my business to embark again on a sea of troubles. Nor could it be expected that my sentiments and opinions would have much weight on the minds of my Countrymen — they have been neglected, tho’ given as a last legacy in the most solemn manner. I had then perhaps some claims to public attention. I consider myself as having none at present.

    • Altho’ I pretend to no peculiar information respecting commercial affairs, nor any foresight into the scenes of futurity; yet as the member of an infant-empire, as a Philanthropist by character, and (if I may be allowed the expression) as a Citizen of the great republic of humanity at large; I cannot help turning my attention sometimes to this subject. I would be understood to mean, I cannot avoid reflecting with pleasure on the probable influence that commerce may here after have on human manners & society in general. On these occasions I consider how mankind may be connected like one great family in fraternal ties—I endulge a fond, perhaps an enthusiastic idea, that as the world is evidently much less barbarous than it has been, its melioration must still be progressive—that nations are becoming more humanized in their policy—that the subjects of ambition & causes for hostility are daily diminishing—and in fine, that the period is not very remote when the benefits of a liberal & free commerce will, pretty generally, succeed to the devastations & horrors of war.
      • “From George Washington to Lafayette, 15 August 1786,” Founders Online, National Archives Source: The Papers of George Washington, Confederation Series, vol. 4, 2 April 1786 – 31 January 1787, ed. W. W. Abbot. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1995, pp. 214–216. Page scan at American Memory (Library of Congress)
    • If they have real grievances redress them, if possible; or acknowledge the justice of them, and your inability to do it at the moment. If they have not, employ the force of government against them at once.
    • The only stipulations I shall contend for are, that in all things you shall do as you please. I will do the same; and that no ceremony may be used or any restraint be imposed on any one.
      • Letter to David Humphreys, inviting him to an indefinite stay at Mt. Vernon (10 October 1787), as published in Life and Times of David Humphreys (1917) by Frank Landon Humphreys, Vol. I, p. 426
    • Your young military men, who want to reap the harvest of laurels, don’t care (I suppose) how many seeds of war are sown; but for the sake of humanity it is devoutly to be wished, that the manly employment of agriculture and the humanizing benefits of commerce, would supersede the waste of war and the rage of conquest; that the swords might be turned into plough-shares, the spears into pruning hooks, and, as the Scripture expresses it, “the nations learn war no more.”
      • Letter to Marquis de Chastellux (25 April 1788), published in The Writings of George Washington, edited by John C. Fitzpatrick, Vol. 29, p. 485
    • I hope I shall always possess firmness and virtue enough to maintain (what I consider the most enviable of all titles) the character of an honest man, as well as prove (what I desire to be considered in reality) that I am, with great sincerity & esteem, Dear Sir Your friend and Most obedient Hble Ser⟨vt⟩
    • The unfortunate condition of the persons, whose labour in part I employed, has been the only unavoidable subject of regret. To make the Adults among them as easy & as comfortable in their circumstances as their actual state of ignorance & improvidence would admit; & to lay a foundation to prepare the rising generation for a destiny different from that in which they were born; afforded some satisfaction to my mind, & could not I hoped be displeasing to the justice of the Creator.
    • The blessed Religion revealed in the word of God will remain an eternal and awful monument to prove that the best Institutions may be abused by human depravity; and that they may even, in some instances be made subservient to the vilest of purposes. Should, hereafter, those who are intrusted with the management of this government, incited by the lust of power & prompted by the supineness or venality of their Constituents, overleap the known barriers of this Constitution and violate the unalienable rights of humanity: it will only serve to shew, that no compact among men (however provident in its construction & sacred in its ratification) can be pronounced everlasting and inviolable—and if I may so express myself, that no wall of words—that no mound of parchmt can be so formed as to stand against the sweeping torrent of boundless ambition on the one side, aided by the sapping current of corrupted morals on the other.
      • p. 34 of a draft of a discarded and undelivered version of his first inaugural address (30 April 1789)
    • Such being the impressions under which I have, in obedience to the public summons, repaired to the present station; it would be peculiarly improper to omit in this first official Act, my fervent supplications to that Almighty Being who rules over the Universe, who presides in the Councils of Nations, and whose providential aids can supply every human defect, that his benediction may consecrate to the liberties and happiness of the People of the United States, a Government instituted by themselves for these essential purposes: and may enable every instrument employed in its administration to execute with success, the functions allotted to his charge. In tendering this homage to the Great Author of every public and private good, I assure myself that it expresses your sentiments not less than my own; nor those of my fellow-citizens at large, less than either. No People can be bound to acknowledge and adore the invisible hand, which conducts the Affairs of men more than the People of the United States. Every step, by which they have advanced to the character of an independent nation, seems to have been distinguished by some token of providential agency. And in the important revolution just accomplished in the system of their United Government, the tranquil deliberations and voluntary consent of so many distinct communities, from which the event has resulted, cannot be compared with the means by which most Governments have been established, without some return of pious gratitude along with an humble anticipation of the future blessings which the past seem to presage.
      • First Inaugural Address (30 April 1789), published in The Writings of George Washington, edited by John C. Fitzpatrick, Vol. 30, pp. 292-3
    • I dwell on this prospect with every satisfaction which an ardent love for my Country can inspire: since there is no truth more thoroughly established, than that there exists in the oeconomy and course of nature, an indissoluble union between virtue and happiness, between duty and advantage, between the genuine maxims of an honest and magnanimous policy, and the solid rewards of public prosperity and felicity: Since we ought to be no less persuaded that the propitious smiles of Heaven, can never be expected on a nation that disregards the eternal rules of order and right, which Heaven itself has ordained: And since the preservation of the sacred fire of liberty, and the destiny of the Republican model of Government, are justly considered as deeply, perhaps as finally staked, on the experiment entrusted to the hands of the American people.
      • First Inaugural Address (30 April 1789), published in The Writings of George Washington, edited by John C. Fitzpatrick, Vol. 30, pp. 294-5
    • For myself the delay may be compared with a reprieve; for in confidence I assure you, with the world it would obtain little credit that my movements to the chair of Government will be accompanied by feelings not unlike those of a culprit who is going to the place of his execution: so unwilling am I, in the evening of a life nearly consumed in public cares, to quit a peaceful abode for an Ocean of difficulties, without that competency of political skill, abilities and inclination which is necessary to manage the helm.
      • Comment to General Henry Knox on the delay in assuming office (March 1789)
    • The satisfaction arising from the indulgent opinion entertained by the American People of my conduct, will, I trust, be some security for preventing me from doing any thing, which might justly incur the forfeiture of that opinion. And the consideration that human happiness and moral duty are inseparably connected, will always continue to prompt me to promote the progress of the former, by inculcating the practice of the latter.

    The Newburgh Address (1783)

    Washington’s response to the Newburgh Conspiracy, known as Newburgh Address (15 March 1783) · Online edition at the National Archives · The anonymous Newburgh letter, followed by Washington’s response at Early America Milestones
    • Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for, I have grown not only gray, but almost blind in the service of my country.
    • The Author of the piece, is entitled to much credit for the goodness of his Pen: and I could wish he had as much credit for the rectitude of his Heart — for, as Men see thro’ different Optics, and are induced by the reflecting faculties of the Mind, to use different means to attain the same end; the Author of the Address, should have had more charity, than to mark for Suspicion, the Man who should recommend Moderation and longer forbearance — or, in other words, who should not think as he thinks, and act as he advises. But he had another plan in view, in which candor and liberality of Sentiment, regard to justice, and love of Country, have no part; and he was right, to insinuate the darkest suspicion, to effect the blackest designs.
      That the Address is drawn with great art, and is designed to answer the most insidious purposes. That it is calculated to impress the Mind, with an idea of premeditated injustice in the Sovereign power of the United States, and rouse all those resentments which must unavoidably flow from such a belief. That the secret Mover of this Scheme (whoever he may be) intended to take advantage of the passions, while they were warmed by the recollection of past distresses, without giving time for cool, deliberative thinking, & that composure of Mind which is so necessary to give dignity & stability to measures, is rendered too obvious, by the mode of conducting the business, to need other proof than a reference to the proceeding.
    • There might, Gentlemen, be an impropriety in my taking notice, in this Address to you, of an anonymous production — but the manner in which that performance has been introduced to the Army — the effect it was intended to have, together with some other circumstances, will amply justify my observations on the tendency of that Writing. With respect to the advice given by the Author — to suspect the Man, who shall recommend moderate measures and longer forbearance — I spurn it — as every Man, who regards that liberty, & reveres that Justice for which we contend, undoubtedly must — for if Men are to be precluded from offering their sentiments on a matter, which may involve the most serious and alarming consequences, that can invite the consideration of Mankind; reason is of no use to us — the freedom of Speech may be taken away — and, dumb & silent we may be led, like sheep, to the Slaughter.
    • You will, by the dignity of your Conduct, afford occasion for Posterity to say, when speaking of the glorious example you have exhibited to Mankind, had this day been wanting, the World had never seen the last stage of perfection to which human nature is capable of attaining.

    1790s

    For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.

    • The Citizens of the United States of America have a right to applaud themselves for giving to Mankind examples of an enlarged and liberal policy: a policy worthy of imitation. All possess alike liberty of conscience and immunities of citizenship. It is now no more that toleration is spoken of, as if it was by the indulgence of one class of people that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights. For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.
      May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while every one shall sit under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid.

      • Letter to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Island (1790)
    • To be prepared for war is one of the most effectual means of preserving peace.
      • First Annual Address, to both Houses of Congress (8 January 1790).
      • Compare: “Qui desiderat pacem præparet bellum” (translated: “Who would desire peace should be prepared for war”), Vegetius, Rei Militari 3, Prolog.; “In pace, ut sapiens, aptarit idonea bello” (translated: “In peace, as a wise man, he should make suitable preparation for war”), Horace, Book ii. satire ii.

    All see, and most admire, the glare which hovers round the external trappings of elevated office. To me there is nothing in it, beyond the lustre which may be reflected from its connection with a power of promoting human felicity.

    • The advancement of agriculture, commerce and manufactures, by all proper means, will not, I trust, need recommendation. But I cannot forbear intimating to you the expediency of giving effectual encouragement as well to the introduction of new and useful inventions from abroad, as to the exertions of skill and genius in producing them at home; and of facilitating the intercourse between the distant parts of our country by a due attention to the Post Office and Post Roads.
      • First Annual Address, to both House of Congress (8 January 1790)
    • A free people ought not only to be armed, but disciplined; to which end a uniform and well-digested plan is requisite; and their safety and interest require that they should promote such manufactories as tend to render them independent of others for essential, particularly military, supplies.
      • First Annual Address, to both House of Congress (8 January 1790)
    • All see, and most admire, the glare which hovers round the external trappings of elevated office. To me there is nothing in it, beyond the lustre which may be reflected from its connection with a power of promoting human felicity.
      • Letter to Catherine Macaulay Graham (9 January 1790)
    • As mankind become more liberal they will be more apt to allow, that all those who conduct themselves as worthy members of the Community are equally entitled to the protection of civil Government. I hope ever to see America among the foremost nations in examples of justice and liberality.
    • [A] good moral character is the first essential in a man, and that the habits contracted at your age are generally indelible, and your conduct here may stamp your character through life. It is therefore highly important that you should endeavor not only to be learned but virtuous.
    • It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one.
      • Letter to his niece, Harriet Washington (30 October 1791)
    • Religious controversies are always productive of more acrimony and irreconcilable hatreds than those which spring from any other cause; and I was not without hopes that the enlightened and liberal policy of the present age would have put an effectual stop to contentions of this kind.
    • Of all the animosities which have existed among mankind, those which are caused by difference of sentiments in religion appear to be the most inveterate and distressing, and ought most to be deprecated. I was in hopes that the enlightened and liberal policy, which has marked the present age, would at least have reconciled Christians of every denomination so far that we should never again see the religious disputes carried to such a pitch as to endanger the peace of society.
    Religious controversies are always productive of more acrimony and irreconcilable hatreds than those which spring from any other cause. I had hoped that liberal and enlightened thought would have reconciled the Christians so that their religious fights would not endanger the peace of Society.

    • As misquoted in The Conservative Soul: How We Lost It, How to Get It Back (2006) by Andrew Sullivan, p. 131
    • Flattering as it may be to the human mind, & truly honorable as it is to receive from our fellow citizens testimonies of approbation for exertions to promote the public welfare; it is not less pleasing to know that the milder virtues of the heart are highly respected by a society whose liberal principles must be founded in the immediate laws of truth and justice. To enlarge the sphere of social happiness is worthy the benevolent design of the Masonic Institution; and it is most fervently to be wished, that the conduct of every member of the fraternity, as well as those publications which discover the principles which actuate them may tend to convince Mankind that the grand object of Masonry is to promote the happiness of the human race.
    • We have abundant reason to rejoice, that, in this land, the light of truth and reason has triumphed over the power of bigotry and superstition, and that every person may here worship God according to the dictates of his own heart. In this enlightened age, & in this land of equal liberty, it is our boast, that a man’s religious tenets will not forfeit the protection of the laws, nor deprive him of the right of attaining & holding the highest offices that are known in the United States.
      Your prayers for my present and future felicity are received with gratitude; and I sincerely wish, Gentlemen, that you may in your social and individual capacities taste those blessings, which a gracious God bestows upon the righteous.

    • The friends of humanity will deprecate War, wheresoever it may appear; and we have experience enough of its evils, in this country, to know, that it should not be wantonly or unnecessarily entered upon. I trust, that the good citizens of the United States will show to the world, that they have as much wisdom in preserving peace at this critical juncture, as they have hitherto displayed valor in defending their just rights.
      • Address to the merchants of Philadelphia (16 May 1793), published in The Writings Of George Washington (1835) by Jared Sparks, p. 202
    • If we desire to avoid insult, we must be able to repel it; if we desire to secure peace, one of the most powerful instruments of our rising prosperity, it must be known that we are at all times ready for war
    • I am very glad to hear that the Gardener has saved so much of the St. foin seed, and that of the India Hemp. Make the most you can of both, by sowing them again in drills. . . Let the ground be well prepared, and the Seed (St. foin) be sown in April. The Hemp may be sown any where.
    • When one side only of a story is heard and often repeated, the human mind becomes impressed with it insensibly.
      • Letter to Edmund Pendleton (22 January 1795)
    • Rise early, that by habit it may become familiar, agreeable, healthy, and profitable. It may, for a while, be irksome to do this, but that will wear off; and the practice will produce a rich harvest forever thereafter; whether in public or private walks of life.
      • Letter to George Washington Parke Custis (7 January 1798)
    • It is infinitely better to have a few good men than many indifferent ones.
      • Letter to James McHenry (10 August 1798)
    • I have heard much of the nefarious, & dangerous plan, & doctrines of the Illuminati, but never saw the Book until you were pleased to send it to me. The same causes which have prevented my acknowledging the receipt of your letter, have prevented my reading the Book, hitherto; namely — the multiplicity of matters which pressed upon me before, & the debilitated state in which I was left after, a severe fever had been removed. And which allows me to add little more now, than thanks for your kind wishes and favourable sentiments, except to correct an error you have run into, of my Presiding over the English lodges in this Country. The fact is, I preside over none, nor have I been in one more than once or twice, within the last thirty years. I believe notwithstandings, that none of the Lodges in this Country are contaminated with the principles ascribed to the Society of the Illuminati.
    • It was not my intention to doubt that, the Doctrines of the Illuminati, and principles of Jacobinism had not spread in the United States. On the contrary, no one is more truly satisfied of this fact than I am.
      The idea that I meant to convey, was, that I did not believe that the Lodges of Free Masons in this Country had, as Societies, endeavoured to propagate the diabolical tenets of the first, or pernicious principles of the latter (if they are susceptible of seperation). That Individuals of them may have done it, or that the founder, or instrument employed to found, the Democratic Societies in the United States, may have had these objects; and actually had a seperation of the People from their Government in view, is too evident to be questioned.

    • As mankind become more liberal they will be more apt to allow that all those who conduct themselves as worthy members of the community are equally entitled to the protection of civil government. I hope ever to see America among the foremost nations in examples of justice and liberality.
    • To sell the overplus I cannot, because I am principled against this kind of traffic in the human species. To hire them out, is almost as bad, because they could not be disposed of in families to any advantage, and to disperse the families I have an aversion. What then is to be done? Something must or I shall be ruined; for all the money (in addition to what I raise by Crops, and rents) that have been received for Lands, sold within the last four years, to the amount of Fifty thousand dollars, has scarcely been able to keep me a float.
      • Letter to Robert Lewis, 18 August 1799, published in John Clement Fitzpatrick, The writings of George Washington from the original manuscript sources, volume 37, pp. 338-9
    • I die hard but am not afraid to go. I believed from my first attack that I should not survive it — my breath cannot last long.
      • The first sentence here is sometimes presented as being his last statement before dying, but they are reported as part of the fuller statement, and as being said in the afternoon prior to his death in Life of Washington (1859) by Washington Irving, and his actual last words are stated to have been those reported by Tobias Lear below.
    • Tis well.
      • Washington’s last words, as recorded by Tobias Lear, in his journal (14 December 1799). Washington said this after being satisfied that precautions would be taken against his being buried prematurely:
    About ten o’clk he made several attempts to speak to me before he could effect it, at length he said, — “I am just going. Have me decently buried; and do not let my body be put into the Vault in less than three days after I am dead.” I bowed assent, for I could not speak. He then looked at me again and said, “Do you understand me? I replied “Yes.” “Tis well” said he.

    • A conflation of the last two quotes has also sometimes been reported as his last statement: “It is well. I die hard but am not afraid to go”.

    Letter to Catharine Macaulay Graham (1790)

    Letter to Catharine Macaulay Graham (9 January 1790), New York.
    • The establishment of our new government seemed to be the last great experiment for promoting human happiness by a reasonable compact in civil society. It was to be in the first instance, in a considerable degree, a government of accommodation as well as a government of laws. Much was to be done by prudence, much by conciliation, much by firmness. Few, who are not philosophical spectators, can realize the difficult and delicate part, which a man in my situation had to act. All see, and most admire, the glare which hovers round the external happiness of elevated office. To me there is nothing in it beyond the lustre, which may be reflected from its connection with a power of promoting human felicity.

    Farewell Address (1796)

    I have the consolation to believe, that, while choice and prudence invite me to quit the political scene, patriotism does not forbid it…

    The Farewell Address (17 September 1796) Full text at Wikisource
    • Every day the increasing weight of years admonishes me more and more, that the shade of retirement is as necessary to me as it will be welcome. Satisfied, that, if any circumstances have given peculiar value to my services, they were temporary, I have the consolation to believe, that, while choice and prudence invite me to quit the political scene, patriotism does not forbid it.
    • Interwoven as is the love of liberty with every ligament of your hearts, no recommendation of mine is necessary to fortify or confirm the attachment.
      The unity of Government, which constitutes you one people, is also now dear to you. It is justly so; for it is a main pillar in the edifice of your real independence, the support of your tranquillity at home, your peace abroad; of your safety; of your prosperity; of that very Liberty, which you so highly prize.
    • It is of infinite moment, that you should properly estimate the immense value of your national Union to your collective and individual happiness; that you should cherish a cordial, habitual, and immovable attachment to it; accustoming yourselves to think and speak of it as of the Palladium of your political safety and prosperity; watching for its preservation with jealous anxiety; discountenancing whatever may suggest even a suspicion, that it can in any event be abandoned; and indignantly frowning upon the first dawning of every attempt to alienate any portion of our country from the rest, or to enfeeble the sacred ties which now link together the various parts.

    Interwoven as is the love of liberty with every ligament of your hearts, no recommendation of mine is necessary to fortify or confirm the attachment.

    • While, then, every part of our country thus feels an immediate and particular interest in Union, all the parts combined cannot fail to find in the united mass of means and efforts greater strength, greater resource, proportionably greater security from external danger, a less frequent interruption of their peace by foreign nations; and, what is of inestimable value, they must derive from Union an exemption from those broils and wars between themselves, which so frequently afflict neighbouring countries not tied together by the same governments, which their own rivalships alone would be sufficient to produce, but which opposite foreign alliances, attachments, and intrigues would stimulate and embitter. Hence, likewise, they will avoid the necessity of those overgrown military establishments, which, under any form of government, are inauspicious to liberty, and which are to be regarded as particularly hostile to Republican Liberty. In this sense it is, that your Union ought to be considered as a main prop of your liberty, and that the love of the one ought to endear to you the preservation of the other.
    • One of the expedients of party to acquire influence, within particular districts, is to misrepresent the opinions and aims of other districts. You cannot shield yourselves too much against the jealousies and heart-burnings, which spring from these misrepresentations; they tend to render alien to each other those, who ought to be bound together by fraternal affection.
    • To the efficacy and permanency of your Union, a Government for the whole is indispensable. No alliances, however strict, between the parts can be an adequate substitute; they must inevitably experience the infractions and interruptions, which all alliances in all times have experienced. Sensible of this momentous truth, you have improved upon your first essay, by the adoption of a Constitution of Government better calculated than your former for an intimate Union, and for the efficacious management of your common concerns.
    • The basis of our political systems is the right of the people to make and to alter their Constitutions of Government. But the Constitution which at any time exists, till changed by an explicit and authentic act of the whole people, is sacredly obligatory upon all. The very idea of the power and the right of the people to establish Government presupposes the duty of every individual to obey the established Government.
    • I have already intimated to you the danger of parties in the state, with particular reference to the founding of them on geographical discriminations. Let me now take a more comprehensive view, and warn you in the most solemn manner against the baneful effects of the spirit of party, generally.
    • The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge, natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism. But this leads at length to a more formal and permanent despotism. The disorders and miseries, which result, gradually incline the minds of men to seek security and repose in the absolute power of an individual; and sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction, more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation, on the ruins of Public Liberty.
    • The common and continual mischiefs of the spirit of party are sufficient to make it the interest and duty of a wise people to discourage and restrain it.
      It serves always to distract the Public Councils, and enfeeble the Public Administration. It agitates the Community with ill-founded jealousies and false alarms; kindles the animosity of one part against another, foments occasionally riot and insurrection.
    • Of all the dispositions and habits, which lead to political prosperity, Religion and Morality are indispensable supports. In vain would that man claim the tribute of Patriotism, who should labor to subvert these great pillars of human happiness, these firmest props of the duties of Men and Citizens. The mere Politician, equally with the pious man, ought to respect and to cherish them. A volume could not trace all their connexions with private and public felicity.
      • The Internet document known as “History Forgotten” or “Forsaken Roots” misquotes the opening of this section as follows: “It is impossible to govern the world without God and the Bible. Of all the dispositions and habits that lead to political prosperity, our religion and morality are the indispensable supports.”
    • Let us with caution indulge the supposition, that morality can be maintained without religion. Whatever may be conceded to the influence of refined education on minds of peculiar structure, reason and experience both forbid us to expect, that national morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principle.
    • It is substantially true, that virtue or morality is a necessary spring of popular government. The rule, indeed, extends with more or less force to every species of free government.
    • Promote, then, as an object of primary importance, institutions for the general diffusion of knowledge. In proportion as the structure of a government gives force to public opinion, it is essential that public opinion should be enlightened.
    • As a very important source of strength and security, cherish public credit. One method of preserving it is, to use it as sparingly as possible; avoiding occasions of expense by cultivating peace, but remembering also that timely disbursements to prepare for danger frequently prevent much greater disbursements to repel it; avoiding likewise the accumulation of debt, not only by shunning occasions of expense, but by vigorous exertions in time of peace to discharge the debts, which unavoidable wars may have occasioned, not ungenerously throwing upon posterity the burthen, which we ourselves ought to bear.
    • Observe good faith and justice towards all Nations; cultivate peace and harmony with all. Religion and Morality enjoin this conduct; and can it be, that good policy does not equally enjoin it? It will be worthy of a free, enlightened, and, at no distant period, a great Nation, to give to mankind the magnanimous and too novel example of a people always guided by an exalted justice and benevolence. Who can doubt, that, in the course of time and things, the fruits of such a plan would richly repay any temporary advantages, which might be lost by a steady adherence to it? Can it be, that Providence has not connected the permanent felicity of a Nation with its Virtue?
    • Nothing is more essential, than that permanent, inveterate antipathies against particular Nations, and passionate attachments for others, should be excluded; and that, in place of them, just and amicable feelings towards all should be cultivated. The Nation, which indulges towards another an habitual hatred, or an habitual fondness, is in some degree a slave. It is a slave to its animosity or to its affection, either of which is sufficient to lead it astray from its duty and its interest. Antipathy in one nation against another disposes each more readily to offer insult and injury, to lay hold of slight causes of umbrage, and to be haughty and intractable, when accidental or trifling occasions of dispute occur. Hence frequent collisions, obstinate, envenomed, and bloody contests.
    • Real Patriots, who may resist the intrigues of the favourite, are liable to become suspected and odious; while its tools and dupes usurp the applause and confidence of the people, to surrender their interests. (Note: spelling/capitalization likely original.[1]).
    • The great rule of conduct for us, in regard to foreign nations, is, in extending our commercial relations, to have with them as little political connexion as possible. So far as we have already formed engagements, let them be fulfilled with perfect good faith. Here let us stop.
    • ‘Tis our true policy to steer clear of permanent alliances with any portion of the foreign world; so far, I mean, as we are now at liberty to do it; for let me not be understood as capable of patronizing infidelity to existing engagements. I hold the maxim no less applicable to public than to private affairs, that honesty is always the best policy. I repeat it, therefore, let those engagements be observed in their genuine sense. But, in my opinion, it is unnecessary and would be unwise to extend them.
    • There can be no greater error than to expect or calculate upon real favors from nation to nation.
    • Harmony, liberal intercourse with all nations, are recommended by policy, humanity, and interest.
    • In offering to you, my countrymen, these counsels of an old and affectionate friend, I dare not hope they will make the strong and lasting impression I could wish; that they will control the usual current of the passions, or prevent our nation from running the course, which has hitherto marked the destiny of nations. But, if I may even flatter myself, that they may be productive of some partial benefit, some occasional good; that they may now and then recur to moderate the fury of party spirit, to warn against the mischiefs of foreign intrigue, to guard against the impostures of pretended patriotism; this hope will be a full recompense for the solicitude for your welfare, by which they have been dictated.
      • This has sometimes been misquoted as: Guard against the postures of pretended patriotism.
    • The duty of holding a neutral conduct may be inferred, without any thing more, from the obligation which justice and humanity impose on every nation, in cases in which it is free to act, to maintain inviolate the relations of peace and amity towards other nations.
    • Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration, I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert or mitigate the evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry with me the hope, that my Country will never cease to view them with indulgence; and that, after forty-five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest.

    Posthumous attributions

    • So, there lies the brave de Kalb. The generous stranger, who came from a distant land to fight our battles and to water with his blood the tree of liberty. Would to God he had lived to share its fruits!
    • Not only do I pray for it, on the score of human dignity, but I can clearly forsee that nothing but the rooting out of slavery can perpetuate the existence of our union, by consolidating it in a common bond of principle.
      • Attributed to George Washington, John Bernard, Retrospections of America, 1797–1811, p. 91 (1887). This is from Bernard’s account of a conversation he had with Washington in 1798. Reported as unverified in Respectfully Quoted: A Dictionary of Quotations (1989).

    Disputed

    • Americans! let the opinion then delivered by the greatest and best of men, be ever present to your remembrance. He was collected within himself. His countenance had more than usual solemnity; his, eye was fixed, and seemed to look into futurity. “It is (said he) too probable that no plan we propose will be adopted. Perhaps another dreadful conflict is to be sustained. If to please the people, we offer what we ourselves disapprove, how can we afterwards defend our work? Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair. The event is in the hand of God.” This was the patriot voice of Washington; and this the constant tenor of his conduct. With this deep sense of duty, he gave to our Constitution his cordial assent; and has added the fame of a legislator to that of a hero.

    Misattributed

    Statements originally made by others, that have become wrongly attributed to Washington

    He seemed to enjoy a triumph over me. Methought I heard him think, “Ay! I am fairly out and you are fairly in! See which of us will be the happiest!” ~ John Adams

    These maxims originated in the late sixteenth century in France and were popularly circulated during Washington’s time. Washington wrote out a copy of the 110 Rules in his school book when he was about sixteen-years old… During the days before mere hero worship had given place to understanding and comprehension of the fineness of Washington’s character, of his powerful influence among men, and of the epoch-making nature of the issues he so largely shaped, it was assumed that Washington himself composed the maxims, or at least that he compiled them. It is a satisfaction to find that his consideration for others, his respect for and deference to those deserving such treatment, his care of his own body and tongue, and even his reverence for his Maker, all were early inculcated in him by precepts which were the common practice in decent society the world over. These very maxims had been in use in France for a century and a half, and in England for a century, before they were set as a task for the schoolboy Washington.

    • A solemn scene it was indeed… He seemed to enjoy a triumph over me. Methought I heard him think, “Ay! I am fairly out and you are fairly in! See which of us will be the happiest!”
      • John Adams, in a letter to his wife Abigail was here expressing his impression of what Washington seemed to be thinking after Adams was inaugurated as President. These impressions have sometimes been quoted as if they were something Washington had actually said to Adams. Quoted in A History of the United States and Its People: From Their Earliest Records to the Present Time (1904) by William Abbatt and Elroy McKendree Avery, p. 177; John Adams (2002) by David G. McCullough, p. 469; and The Portable John Adams (2004) edited by John Patrick Diggins, p. xi
      • Unsourced variants: Well, I am fairly out and you are fairly in. Now we shall see who enjoys it the most!
        Ah! I am fairly out and you are fairly in! See which of us will be the happiest!
    • The government of the United States is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion.
      • This statement was made by an official representative of the U.S. during Washington’s presidency, but is actually a line from the English version of the Treaty of Tripoli (Article 11), which was signed at Tripoli on November 4, 1796, and at Algiers on January 3, 1797. It received ratification unanimously from the U.S. Senate on June 7, 1797 and was signed into law by John Adams. The wording of the treaty is by Joel Barlow, U.S. Consul, who had served as Washington’s chaplain, and was also a good friend of Paine and Jefferson; Article 11 of it reads:
    As the government of the United States of America is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion,—as it has in itself no character or enmity against the laws, religion or tranquility of Musselmen,—and as the said States never have entered into any war or act of hostility against any Mehomitan nation, it is declared by the parties that no pretext arising from religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries.
    • …we are persuaded that good Christians will always be good citizens, and that where righteousness prevails among individuals the Nation will be great and happy. Thus while just government protects all in their religious rights, true religion affords to government its surest support.
      • This is from a letter written to Washington on 9 October 1789 by the synod of the Reformed Dutch Church of North America (image of the letter on the Library of Congress site here). Washington quoted the portion in bold in his reply.
    Je suis citoyen de la Grande République de l’Humanité. Je vois le genre humain uni comme une grande famille par des liens fraternels. Nous avons jeté une semence de liberté et d’union qui germera peu à peu dans toute la Terre. Un jour, sur le modèle des Etats-Unis d’Amérique, se constitueront les États-Unis d’Europe. Les États-Unis seront le législateur de toutes les nationalités.
    An anonymous blogger in “Did George Washington predict a “United States of Europe”? (30 January 2010) showed that it derived from Gustave Rodrigues, Le peuple de l’action: essai sur l’idéalisme américain (A. Colin, 1917), p. 207:

    Washington écrivait à La Fayette qu’il se condérait comme « citoyen de la grande république de l’humanité » et ajoutait : « Je vois le genre humain uni comme une grande famille par des liens fraternels ». Ailleurs il écrivait, prophétiquement: « Nous avons jeté une semence de liberté et d’union qui germera peu à peu dans toute la terre. Un jour, sur le modèle des Etats-Unis d’Amérique, se constitueront les États-Unis d’Europe. »
    A translation by Louise Seymour Houghton (The People of Action: An Essay on American Idealism (1918)) reads:

    Washington wrote to Lafayette that he considered himself a “citizen of the great republic of humanity,” adding: “I see the human race a great family, united by fraternal bonds.” Elsewhere he wrote prophetically: “We have sown a seed of liberty and union that will gradually germinate throughout the earth. Some day, on the model of the United States of America, will be constituted the United States of Europe.” [pp. 209-210]
    The first two quotations come from a letter to the Marquis de Lafayette of 15 August 1786 (see above) as quoted in Joseph Fabre’s Washington, libérateur de l’Amérique: suivi de Washington et la revolution Américaine (Ch. Delagrave, 1886), and the third is also found in that source where, although placed between quotation marks, it is clearly intended as the author’s own comments on what “Washington and his friends” were saying to the world by establishing the American Constitution. Gustave Rodrigues mistakenly printed Fabre’s words as Washington’s alongside some actual observations of his from a letter to Lafayette, and so created the misquotation.
    • Firearms stand next in importance to the Constitution itself. They are the American people’s Liberty teeth and keystone under Independence. The church, the plow, the prairie wagon, and citizens’ firearms are indelibly related. From the hour the Pilgrims landed, to the present day, events, occurrences and tendencies prove that to insure peace, security and happiness, the rifle and pistol are equally indispensable. Every corner of this Land knows firearms and more than 99 99/100 per cent of them by their silence indicate they are in safe and sane hands. The very atmosphere of firearms anywhere and everywhere restrains evil interference and they deserve a place of honor with all that’s good. When firearms go all goes, therefore we need them every hour.
      • This is the conclusion to an article entitled “Older Ideas of Firearms” by C. S. Wheatley; it was published in the September 1926 issue of Hunter, Trader, Trapper (vol. 53, no. 3), p. 34. Wheatley had referred to George Washington’s address to the second session of the first Congress immediately before this passage, which may have given rise to the mistaken attribution. See this piece at Quote Investigator
    • The marvel of all history is the patience with which men and women submit to burdens unnecessarily laid upon them by their governments.
      • US Senator William Edgar Borah, writing in The Reader’s Digest, Vol. 8, Issue 2 (1929), p. 776; this has only rarely begun to be attributed to Washington, since about 2010.
    • It will be found an unjust and unwise jealousy, to deny a man the liberty he hath by nature upon a supposition that he may abuse it.
      • Oliver Cromwell, letter to Walter Dundas, 12 September 1650; this is also a recent misattribution.

    Spurious attributions

    Statements which evidence indicates are fabrications, never actually said by anyone prior to their being attributed to Washington.
    • I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.
      • The earliest source of this quote was a famous anecdote in The Life of George Washington, with Curious Anecdotes Laudable to Himself and Exemplary to his Countrymen (1806) by Parson Weems, which is not considered a credible source, and many incidents recounted in the work are now considered to have sprung entirely from Weems’ imagination. This derives from an anecdote of Washington, as a young boy, confessing to his father Augustine Washington that it was he who had cut a cherished cherry tree.
      • Variant:Father, I cannot tell a lie, I cut the tree.
    • What students would learn in American schools above all is the religion of Jesus Christ.
      • A modern fabrication, possibly derived from David Barton’s claim (Original Intent, p. 85) that “By George Washington’s own words, what youths learned in America’s schools ‘above all’ was ‘the religion of Jesus Christ.’”. Washington did use the phrase “above all the religion of Jesus Christ” on 12 May 1779 in a reply to a petition from a Lenape delegation asking for assistance in promoting the missionary activities of David Zeisberger among their people: “You do well to wish to learn our arts and ways of life, and above all, the religion of Jesus Christ. These will make you a greater and happier people than you are. Congress will do every thing they can to assist you in this wise intention…” He did not say anything about “What students would learn in American schools,” though earlier in the same reply he did say “I am glad you have brought three of the Children of your principal Chiefs to be educated with us.” While there’s nothing in the reply about how those “Children” might be educated (in fact Congress put two of them through Princeton) it’s possible that suggested the fabricated portion. See Louise Phelps Kellogg, Frontier Advance on the Upper Ohio 1778-1779 (Madison WI, 1916), pp. 317-324, for the episode. Washington’s reply is also found in John C. Fitzpatrick, The Writings of George Washington from the Original Manuscript Sources, 1745-1799, vol. 15 (Washington D.C., 1936), p. 55
    • A free people ought not only to be armed and disciplined, but they should have sufficient arms and ammunition to maintain a status of independence from any who might attempt to abuse them, which would include their own government.
      • A further quote sometimes purported to be from a speech to Congress, January 7, 1790 purportedly in the Boston Independent Chronicle, January 14, 1790, this is actually a corruption of a statement made in his first State of the Union Address, relating to the need for maintaining governmental troops and military preparedness:
    A free people ought not only to be armed, but disciplined; to which end a uniform and well-digested plan is requisite; and their safety and interest require that they should promote such manufactories as tend to render them independent of others for essential, particularly military, supplies.
    The proper establishment of the troops which may be deemed indispensable will be entitled to mature consideration. In the arrangements which may be made respecting it it will be of importance to conciliate the comfortable support of the officers and soldiers with a due regard to economy.
    • It is impossible to rightly govern the world without God and the Bible.
      • Washington is known to have made some official statements of public piety, but this is not one of them. The assertion is very widely reported to have been said in Washington’s Farewell Address (17 September 1796), but this is not actually the case, as any search of the documents would reveal. It has also been presented as having been part of his Proclamation on January 1, 1795 of February 19th, 1795 as a day of national Thanksgiving. The oldest form of this saying appears as part of an argument for the existence of God attributed to Washington in an undocumented biography written for children. In A Life of Washington (1836) by James K. Paulding, Washington is quoted as having stated:
        • It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being.
    (For the context see Paulding’s anecdote given below in the section of quotations about Washington.) This is unattributed, and no source other than Paulding is known. In 1864 the words “the aid of a Supreme Being” were replaced by the word “God” in Benjamin Franklin Morris, Christian Life and Character of the Civil Institutions of the United States (1864), p. 510:

    • It is impossible … to govern the universe without God…
    Three years later, in 1867, Henry Wilson (Testimonies of American Statesmen and Jurists to the Truths of Christianity, American Tract Society) replaced “universe” with “world”:

    • It is impossible to govern the world without God.
    In 1893 Howard H. Russell (A Lawyer’s Examination of the Bible, 1893) added the word “rightly” and the phrase “and the Bible” to create the most commonly cited form:

    • It is impossible to rightly govern the world without God and the Bible.
    This form, which is also found in Upper Room Bulletin, Vol. 7, No. 3 (23 October 1920), rests on no other authority than Russell, who was born long after Washington had died. It is clearly spurious. The saying is often found attached to genuine material such as Washington’s 1795 Thanksgiving proclamation:

    • It is in an especial manner our duty as a people, with devout reverence and affectionate gratitude, to acknowledge our many and great obligations to Almighty God, and to implore Him to continue and confirm the blessings we experienced. It is impossible to rightly govern the world without God and the Bible. It is impossible to account for the creation of the universe, without the agency of a Supreme Being. It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being. It is impossible to reason without arriving at a Supreme Being. Religion is as necessary to reason, as reason is to religion. The one cannot exist without the other. A reasoning being would lose his reason, in attempting to account for the great phenomena of nature, had he not a Supreme Being to refer to.
    The first sentence is an almost accurate rendition of one from the official proclamation, being a portion of this segment:

    In such a state of things it is in an especial manner our duty as a people, with devout reverence and affectionate gratitude, to acknowledge our many and great obligations to Almighty God and to implore Him to continue and confirm the blessings we experience. Deeply penetrated with this sentiment, I, George Washington, President of the United States, do recommend to all religious societies and denominations, and to all persons whomsoever, within the United States to set apart and observe Thursday, the 19th day of February next as a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, and on that day to meet together and render their sincere and hearty thanks to the Great Ruler of Nations for the manifold and signal mercies which distinguish our lot as a nation…
    It is to be noted that there is genuine piety expressed in this statement, but it is not of any sectarian kind, Christian or otherwise. The last portion of the bogus statement which uses it is a truncation of a statement attributed to him in an undocumented biography written for children. In A Life of Washington (1836) by James K. Paulding, Washington is quoted as having stated:

    It is impossible to reason without arriving at a Supreme Being. Religion is as necessary to reason as reason is to religion. The one cannot exist without the other. A reasoning being would lose his reason in attempting to account for the great phenomena of nature, had he not a Supreme Being to refer to; and well has it been said, that if there had been no God, mankind would have been obliged to imagine one.
    In the spurious version of the Thanksgiving proclamation which uses a portion of this, Washington’s allusions to Voltaire‘s famous statement that “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him” has been omitted. In the cases of these “quotations” it seems that if statements suitable to their sectarian interests do not exist, some people feel it necessary to invent them.
    • Government is not reason, it is not eloquence,—it is force! Like fire, it is a dangerous servant, and a fearful master; never for a moment should it be left to irresponsible action.
      • Attributed to “The First President of the United States” in “Liberty and Government” by W. M., in The Christian Science Journal, Vol. XX, No. 8 (November 1902) edited by Mary Baker Eddy, p. 465; no earlier or original source for this statement is cited; later quoted in The Cry for Justice : An Anthology of the Literature of Social Protest (1915) edited by Upton Sinclair, p. 305, from which it became far more widely quoted and in Frank J. Wilstach, A Dictionary of Similes, 2d ed., p. 526 (1924). In The Great Thoughts (1985), George Seldes says, p. 441, col. 2, footnote, this paragraph “although credited to the ‘Farewell’ [address] cannot be found in it. Lawson Hamblin, who owns a facsimile, and Horace Peck, America’s foremost authority on quotations, informed me this paragraph is apocryphal.” It is listed as spurious at the Mount Vernon website
        • Unsourced variant : Government is not reason, it is not eloquence, it is force; like fire, a troublesome servant and a fearful master. Never for a moment should it be left to irresponsible action.
    • The Jews work more effectively against us than the enemy’s armies. They are a hundred times more dangerous to our liberties and the great cause we are engaged in. It is much to be lamented that each state, long ago, has not hunted them down as pests to society and the greatest enemies we have to the happiness of America.
      • Sometimes rendered : “They (the Jews) work more effectively against us, than the enemy’s armies. They are a hundred times more dangerous to our liberties and the great cause we are engaged in… It is much to be lamented that each state, long ago, has not hunted them down as pest to society and the greatest enemies we have to the happiness of America.”
      • Both of these are doctored statements that have been widely disseminated as genuine on many anti-semitic websites; They are distortions derived from a statement that was attributed to Washington in Maxims of George Washington about currency speculators during the Revolutionary war, not about Jews: “This tribe of black gentry work more effectually against us, than the enemy’s arms. They are a hundred times more dangerous to our liberties, and the great cause we are engaged in. It is much to be lamented that each State, long ere this, has not hunted them down as pests to society, and the greatest enemies we have to the happiness of America.” More information is available at Snopes. com: “To Bigotry, No Sanction”
      • This quotation is a classic anti-semitic hoax, evidently begun during or just before World War Two by American Nazi sympathizers, and since then has been repeated, for example, in foreign propaganda directed at Americans. In fact it is knitted from two separate letters by Washington, in reverse chronology, neither of them mentioning Jews. The first part of this forgery are taken from Washington’s letter to Edmund Pendleton, Nov. 1, 1779 {and the original can be found in the Library of Congress’s online service at http://memory.loc.gov/mss/mgw/mgw3h/001/378378.jpg }. I have tried to reproduce Washington’s spelling and punctuation exactly. In that letter Washington complains about black marketeers and others undermining the purchasing power of colonial currency:
    … but I am under no apprehension of a capital injury from ay other source than that of the continual depreciation of our Money. This indeed is truly alarming, and of so serious a nature that every other effort is in vain unless something can be done to restore its credit. …. Where this has been the policy (in Connecticut for instance) the prices of every article have fallen and the money consequently is in demand; but in the other States you can scarce get a single thing for it, and yet it is with-held from the public by speculators, while every thing that can be useful to the public is engrossed by this tribe of black gentry, who work more effectually against us that the enemys Arms; and are a hundd. times more dangerous to our liberties and the great cause we are engaged in.
    The second part of this fabricated quote is from Washington’s letter to Joseph Reed, Dec. 12, 1778 {and can be found at the Library of Congress using the same URL but ending in /193192.jpg}, which again condemns war profiteers (the parenthetical list in the quotation is Washington’s own words which he put there in parentheses):

    It gives me very sincere pleasure to find that there is likely to be a coalition … so well disposed to second your endeavours in bringing those murderers of our cause (the monopolizers, forestallers, and engrossers) to condign punishment. It is much to be lamented that each State long ere this has not hunted them down as the pests of society, and the greatest Enemys we have to the happiness of America. I would to God that one of the most attrocious of each State was hung in Gibbets upons a gallows five times as high as the one prepared by Haman. No punishment in my opinion is too great for the Man who can build his greatness upon his Country’s ruin.
    • We had quitters during the Revolution too… we called them “Kentuckians.”
      • This attribution apparently originated with a statement of a cartoon version of Washington on an episode of The Simpsons. Though not initially presented as a genuine quote this has sometimes been attributed to Washington.
    • Make sure you are doing what God wants you to do—then do it with all your strength.
      • This saying is not found in any source before 2010, when it was posted by The Ignorant Fisherman at Free Republic on 15 February. The language is not that of Washington or his time.

    Quotes about Washington

    The natural equal rights of men. If Washington or Jefferson or Madison should utter upon his native soil today the opinions he entertained and expressed upon this question, he would be denounced as a fanatical abolitionist. To declare the right of all men to liberty is sectional, because slavery is afraid of liberty and strikes the mouth that speaks the word. ~ George William Curtis

    These should be arranged alphabetically by author
    • If I were to characterize George Washington’s feelings toward his country, I should be less inclined than most people to stress what is called Washington’s love of his country. What impresses me as far more important is what I should call Washington’s respect for his country.
    • There is nothing that will make an Englishman shit so quick as the sight of General Washington.
      • Retort attributed to Ethan Allen, commenting after a picture of Washington was hung in a British outhouse; in an anecdote told by Abraham Lincoln, as quoted in Lincoln, Vol. 1 (1996) by David Herbert Donald
      • Variant: It is most appropriately hung, nothing ever made the British shit like the sight of George Washington.
    • Washington wasn’t born good. Only practice and habit made him so.
    • You can no more love and revere the memory of the biographical George Washington than you can an isosceles triangle or a cubic foot of interstellar space. The portrait-painters began it—Gilbert Stuart and the rest of them. They idealized all the humanity out of the poor patriot’s face and passed him down to the engravers as a rather sleepy-looking butcher’s block. There is not a portrait of Washington extant which a man of taste and knowledge would suffer to hang on the wall of his stable. Then the historians jumped in, raping all the laurels from the brows of the man’s great contemporaries and piling them in confusion upon his pate. They made him a god in wisdom, and a giant in arms; whereas, in point of ability and service, he was but little, if at all, superior to any one of a half-dozen of his now over-shadowed but once illustrious co-workers in council and camp, and in no way comparable with Hamilton. He towers above his fellows because he stands upon a pile of books.
      • Ambrose Bierce, “George the Made-over,” in Tangential Views (1911)
    • George Washington was perhaps the one indispensable man among the founders. It is hard to imagine any of the others commanding the respect needed to lead the Continental Army to victory over Great Britain, preside over the Constitutional Convention, and serve the United States as its first president. Little in Washington’s early life gave a hint of the great achievements to come.

    George Washington is one of the beacons placed at intervals along the highroad of history. ~ Orestes Ferrara

    • I have learned with inexplicable joy that you have had the goodness to honor me with a treasure from Mount Vernon — the portrait of Washington, some of his venerable reliques, and one of the monuments of his glory, which are to be presented me at your hands in the name of the brothers of the Great Citizen, the First-Born Son of the New World. No words can set forth all the value that this gift and its embodying considerations, so glorious for me, hold in my heart.
    • Today I have touched with my hands this inestimable present. The image of the first benefactor of the continent of Columbus, presented by the hero citizen, General Lafayette, and offered by the noble scion of that immortal family, was all that could reward the most enlightened merit of the first man in the universe. Shall I be worthy of so much glory? No; but I accept it with a joy and gratitude that will go down with the venerable reliques of the father of America to the most remote generations of my country.
    • Posterity will talk of Washington as the founder of a great empire, when my name shall be lost in the vortex of revolution.
    • Washington absorbed, and later came to personify what you might call the dignity code. The code was based on the same premise as the nation’s Constitution — that human beings are flawed creatures who live in constant peril of falling into disasters caused by their own passions. Artificial systems have to be created to balance and restrain their desires.
      The dignity code commanded its followers to be disinterested — to endeavor to put national interests above personal interests. It commanded its followers to be reticent — to never degrade intimate emotions by parading them in public. It also commanded its followers to be dispassionate — to distrust rashness, zealotry, fury and political enthusiasm.

    • George Washington once wrote that leading by conviction gave him “a consolation within that no earthly efforts can deprive me of.” He continued: “The arrows of malevolence, however barbed and well pointed, never can reach the most vulnerable part of me.” I read those words in Presidential Courage, written by historian Michael Beschloss in 2007. As I told Laura, if they’re still assessing George Washington’s legacy more than two centuries after he left office, this George W. doesn’t have to worry about today’s headlines.
      • George W. Bush, Decision Points (2010), p. 122
    • Where may the wearied eye repose,
      When gazing on the Great;
      Where neither guilty glory glows,
      Nor despicable state?Yes — one — the first — the last — the best—
      The Cincinnatus of the West.
      Whom envy dared not hate,
      Bequeath’d the name of Washington,
      To make man blush there was but one!

      • Lord Byron, in “Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte” (10 April 1814)
    • A degree of silence envelops Washington’s actions; he moved slowly; one might say that he felt charged with future liberty, and that he feared to compromise it. It was not his own destiny that inspired this new species of hero: it was that of his country; he did not allow himself to enjoy what did not belong to him; but from that profound humility what glory emerged! Search the woods where Washington’s sword gleamed: what do you find? Tombs? No; a world! Washington has left the United States behind for a monument on the field of battle. … Washington’s Republic lives on; Bonaparte‘s empire is destroyed. Washington and Bonaparte emerged from the womb of democracy: both of them born to liberty, the former remained faithful to her, the latter betrayed her.
      Washington acted as the representative of the needs, the ideas, the enlightened men, the opinions of his age; he supported, not thwarted, the stirrings of intellect; he desired only what he had to desire, the very thing to which he had been called: from which derives the coherence and longevity of his work. That man who struck few blows because he kept things in proportion has merged his existence with that of his country: his glory is the heritage of civilisation; his fame has risen like one of those public sanctuaries where a fecund and inexhaustible spring flows.

    • Lafayette valued reputation and glory, but cared little for the power that generally results from them. Having one day been asked who was in his opinion the greatest man of this age: “In my idea,” replied he, “General Washingtonis the greatest man, for I look upon him as the most virtuous.
    • If I want to say he didn’t that’s my right, and now, thanks to Wikipedia — it’s also a fact.
    • Muslims served in the U.S. military under the command of General George Washington, who was Commander in Chief of the Continental Army during the American War for Independence. Rosters of soldiers serving in Washington’s Army lists names like Bampett Muhammad, who fought for the Virginia Line between the years 1775 and 1783. Another one of Washington’s soldiers, Yusuf Ben Ali, was a North African Arab who worked as an aide to General Thomas Sumter of South Carolina. Peter Buckminster, who fought in Boston, is perhaps Washington’s most distinguished Muslim American soldier. Buckminster fired the gun that killed British Major General John Pitcairn at the Battle of Bunker Hill. Years after this famous battle, Peter changed his last name to ‘Salaam’, the Arabic word meaning ‘peace’. Peter Salaam later reenlisted in the Continental Army to serve in the Battle of Saratoga and the Battle of Stony Point. If Washington had a problem with Muslims serving in his Army, he would not have allowed Muhammad, Ali and Salaam to represent and serve non-Muslim Americans. By giving these Muslims the honor of serving America, Washington made it clear that a person did not have to be of a certain religion or have a particular ethnic background to be an American patriot
    • The natural equal rights of men. If Washington or Jefferson or Madison should utter upon his native soil today the opinions he entertained and expressed upon this question, he would be denounced as a fanatical abolitionist. To declare the right of all men to liberty is sectional, because slavery is afraid of liberty and strikes the mouth that speaks the word. To preach slavery is not sectional — no: because freedom respects itself and believes in itself enough to give an enemy fair play. Thus Boston asked Senator Toombs to come and say what he could for slavery. I think Boston did a good thing, but I think Senator Toombs is not a wise man, for he went. He went all the way from Georgia to show Massachusetts how slavery looks, and to let it learn what it has to say. When will Georgia ask Wendell Phillips or Charles Sumner to come down and show her how liberty looks and speaks?
    • With the sure sagacity of a leader of men, Washington at once selected, for the highest and most responsible stations, the three chief Americans who represented the three forces in the nation which alone could command success in the institution of the government. Hamilton was the head, Jefferson was the heart, and John Jay was the conscience. Washington’s just and serene ascendancy was the lambent flame in which these beneficent powers were fused, and nothing less than that ascendancy could have ridden the whirlwind and directed the storm that burst around him.
      • George William Curtis, as quoted in Manual Of Patriotism : For Use in the Public Schools of the State of New York (1900) By Charles Rufus Skinner, p. 261.
    • And has God been pleased to diffuse some Sparks of this Martial Fire through our Country? I hope he has : And though it has been almost extinguished by so long a Peace, and a Deluge of Luxury and Pleasure, now I hope it begins to kindle : And may I not produce you my Brethren, who are engaged in this Expedition, as instances of it *? * As a remarkable Instance of this, I may point out to the Public that heroic Youth Col. Washington whom I cannot but hope Providence has hitherto preferred in so signal a Manner, for some important Service to his Country.
      • Samuel Davies, Religion and Patriotism the Constituents of a good Soldier: A Sermon Preached to Captain Overton’s Independent Company of Volunteers, raised in Hanover County, Virginia
    • Men are beginning to feel that Washington stands out, not only as the leading American, but as the leading man of the race. Of men not named in Sacred Scripture, more human beings this day know and honor the name of George Washington than that of any other of the sons of men.
      • Charles Deems, as quoted in Manual Of Patriotism : For Use in the Public Schools of the State of New York (1900) By Charles Rufus Skinner, p. 261
    • A man of quiet strength, he took few friends into complete confidence. His critics mistook his dignified reserve for pomposity. Life for Washington was a serious mission, a job to be tackled soberly, unremittingly. He had little time for humor. Although basically good-natured, he wrestled with his temper and sometimes lost. He was a poor speaker and could become utterly inarticulate without a prepared text. He preferred to express himself on paper. Still, when he did speak, he was candid, direct, and looked people squarely in the eye. Biographer Douglas Southall Freeman conceded that Washington’s “ambition for wealth made him acquisitive and sometimes contentious.” Even after Washington established himself, Freeman pointed out, “he would insist upon the exact payment of every farthing due him” and was determined “to get everything that he honestly could.” Yet neither his ambition to succeed nor his acquisitive nature ever threatened his basic integrity.
      • William A. DeGregorio, The Complete Book of U.S. Presidents (1984), p. 1-2

    He was, indeed, in every sense of the words, a wise, a good, and a great man. ~ Thomas Jefferson

    • George Washington is one of the beacons placed at intervals along the highroad of history. For his country he serves as a guide in time of stress and a refuge in tranquil moments; a never-failing example of true goodness; a warning to turbulent youth and a mute accusation of selfish interests.
      • Orestes Ferrara, as quoted in Bulletin of the Pan American Union, Vol. 66 (1932), p. 471
    • In all history few men who possessed unassailable power have used that power so gently and self-effacingly for what their best instincts told them was the welfare of their neighbors and all mankind.
    • Washington had always taught himself from experience. He learned the lessons of the American war all the more readily because he had no conventional lessons to unlearn. … Long before the end of the war, Washington had become much more effective than any of his military opponents. But this did not mean that what he had taught himself would have made him a great general on the battlefields of Europe. Evolved not from theory but from dealing with specific problems, his preeminence was achieved through a Darwinian adaptation to environment. It was the triumph of a man who knows how to learn, not in the narrow sense of studying other people’s conceptions, but in the transcendent sense of making a synthesis from the totality of experience.
      Among the legacies of the Revolution to the new nation, the most widely recognized and admired was a man: George Washington. He had no rivals.

      • James Thomas Flexner in Washington : The Indispensable Man (1984), Chapter 23 : Goodbye to War, p. 183
    • Washington’s appointments, when President, were made with a view to destroy party and not to create it, his object being to gather all the talent of the country in support of the national government; and he bore many things which were personally disagreeable in an endeavor to do this.
      • Paul Leicester Ford, as quoted in Manual Of Patriotism : For Use in the Public Schools of the State of New York (1900) By Charles Rufus SkinnerTake, p. 261
    • I frequently hear the old Generals of this martial country (who study the maps of America, and mark upon them all your operations) speak with sincere approbation and great applause of your conduct; and join in giving you the character of one of the greatest captains of the age.
      I must soon quit the scene, but you may live to see our country flourish; as it will, amazingly and rapidly, after the war is over.

      • Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to George Washington (5 March 1780), published in The Edinburgh Review Vol. 28 (1817), p. 284
    • From the moment when he took command of the army, Washington was, indeed, “first in the hearts of his countrymen.” And the student of our history cannot help remarking how providential it was that, at the outset of this struggle, Washington should come to the front. Eighty-Six years later, at the beginning of the rebellion, there was no accepted chief. Lincoln was doubted by the North and, and the army had no true leader. By a slow process Lincoln’s commanding strength became known; by an equally tedious sifting of the generals the qualities of Grant, Sherman, Thomas and Meade were discovered. Only the tremendous resources of the North could have withstood the strain of such a delay. Had the same process been necessary at the outset of the Revolution, the colonies could have scarcely maintained the struggle. Had not Washington been at hand, accepted by the Congress and admired by the army, the virtual leader of both, the chances of success would have been slight. But he was Lincoln and Grant in one. Time and time again, through the long years, it was Washington alone who brought victory from defeat. Without him, the colonies might have won their independence as the result of an almost interminable guerilla warfare; but with him the fight was definite, glorious, and-for the infant republic, mercifully short.
      • Allen French on the importance of Washington, in The Siege of Boston(1911)
    • I often say of George Washington that he was one of the few in the whole history of the world who was not carried away by power.
      • Robert Frost, as quoted in Patriarch: George Washington and the new American Nation (1993) by Richard Norton Smith
    • Eternity alone can reveal to the human race its debt of gratitude to the peerless and immortal name of Washington.
      • James A. Garfield, as quoted in The Life and Public Services of James A. Garfield (1881) by Emma Elizabeth Brown, p. 452
    • Washington is beyond question one of the greatest men in history, one of the noblest men who ever lived. He is a towering figure in the establishment of the United States and he did more than any other man to create and preserve the Republic. Here was a man whose very strength resided in his austere sobriety, who in his own person demonstrated this soundness of America. He was a good man, not a demigod; he was an honest administrator, not a brilliant statesman; he was a military man, but never a militarist. He was touchingly proud of America, proud that it was his country that was given the historic chance of becoming a model of religious as well as political freedom. In a letter to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Island, whose service he once attended, he stressed that in America freedom of religious worship was one of the “inherent natural rights,” where government “gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance.” Washington was an exceptional man; with reason he became so merged with America that his is the most prominent name in the land.
    • His excellency General Washington has arrived amoungst us, universally admired. Joy was visable on every countenance.
      • General Nathanael Greene on the arrival of George Washington in Boston, 1775-1776, McCullough pg 20
    • No nobler figure ever stood in the forefront of a nation’s life.Washington was grave and courteous in address; his manners were simple and unpretending; his silence and the serene calmness of his temper spoke of a perfect self-mastery; but little there was in his outer bearing to reveal the grandeur of soul which lifts his figure with all the simple majesty of an ancient statue, out of the smaller passions, the meaner impulses of the world around him.
      It was only as the weary fight went on that the colonists learned, little by little, the greatness of their leader — his clear judgment, his calmness in the hour of danger or defeat; the patience with which he waited, the quickness and hardness with which he struck, the lofty and serene sense of duty that never swerved from its task through resentment or jealousy, that never, through war or peace, felt the touch of a meaner ambition; that knew no aim save that of guarding the freedom of his fellow-countrymen; and no personal longing save that of returning to his own fireside when their freedom was secured.
      It was almost unconsciously that men learned to cling to Washington with a trust and faith such as few other men have won, and to regard him with reverence which still hushes us in presence of his memory.

    • Washington had no smashing, stunning victories. He was not a military genius, and his tactical and strategic maneuvers were not the sort that awed men. Military glory was not the source of his reputation. Something else was involved. Washington’s genius, his greatness, lay in his character. He was, as Chateubriand said, a “hero of unprecedented kind.” There had never been a great many like Washington before. Washington became a great man and was acclaimed as a classical hero because of the way he conducted himself during times of temptation. It was his moral character that set him off from other men.
      Washington fit the 18th-century image of a great man, of a man of virtue. This virtue was not given to him by nature. He had to work for it, to cultivate it, and everyone sensed that. Washington was a self-made hero, and this impressed an 18th-century enlightened world that put great stock in men controlling both their passions and their destinies. Washington seemed to possess a self-cultivated nobility.

    • To him the title of Excellency is applied with peculiar propriety. He is the best: and the greatest man the world ever knew. In private life, he wins the hearts and wears the love of all who are so happy as to fall within the circle of his acquaintance. In his public character, he commands universal respect and admiration. Conscious that the principles on which he acts are indeed founded in virtue and truth, he steadily pursues the arduous work with a mind neither depressed by disappointment and difficulties, nor elated with temporary success. He retreats like a General and attacks like a Hero. If there are spots in his character, they are like the spots in the Sun; only discernable by the magnifying powers of a telescope. Had he lived in the days of idolatry he had been worshipped as a God. One age cannot do justice to his merit; but the united voices of a grateful posterity shall pay a chearful tribute of undissembled praise to the great assertor of their country’s freedom.
      • Francis Hopkinson, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, in “A Political Catechism” (1777).
      • Variant: Had Washington been born in the days of idolatry, he would be worshiped as a god. If there are spots on his characters, they are like spots on the sun, only discernible by the magnifying powers of a telescope.
    • When the clergy addressed General Washington on his departure from the government, it was observed in their consultation that he had never on any occasion said a word to the public which showed a belief in the Christian religion and they thought they should so pen their address as to force him at length to declare publicly whether he was a Christian or not. They did so. However [Dr. Rush] observed the old fox was too cunning for them. He answered every article of their address particularly except that, which he passed over without notice. Rush observes he never did say a word on the subject in any of his public papers except in his valedictory letter to the Governors of the states when he resigned his commission in the army, wherein he speaks of the benign influence of the Christian religion. I know that Gouvemeur Morris, who pretended to be in his secrets & believed himself to be so, has often told me that General Washington believed no more of that system than he himself did.

    Let him who looks for a monument to Washington look around the United States. Your freedom, your independence, your national power, your prosperity, and your prodigious growth are a monument to him. ~ Lajos Kossuth

    • His mind was great and powerful, without being of the very first order; his penetration strong, though, not so acute as that of a Newton, Bacon, or Locke; and as far as he saw, no judgment was ever sounder. It was slow in operation, being little aided by invention or imagination, but sure in conclusion.
    • On the whole, his character was, in its mass, perfect, in nothing bad, in few points indifferent; and it may truly be said, that never did nature and fortune combine more perfectly to make a man great, and to place him in the same constellation with whatever worthies have merited from man an everlasting remembrance. … These are my opinions of General Washington, which I would vouch at the judgment seat of God, having been formed on an acquaintance of thirty years…
    • The President was much inflamed; got into one of those passions when he cannot command himself; ran on much on the personal abuse which had been bestowed on him; defied any man on earth to produce one single act of his since he had been in the Government, which was not done on the purest motives; that he had never repented but once the having slipped the moment of resigning his office, and that was every moment since; that by God he had rather be in his grave than in his present situation; that he had rather be on his farm than to be made Emperor of the world; and yet that they were charging him with wanting to be a King. That that rascal Freneau sent him three of his papers every day, as if he thought he would become the distributor of his papers; that he could see in this, nothing but an impudent design to insult him: he ended in this high tone.
      • Thomas Jefferson, writing in his diary (known as “The Anas“) dated August 2, 1793, relating the reaction of George Washington to a print that depicted him placed on a guillotine. Various writers have turned this account into direct discourse, quoting Washington as saying “I had rather be in my grave than in my present situation, I had rather be on my farm than be emperor of the world; and yet they charge me with wanting to be a king” (as in The Alumni Register of the University of Pennsylvania (1925), p. 473). This version goes back at least to a 1906 commencement oration by John Bach McMaster (Publications of the University of Pennsylvania, Proceedings of Commencement, June 13, 1906, p. 29)
    • He was incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence, never acting until every circumstance, every consideration, was maturely weighed; refraining if he saw a doubt, but, when once decided, going through with his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was most pure, his justice the most inflexible I have ever known, no motives of interest or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. He was, indeed, in every sense of the words, a wise, a good, and a great man. His temper was naturally high toned; but reflection and resolution had obtained a firm and habitual ascendancy over it. If ever, however, it broke its bonds, he was most tremendous in his wrath. In his expenses he was honorable, but exact; liberal in contributions to whatever promised utility; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary projects and all unworthy calls on his charity. His heart was not warm in its affections; but he exactly calculated every man’s value, and gave him a solid esteem proportioned to it. His person, you know, was fine, his stature exactly what one would wish, his deportment easy, erect and noble; the best horseman of his age, and the most graceful figure that could be seen on horseback.

    First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen. ~ Henry Lee

    • Let him who looks for a monument to Washington look around the United States. Your freedom, your independence, your national power, your prosperity, and your prodigious growth are a monument to him.
    • Unsupported for the most part by the population among whom he was quartered, and incessantly thwarted by the jealousy of Congress, he kept his army together by a combination of skill, firmness, patience, and judgment which has rarely been surpassed, and he led it at last to a signal triumph.
      In civil as in military life, he was pre-eminent among his contemporaries for the clearness and soundness of his judgment, for his perfect moderation and self-control, for the quiet dignity and the indomitable firmness with which he pursued every path which he had deliberately chosen. Of all the great men in history he was the most invariably judicious, and there is scarcely a rash word or action or judgment recorded of him. Those who knew him well, noticed that he had keen sensibilities and strong passions; but his power of self-command never failed him, and no act of his public life can be traced to personal caprice, ambition, or resentment. In the despondency of long-continued failure, in the elation of sudden success, at times when his soldiers were deserting by hundreds and when malignant plots were formed against his reputation, amid the constant quarrels, rivalries, and jealousies of his subordinates, in the dark hour of national ingratitude, and in the midst of the most universal and intoxicating flattery, he was always the same calm, wise, just, and single-minded man, pursuing the course which he believed to be right, without fear or favour or fanaticism; equally free from the passions that spring from interest, and from the passions that spring from imagination. He never acted on the impulse of an absorbing or uncalculating enthusiasm, and he valued very highly fortune, position, and reputation; but at the command of duty he was ready to risk and sacrifice them all. He was in the highest sense of the words a gentleman and a man of honour, and he carried into public life the severest standard of private morals. It was at first the constant dread of large sections of the American people, that if the old Government were overthrown, they would fall into the hands of military adventurers, and undergo the yoke of military despotism. It was mainly the transparent integrity of the character of Washington that dispelled the fear. It was always known by his friends, and it was soon acknowledged by the whole nation and by the English themselves, that in Washington America had found a leader who could be induced by.no earthly motive to tell a falsehood, or to break an engagement, or to commit any dishonourable act.

    • First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.
      • Henry Lee, from his eulogy for Washington, presented to Congress on 26 December 1799

    To add brightness to the sun, or glory to the name of Washington, is alike impossible. Let none attempt it. In solemn awe pronounce the name, and in its naked deathless splendor leave it shining on. ~ Abraham Lincoln

    Washington’s genius lay in his understanding of power, both military power, and political power, an understanding unmatched by that of any of his contemporaries. ~ Edmund Sears Morgan

    • This is the one hundred and tenth anniversary of the birthday of Washington. We are met to celebrate this day. Washington’s is the mightiest name of earth — long since mightiest in the cause of civil liberty; still mightiest in moral reformation. On that name no eulogy is expected. It cannot be. To add brightness to the sun, or glory to the name of Washington, is alike impossible. Let none attempt it. In solemn awe pronounce the name, and in its naked deathless splendor leave it shining on.
      • Abraham Lincoln, closing words of an address before the Washingtonian Temperance Society, Springfield, Illinois (22 February 1842)Published in the Sangamon Journal at Springfield, Illinois (Feb. 25, 1842). The entire speech was published in a letter edition of the Sangamon Journal(March 26, 1842). Copies on file in the Congressional Library.
    • Could Washington himself speak, would he cast the blame of that sectionalism upon us, who sustain his policy, or upon you who repudiate it? We respect that warning of Washington.
    • Without the great moral qualities that Washington possessed his career would not have been possible; but it would have been quite as impossible if the intellect had not equalled the character.
      There is no need to argue the truism that Washington was a great man, for that is universally admitted. But it is very needful that his genius should be rightly understood, and the right understanding of it is by no means universal.
      His character has been exalted at the expense of his intellect, and his goodness has been so much insisted upon both by admirers and critics that we are in danger of forgetting that he had a great mind as well as high moral worth.

      • Henry Cabot Lodge, as quoted in Manual Of Patriotism : For Use in the Public Schools of the State of New York (1900) By Charles Rufus SkinnerTake, p. 260
    • Contrary to the frequent presentations by modern liberals, the ‘three-fifths clause’ of the Constitution was the anti-slavery movement’s response to slave owners who wanted their slaves as property, except when it came to counting population for representation in the U.S. House of Representatives. In which case the slave owners wanted them counted as people. Thus the move to block slave owners’ power by reducing a slave to “three-fifths” of a person, with the objective of eventually phasing out slavery altogether. Alas, the birth of political factions, parties, took place rapidly, to the chagrin of President George Washington. In the battles between Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton the Democratic-Republican Party, the ancestor of today’s Democrats was born. And the pro-slavery, judge-people-by-skin-color faction became the central, and as it played out, perpetual, driving force of the Democratic Party.
    • You have in American history one of the great captains of all times.It might be said of him, as it was of William the Silent, that he seldom won a battle but he never lost a campaign.
      • Helmuth von Moltke the Elder, in a statement in Berlin (1874), as quoted in Family Relationships of George Washington (1931) by the United States George Washington Bicentennial Commission
    • Be assured his influence carried this government; for my own part I have a boundless confidence in him, nor have I any reason to believe he will ever furnish occasion for withdrawing it.
    • Washington’s genius lay in his understanding of power, both military power, and political power, an understanding unmatched by that of any of his contemporaries.
      • Edmund Sears Morgan, in The Genius of George Washington (1982) Ch. 1 : A Sense of Power, p. 6
    • And as to you, Sir, treacherous in private friendship (for so you have been to me, and that in the day of danger) and a hypocrite in public life, the world will be puzzled to decide whether you are an apostate or an impostor; whether you have abandoned good principles, or whether you ever had any.
      • Thomas Paine, letter to George Washington (July 30, 1796); Moncure D. Conway, ed., The Writings of Thomas Paine, vol. 3 (1895), p. 252
    • His was the belief of reason and revelation; and that belief was illustrated and exemplified in all his actions. No parade accompanied its exercise, no declamation its exhibition; for it was his opinion that a man who is always boasting of his religion, is like one who continually proclaims his honesty—he would trust neither one nor the other. He was not accustomed to argue points of faith, but on one occasion, in reply to a gentleman who expressed doubts on the subject, thus gave his sentiments:—
    “It is impossible to account for the creation of the universe without the agency of a Supreme Being.
    “It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being.
    “It is impossible to reason without arriving at a Supreme Being. Religion is as necessary to reason, as reason is to religion. The one cannot exist without the other. A reasoning being would lose his reason in attempting to account for the great phenomena of nature, had he not a Supreme Being to refer to; and well has it been said, that if there had been no God, mankind would have been obliged to imagine one.”
    On this basis of piety was erected the superstructure of his virtues.

    • James Kirke Paulding, A Life of Washington (New-York, Harper and Brothers, 1835), vol. 2, p. 209-210; Paulding gives no authority for this anecdote
    • “One afternoon several young gentlemen, visitors at Mount Vernon, and myself were engaged in pitching the bar, one of the athletic sports common in those days, when suddenly the colonel appeared among us. He requested to be shown the pegs that marked the bounds of our efforts; then, smiling, and without putting off his coat, held out his hand for the missile. No sooner,”observed the narrator, with emphasis, “did the heavy iron bar feel the grasp of his mighty hand than it lost the power of gravitation, and whizzed through the air, striking the ground far, very far, beyond our utmost limits. We were indeed amazed, as we stood around, all stripped to the buff, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and having thought ourselves very clever fellows, while the colonel, on retiring, pleasantly observed, ‘When you beat my pitch, young gentlemen, I’ll try again.’
      • Charles Willson Peale, recounting an incident of 1772, as quoted in Recollections and Private Memoirs of Washington (1861), edited by Benson J. Lossing
    • I bet after seeing us, George Washington would sue us for calling him “father.”
      • Will Rogers, as quoted in Will Rogers’ World : America’s Foremost Political Humorist Comments on the Twenties and Thirties — And Eighties and Nineties (1993) by Bryan B. Sterling and Frances N. Sterling

    The name of an iron man goes round the world.
    It takes a long time to forget an iron man. ~ Carl Sandburg

    • The name of an iron man goes round the world.
      It takes a long time to forget an iron man.

      • Carl Sandburg in “Washington Monument by Night” in Slabs of the Sunburnt West(1922)
    • In his famous Farewell Address of September 17, 1796, Washington said he would not serve as President for more than two terms and advised against entangling alliances with foreign countries. He had served his country so well that he could, with safety, turn over the burdens of office to the next President, John Adams. Washington wanted to spend his last years at home in the peace and quiet of private life. There was little privacy for him, however, when he did return to Mount Vernon. People from all over the United States and from foreign countries journeyed to Washington’s home to pay him respect. His house was often crowded with guests. The three and a half years that he lived after he left the Presidency were busy and happy ones. On December 14, 1799, he died at Mount Vernon, and there he was buried.
      • Francis Butler Simkins, Spotswood Hunnicutt, Sidman P. Poole, Virginia: History, Government, Geography (1957), p. 293
    • Each year, on February 22, the nation honors the birthday of a great man- George Washington. Many persons admire him for different reasons: for his leadership in a war that brought us independence, for his part in making the Constitution, for his policies as President. Everyone admires Washington for his honesty, his courage, his patience, his good judgment, his firmness, and his greatness of heart. The Commonwealth of Virginia has paid tribute to her great son. While Washington was still alive, the French sculptor Houdon made the famous statue of him which stands in the Rotunda of the Capitol at Richmond. On the Capitol grounds there is a huge figure of Washington on horseback, surrounded by other heroes of the American Revolution. And, of course, the capital of our great country, which he helped found, is on the Potomac River near his home, and is named in his honor. On Washington’s death, Henry Lee, in a speech before Congress, uttered these famous words: George Washington was “First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.”
      • Francis Butler Simkins, Spotswood Hunnicutt, Sidman P. Poole, Virginia: History, Government, Geography (1957), p. 293-294
    • The purest of statesman, and the most perfect of patriots. May it please Heaven that his example shall continue to serve as a beacon to our Republics in their darkest moments of doubt and adversity.
      • Jorge Ubico, as quoted in Bulletin of the Pan American Union, Vol. 66 (1932), p. 464
    • George Washington was a famous general who never won a battle. He was our first millionaire, and he believed in property and the dignity of those who held it, and they put together a constitution which would protect property for all time. No nonsense about democracy!
      • Gore Vidal, “Gore Vidal: The United States of Amnesia” documentary film (2013)
    • Gentlemen, the character of Washington is among the most cherished contemplations of my life. It is a fixed star in the firmament of great names, shining without twinkling or obscuration, with clear, steady, beneficent light.
      • Daniel Webster, secretary of state, letter to the New York Committee for the Celebration of the Birthday of Washington (February 20, 1851); in The Writings and Speeches of Daniel Webster, vol. 12 (1903), p. 261
    • There is Franklin, with his first proposal of Continental union. There is James Otis, with his great argument against Writs of Assistance, and Samuel Adams, with his inexorable demand for the removal of the British regiments from Boston. There is Quincy, and there is Warren, the protomartyr of Bunker Hill. There is Jefferson, with the Declaration of Independence fresh from his pen, and John Adams close at his side. There are Hamilton and Madison and Jaybringing forward the Constitution; but, towering above them all is Washington, the consummate commander, the incomparable President, the world-renowned patriot.
      • Robert Charles Winthrop, as quoted in Manual Of Patriotism : For Use in the Public Schools of the State of New York (1900) By Charles Rufus SkinnerTake, p. 262
    • That nature has given him extraordinary military talents will hardly be controverted by his most bitter enemies; and having been early actuated with a warm passion to serve his country in the military line, he has greatly improved them by unwearied industry, and a close application to the best writers upon tactics, and by a more than common method and exactnels: and, in reality, when it comes to be considered that at first he only headed a body of men entirely unacquainted with military discipline or operations, somewhat ungovernable in temper, and who at best could only be stiled an alert and good militia, acting under very short enlistments, uncloalhed, unaccoutred, and at all times very ill supplied with ammunition and artillery; and that with such an army he withstood the ravages and progress of near forty thousand veteran troops, plentifully provided with, every necessary article, commanded by the bravest officers in Europe, and supported by a very powerful navy, which effectually prevented all movements by water; when, I say, all this comes to be impartially considered, I think I may venture to pronounce, that general Washington will be regarded by mankind as one of the greatest military ornaments of the present age, and that his name will command the veneration of the latest posterity.
      • Anonymous, Sketch of the Life and Character of General Washington(1780), republished in The Critical Review, or, Annals of Literature(1780) edited by Tobias George Smollett, p. 473; and The New Annual Register, or, General Repository of History, Vol. 1 (1781), edited by Andrew Kippis, p. 33
    • There is a remarkable air of dignity about him, with a striking degree of gracefulness: he has an excellent understanding without much quickness; is strictly just, vigilant, and generous; an affectionate husband, a faithful friend, a father to the deserving soldier; gentle in his manners, in temper rather reserved; a total stranger to religious prejudices, which have so often excited Christians of one denomination to cut the throats of those of another; in his morals irreproachable; he was never known to exceed the bounds of the most rigid temperance: in a word, all his friends and acquaintance universally allow, that no man ever united in his own person a more perfect alliance of the virtues of a philosopher with the talents of a general. Candour, sincerity, affability, and simplicity, seem to be the striking features of his character, till an occasion offers of displaying the most determined bravery and independence of spirit.
      • Anonymous, Sketch of the Life and Character of General Washington(1780), republished in The Critical Review, or, Annals of Literature(1780) edited by Tobias George Smollett, p. 473; and The New Annual Register, or, General Repository of History, Vol. 1 (1781), edited by Andrew Kippis, p. 33
    • George Washington is the only president who didn’t blame the previous administration for his troubles.
      • Unknown author, quoted in The Quotable Politician (2003) by William B. Whitman
    • He [ George III] asked West what would Washington do were America to be declared independant[sic]. West said He believed He would retire to a private situation — The King said if He did He would be the greatest man in the world
      • From the diaries of Joseph Farington (entry of December 28, 1799). Farington is repeating what West told him of the period shortly after the defeat of Cornwallis at Yorktown.[1]

    Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations

    Quotes reported in Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 860-62.
    • The defender of his country—the founder of liberty,
      The friend of man,
      History and tradition are explored in vain
      For a parallel to his character.
      In the annals of modern greatness
      He stands alone;
      And the noblest names of antiquity
      Lose their lustre in his presence.
      Born the benefactor of mankind,
      He united all the greatness necessary
      To an illustrious career.
      Nature made him great,
      He made himself virtuous.

      • Part of an Epitaph found on the back of a portrait of Washington, sent to the family from England. See Werner’s Readings. No. 49, p. 77
    • Simple and brave, his faith awoke
      Ploughmen to struggle with their fate;
      Armies won battles when he spoke,
      And out of Chaos sprang the state.

    • While Washington’s a watchword, such as ne’er
      Shall sink while there’s an echo left to air.

    • There’s a star in the West that shall nerer go down
      Till the records of Valour decay,
      We must worship its light though it is not our own,
      For liberty burst in its ray.
      Shall the name of a Washington ever be heard
      By a freeman, and thrill not his breast?
      Is there one out of bondage that hails not the word,
      As a Bethlehem Star of the West?

    • The character, the counsels, and example of our Washington * * * they will guide us through the doubts and difficulties that beset us; they will guide our children and our children’s children in the paths of prosperity and peace, while America shall hold her place in the family of nations.
      • Edward Everett, speech, Washington Abroad and at Home (July 5, 1858)
    • Here you would know, and enjoy, what posterity will say of Washington. For a thousand leagues have nearly the same effect with a thousand years.
    • O Washington! thrice glorious name,
      What due rewards can man decree—
      Empires are far below thy aim,
      And scepters have no charms for thee;
      Virtue alone has your regards,
      And she must be your great reward.

    • Since ancient Time began,
      Ever on some great soul God laid an infinite burden—
      The weight of all this world, the hopes of man,
      Conflict and pain, and fame immortal are his guerdon.

      • R. W. Gilder, Washington, sSpeech at Trenton (Oct. 19, 1893)
    • Were an energetic and judicious system to be proposed with your signature it would be a circumstance highly honorable to your fame … and doubly entitle you to the glorious republican epithet,
      The Father of your Country.

      • Henry Knox, letter to Washington (March 19, 1787), urging that Washington attend the Philadelphia Convention. See Ford, Washington’s Writings, Volume XI, p. 123
    • First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen.
      • Gen. Henry Lee, Funeral Oration on Washington
    • First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his fellow citizens.
      • Resolution on Washington’s Death. Prepared by General Henry Lee and offered in the House of Representatives by John Marshall
    • The purely Great
      Whose soul no siren passion could unsphere,
      Thou nameless, now a power and mixed with fate.

      • James Russell Lowell, Under the old Elm. The elm near Cambridge with the inscription “Under this tree, Washington first took command of the American Army, July 3, 1775”
    • Oh, Washington! thou hero, patriot sage,
      Friend of all climes, and pride of every age!

    • Every countenance seeked to say, “Long live George Washington, the Father of the People.”
      • Pennsylvania Packet (April 21, 1789). After the election of Washington.
    • Our common Father and Deliverer, to whose prudence, wisdom and valour we owe our Peace, Liberty and Safety, now leads and directs in the great councils of the nation … and now we celebrate an independent Government—an original Constitution! an independent Legislature, at the head of which we this day celebrate The Father of his Country—We celebrate Washington! We celebrate an Independent Empire!
      • Pennsylvania Packet (July 9, 1789), p. 284. See Albert Matthews’ article in Colonial Society of Mass. Publications. Transactions. 1902–4, Volume 8, p. 275–287 (pub. 1906). In America the term was already familiar. George II was so-called by Governor Belcher (Dec. 2, 1731). George III also, in a petition drawn up by the Massachusetts House of Representatives (June, 30, 1768). Winthrop was styled thus by Governor Hutchinson. (1764). See History of Massachusetts, I, 151
    • His work well done, the leader stepped aside
      Spurning a crown with more than kingly pride.
      Content to wear the higher crown of worth,
      While time endures, “First citizen of earth.”

    • Washington and his associates believed that it was essential to the existence of this Republic that there should never be any union of Church and State; and such union is partially accomplished wherever a given creed is aided by the State or when any public servant is elected or defeated because of his creed.
    • ‘Twas his ambition, generous and great
      A life to life’s great end to consecrate.

    • While Washington hath left
      His awful memory,
      A light for after times.

    • That name was a power to rally a nation in the hour of thick-thronging public disasters and calamities; that name shone amid the storm of war, a beacon light to cheer and guide the country’s friends; it flamed too like a meteor to repel her foes.
    • That name descending with all time, spreading over the whole earth, and uttered in all the languages belonging to all tribes and races of men, will forever be pronounced with affectionate gratitude by everyone in whose breast there shall arise an aspiration for human rights and liberty.
      • Daniel Webster, speech at the Centennial Anniversary of Washington (Feb. 22, 1832)
    • America has furnished to the world the character of Washington! And if our American institutions had done nothing else, that alone would have entitled them to the respect of mankind.
      • Daniel Webster, Completion of Bunker Hill Monument (June 17, 1843), Volume I, p. 105

    References

    1. ↑ Farington, Joseph; James Greig (ed.) (1922). The Farington Diary, vol. i. London: Hutchinson. pp. 278.

    External links

  • The Spirit of the Flaneur in Street Photography

    The Spirit of the Flaneur in Street Photography

    Dear friend,

    The reason I love street photography is to harness the spirit of the “flâneur” — or the person who walks aimlessly, with grace, and doesn’t have a final destination in mind.

    (more…)

  • JFK

    https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/John_F._Kennedy

    John F. Kennedy

    John Fitzgerald Kennedy (29 May 1917 – 22 November 1963) was the 35th President of the United States, a brother of Robert F. Kennedy and Ted Kennedy, and the first husband of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

    Quotes

    NATIVE KNOWS POS’IT…HE CAN PILOT…

    In a democracy, every citizen, regardless of his interest in politics, ‘hold office’; everyone of us is in a position of responsibility; and, in the final analysis, the kind of government we get depends upon how we fulfill those responsibilities. We, the people, are the boss, and we will get the kind of political leadership, be it good or bad, that we demand and deserve.

    In a world of danger and trial, peace is our deepest aspiration … But it is an unfortunate fact that we can secure peace only by preparing for war.

    Things don’t just happen, they are made to happen.
    Pre-1960

    War will exist until that distant day when the conscientious objector enjoys the same reputation and prestige that the warrior does today.
    Undated Letter to a Navy friend; also mentioned by William Safire in his “On Language” article “Warrior” in the New York Times rubric Magazines (26 August 2007); also in A Thousand Days : John F. Kennedy in the White House (1965), by Arthur Schlesinger, p. 88
    NAURO NATIVE KNOWS POSIT HE CAN PILOT 11 ALIVE NEED SMALL BOAT KENNEDY
    Message carved into a coconut after the wreck of PT-109 (6 August 1943). This has often been misquoted as “11 ALIVE NATIVE KNOWS POSIT & REEF NAURU ISLAND KENNEDY”
    Explorer Finds Kennedy’s WWII Boat
    After visiting these places, you can easily understand how that within a few years Hitler will emerge from the hatred that surrounds him now as one of the most significant figures who ever lived. He had boundless ambition for his country which rendered him a menace to the peace of the world, but he had a mystery about him in the way that he lived and in the manner of his death that will live and grow after him. He had in him the stuff of which legends are made.
    After visiting such Nazi strongholds as were found in Berchtesgaden and Kehlsteinhaus; Personal diary (1 August 1945); published in Prelude to Leadership (1995)
    If more politicians knew poetry, and more poets knew politics, I am convinced the world would be a little better place in which to live.
    Remarks at Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts (14 June 1956); Box 895, Senate Speech Files, John F. Kennedy Papers, Pre-Presidential Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    Let us not despair but act. Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer but the right answer. Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past — let us accept our own responsibility for the future.
    Remarks at “Loyola College Alumni Banquet, Baltimore, Maryland (18 February 1958); Box 899, Senate Speech Files, John F. Kennedy Papers, Pre-Presidential Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    The Chinese use two brush strokes to write the word “crisis”. One brush stroke stands for danger; the other for opportunity. In a crisis, be aware of the danger — but recognize the opportunity.
    Speech in Indianapolis, Indiana (12 April 1959); see also Wikipedia:Chinese word for “crisis”
    Variant: In the Chinese language, the word “crisis” is composed of two characters, one representing danger and the other, opportunity.
    Remarks at the United Negro College Fund, Indianapolis, Indiana (12 April 1959); Box 902, Senate Speech Files, Pre-Presidential Papers, John F. Kennedy Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library; also in Remarks at Valley Forge Country Club, Pennsylvania (29 October 1960), Box 914, Senate Speech Files, Pre-Presidential Papers, John F. Kennedy Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    Profiles in Courage (1956)

    The voters selected us, in short, because they had confidence in our judgement and our ability to exercise that judgement from a position where we could determine what were their own best interest, as a part of the nation’s interest.
    p. 15
    Only the very courageous will be able to keep alive the spirit of individualism and dissent which gave birth to this nation, nourished it as an infant, and carried it through its severest tests upon the attainment of its maturity.
    Profiles in Courage (1956), p. 17
    The true democracy, living and growing and inspiring, puts its faith in the people — faith that the people will not simply elect men who will represent their views ably and faithfully, but will also elect men who will exercise their conscientious judgment — faith that the people will not condemn those whose devotion to principle leads them to unpopular courses, but will reward courage, respect honor, and ultimately recognize right.
    1964 Memorial Edition, p. 264
    For in a democracy, every citizen, regardless of his interest in politics, ‘hold office’; everyone of us is in a position of responsibility; and, in the final analysis, the kind of government we get depends upon how we fulfill those responsibilities. We, the people, are the boss, and we will get the kind of political leadership, be it good or bad, that we demand and deserve.
    1964 Memorial Edition, p. 265
    For without belittling the courage with which men have died, we should not forget those acts of courage with which men — such as the subjects of this book — have lived. The courage of life is often a less dramatic spectacle than the courage of a final moment; but it is no less a magnificent mixture of triumph and tragedy. A man does what he must — in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers, and pressures — and that is the basis of all human morality. In whatever area in life one may meet the challenges of courage, whatever may be the sacrifices he faces if he follows his conscience — the loss of his friends, his fortune, his contentment, even the esteem of his fellow men — each man must decide for himself the course he will follow. The stories of past courage can define that ingredient — they can teach, they can offer hope, they can provide inspiration. But they cannot supply courage itself. For this each man must look into his own soul.
    1964 Memorial Edition, p. 266
    1960

    Dick Nixon is the victim of the worst press that ever hit a politician in this country. What they did to him in the Helen Gahagan Douglas race was disgusting.
    As quoted in Kennedy and Nixon (1996) by Christopher Matthews, p.123
    We celebrate the past to awaken the future.
    “Remarks at the 25th Anniversary of the Signing of the Social Security Act,” Hyde Park, New York (14 August 1960); Box 910, Senate Speech Files, John F. Kennedy Papers, Pre-Presidential Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    President Roosevelt and President Truman and President Eisenhower had the same experience, they all made the effort to get along with the Russians. But every time, finally it failed. And the reason it failed was because the Communists are determined to destroy us, and regardless of what hand of friendship we may hold out or what arguments we may put up, the only thing that will make that decisive difference is the strength of the United States.
    Speech at Democratic Rally, George Washington High School Stadium, Alexandria, Virginia (24 August 1960)
    Now let me make it clear that I believe there can only be one defense policy for the United States and that is summed up in the word ‘first.’ I do not mean ‘first, but’. I do not mean ‘first, when’. I do not mean ‘first, if’. I mean ‘first — period’.
    Speech at VFW Convention, Detroit, Michigan,” (26 August 1960); Box 910, Senate Speech Files, John F. Kennedy Papers, Pre-Presidential Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    In a world of danger and trial, peace is our deepest aspiration, and when peace comes we will gladly convert not our swords into plowshares, but our bombs into peaceful reactors, and our planes into space vessels. “Pursue peace,” the Bible tells us, and we shall pursue it with every effort and every energy that we possess. But it is an unfortunate fact that we can secure peace only by preparing for war.
    Speech at Civic Auditorium, Seattle, Washington (6 September 1960)
    That requires only one kind of defense policy, a policy summed up in a single word “first.” I do not mean “first, if,” I do not mean “first, but,” I do not mean “first, when,” but I mean “First, period.”
    Speech at Civic Auditorium, Seattle, Washington (6 September 1960)
    My call is not to those who believe they belong to the past. My call is to those who believe in the future.
    Speech at Civic Auditorium, Seattle, Washington (6 September 1960)
    We are a great and strong country — perhaps the greatest and strongest in the history of the world. But greatness and strength are not our natural right. They are not gifts which are automatically ours forever. It took toil and courage and determination to build this country — and it will take those same qualities if we are to maintain it. For, although a country may stand still, history never stands still. Thus, if we do not soon begin to move forward again, we will inevitably be left behind. And I know that Americans today are tired of standing still — and that we do not intend to be left behind. But effort and courage are not enough without purpose and direction. For, as Socrates told us, “If a man does not know to what port he is sailing, no wind is favorable.”
    Speech at the Coliseum, Raleigh, North Carolina” (17 September 1960)
    There is a connection, hard to explain logically but easy to feel, between achievement in public life and progress in the arts. The age of Pericles was also the age of Phidias. The age of Lorenzo de Medici was also the age of Leonardo da Vinci. The age of Elizabeth was also the age of Shakespeare. And the New Frontier for which I campaign in public life, can also be a New Frontier for American art.
    [http://www.jfklibrary.org/Research/Research-Aids/Ready-Reference/JFK-Quotations.aspx Response to letter sent by Miss Theodate Johnson, Publisher of Musical America to the two presidential candidates requesting their views on music in relation to the Federal Government and domestic world affairs (13 September 1960); published in Musical America (October 1960), p. 11; later inscribed on the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Washington, D.C.
    If by a “Liberal” they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind, someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, someone who cares about the welfare of the people — their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights, and their civil liberties — someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicions that grip us in our policies abroad, if that is what they mean by a “Liberal,” then I’m proud to say I’m a “Liberal.”
    Acceptance of the New York Liberal Party nomination (14 September 1960) · TurnLeft: What is a Liberal?
    Their platform, made up of left-over Democratic planks, has the courage of our old convictions. Their pledge is a pledge to the status quo — and today there can be no status quo.
    Address Accepting the Democratic Party Nomination for the Presidency of the United States — Memorial Coliseum, Los Angeles (15 July 1960)
    If this nation is to be wise as well as strong, if we are to achieve our destiny, then we need more new ideas for more wise men reading more good books in more public libraries. These libraries should be open to all — except the censor. We must know all the facts and hear all the alternatives and listen to all the criticisms. Let us welcome controversial books and controversial authors. For the Bill of Rights is the guardian of our security as well as our liberty.
    Saturday Review (29 October 1960), p. 44
    There are indications because of new inventions, that 10, 15, or 20 nations will have a nuclear capacity, including Red China, by the end of the Presidential office in 1964. This is extremely serious. . . I think the fate not only of our own civilization, but I think the fate of world and the future of the human race, is involved in preventing a nuclear war.
    Third Nixon-Kennedy Presidential Debate (13 October 1960)
    We have all seen these circus elephants complete with tusks, ivory in their head and thick skins, who move around the circus ring and grab the tail of the elephant ahead of them.”
    Comments on members of the Republican party, in Remarks at the Cow Palace, San Francisco, California (2 November 1960); Box 914, Senate Speech Files, John F. Kennedy Papers, Pre-Presidential Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    I can assure you that every degree of mind and spirit that I possess will be devoted to the long-range interests of the United States and to the cause of freedom around the world.
    Acceptance speech (9 November 1960)
    The New Frontier

    John F. Kennedy’s Presidential Nomination Acceptance Speech to the Democratic National Convention at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum (15 July 1960) · The term “New Frontier” was first used in this speech.

    Are we up to the task — are we equal to the challenge? Are we willing to match the Russian sacrifice of the present for the future — or must we sacrifice our future in order to enjoy the present? That is the question of the New Frontier.
    But I think the American people expect more from us than cries of indignation and attack. The times are too grave, the challenge too urgent, and the stakes too high — to permit the customary passions of political debate. We are not here to curse the darkness, but to light the candle that can guide us through that darkness to a safe and sane future. As Winston Churchill said on taking office some twenty years ago: if we open a quarrel between the present and the past, we shall be in danger of losing the future. Today our concern must be with that future. For the world is changing. The old era is ending. The old ways will not do. […] It is a time, in short, for a new generation of leadership — new men to cope with new problems and new opportunities.
    Today some would say that those struggles are all over — that all the horizons have been explored — that all the battles have been won — that there is no longer an American frontier. But I trust that no one in this vast assemblage will agree with those sentiments. For the problems are not all solved and the battles are not all won — and we stand today on the edge of a New Frontier — the frontier of the 1960’s — a frontier of unknown opportunities and perils — a frontier of unfulfilled hopes and threats.
    Woodrow Wilson’s New Freedom promised our nation a new political and economic framework. Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal promised security and succor to those in need. But the New Frontier of which I speak is not a set of promises — it is a set of challenges. It sums up not what I intend to offer the American people, but what I intend to ask of them. It appeals to their pride, not to their pocketbook — it holds out the promise of more sacrifice instead of more security.
    But I tell you the New Frontier is here, whether we seek it or not. Beyond that frontier are the uncharted areas of science and space, unsolved problems of peace and war, unconquered pockets of ignorance and prejudice, unanswered questions of poverty and surplus. It would be easier to shrink back from that frontier, to look to the safe mediocrity of the past, to be lulled by good intentions and high rhetoric — and those who prefer that course should not cast their votes for me, regardless of party. But I believe the times demand new invention, innovation, imagination, decision. I am asking each of you to be pioneers on that New Frontier. My call is to the young in heart, regardless of age — to all who respond to the Scriptural call: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed.” For courage — not complacency — is our need today — leadership — not salesmanship. And the only valid test of leadership is the ability to lead, and lead vigorously.
    There may be those who wish to hear more — more promises to this group or that — more harsh rhetoric about the men in the Kremlin — more assurances of a golden future, where taxes are always low and subsidies ever high. But my promises are in the platform you have adopted — our ends will not be won by rhetoric and we can have faith in the future only if we have faith in ourselves.
    For the harsh facts of the matter are that we stand on this frontier at a turning-point in history. We must prove all over again whether this nation — or any nation so conceived — can long endure — whether our society — with its freedom of choice, its breadth of opportunity, its range of alternatives — can compete with the single-minded advance of the Communist system.
    Can a nation organized and governed such as ours endure? That is the real question. Have we the nerve and the will? Can we carry through in an age where we will witness not only new breakthroughs in weapons of destruction — but also a race for mastery of the sky and the rain, the ocean and the tides, the far side of space and the inside of men’s minds?
    Are we up to the task — are we equal to the challenge? Are we willing to match the Russian sacrifice of the present for the future — or must we sacrifice our future in order to enjoy the present?
    That is the question of the New Frontier. That is the choice our nation must make — a choice that lies not merely between two men or two parties, but between the public interest and private comfort — between national greatness and national decline — between the fresh air of progress and the stale, dank atmosphere of “normalcy” — between determined dedication and creeping mediocrity. All mankind waits upon our decision. A whole world looks to see what we will do. We cannot fail their trust, we cannot fail to try.
    It has been a long road from that first snowy day in New Hampshire to this crowded convention city. Now begins another long journey, taking me into your cities and homes all over America. Give me your help, your hand, your voice, your vote. Recall with me the words of Isaiah: “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary.” As we face the coming challenge, we too, shall wait upon the Lord, and ask that he renew our strength. Then shall we be equal to the test. Then we shall not be weary. And then we shall prevail.
    Speech to the Greater Houston Ministerial Association

    Speech to the Greater Houston Ministerial Association, a group of Protestant ministers, on the issue of his religion (12 September 1960); at the time, many Protestants questioned whether Kennedy’s Roman Catholic faith would allow him to make important national decisions as president independent of the church. He addressed those concerns before a skeptical audience of Protestant clergy. · Full text online avaiable at Wikisource and NPR.

    War and hunger and ignorance and despair know no religious barriers.

    I believe in a President whose religious views are his own private affair, neither imposed by him upon the nation or imposed by the nation upon him as a condition to holding that office.
    While the so-called religious issue is necessarily and properly the chief topic here tonight, I want to emphasize from the outset that we have far more critical issues to face in the 1960 election; the spread of Communist influence, until it now festers 90 miles off the coast of Florida — the humiliating treatment of our President and Vice President by those who no longer respect our power — the hungry children I saw in West Virginia, the old people who cannot pay their doctor bills, the families forced to give up their farms — an America with too many slums, with too few schools, and too late to the moon and outer space. These are the real issues which should decide this campaign. And they are not religious issues — for war and hunger and ignorance and despair know no religious barriers.
    I believe in an America where the separation of church and state is absolute — where no Catholic prelate would tell the President (should he be Catholic) how to act, and no Protestant minister would tell his parishoners for whom to vote — where no church or church school is granted any public funds or political preference — and where no man is denied public office merely because his religion differs from the President who might appoint him or the people who might elect him.
    I believe in an America that is officially neither Catholic, Protestant nor Jewish — where no public official either requests or accepts instructions on public policy from the Pope, the National Council of Churches or any other ecclesiastical source — where no religious body seeks to impose its will directly or indirectly upon the general populace or the public acts of its officials — and where religious liberty is so indivisible that an act against one church is treated as an act against all. For while this year it may be a Catholic against whom the finger of suspicion is pointed, in other years it has been, and may someday be again, a Jew — or a Quaker — or a Unitarian — or a Baptist. It was Virginia’s harassment of Baptist preachers, for example, that helped lead to Jefferson’s statute of religious freedom. Today I may be the victim- -but tomorrow it may be you — until the whole fabric of our harmonious society is ripped at a time of great national peril.
    Finally, I believe in an America where religious intolerance will someday end — where all men and all churches are treated as equal — where every man has the same right to attend or not attend the church of his choice — where there is no Catholic vote, no anti-Catholic vote, no bloc voting of any kind — and where Catholics, Protestants and Jews, at both the lay and pastoral level, will refrain from those attitudes of disdain and division which have so often marred their works in the past, and promote instead the American ideal of brotherhood.
    That is the kind of America in which I believe. And it represents the kind of Presidency in which I believe — a great office that must neither be humbled by making it the instrument of any one religious group nor tarnished by arbitrarily withholding its occupancy from the members of any one religious group. I believe in a President whose religious views are his own private affair, neither imposed by him upon the nation or imposed by the nation upon him as a condition to holding that office.
    I would not look with favor upon a President working to subvert the first amendment’s guarantees of religious liberty. Nor would our system of checks and balances permit him to do so — and neither do I look with favor upon those who would work to subvert Article VI of the Constitution by requiring a religious test — even by indirection — for it. If they disagree with that safeguard they should be out openly working to repeal it.
    I want a Chief Executive whose public acts are responsible to all groups and obligated to none — who can attend any ceremony, service or dinner his office may appropriately require of him — and whose fulfillment of his Presidential oath is not limited or conditioned by any religious oath, ritual or obligation.
    But let me say, with respect to other countries, that I am wholly opposed to the state being used by any religious group, Catholic or Protestant, to compel, prohibit, or persecute the free exercise of any other religion. And I hope that you and I condemn with equal fervor those nations which deny their Presidency to Protestants and those which deny it to Catholics.
    But let me stress again that these are my views — for contrary to common newspaper usage, I am not the Catholic candidate for President. I am the Democratic Party’s candidate for President who happens also to be a Catholic. I do not speak for my church on public matters — and the church does not speak for me. Whatever issue may come before me as President — on birth control, divorce, censorship, gambling or any other subject — I will make my decision in accordance with these views, in accordance with what my conscience tells me to be the national interest, and without regard to outside religious pressures or dictates. And no power or threat of punishment could cause me to decide otherwise. But if the time should ever come — and I do not concede any conflict to be even remotely possible — when my office would require me to either violate my conscience or violate the national interest, then I would resign the office; and I hope any conscientious public servant would do the same.
    If I should lose on the real issues, I shall return to my seat in the Senate, satisfied that I had tried my best and was fairly judged. But if this election is decided on the basis that 40 million Americans lost their chance of being President on the day they were baptized, then it is the whole nation that will be the loser, in the eyes of Catholics and non-Catholics around the world, in the eyes of history, and in the eyes of our own people.
    Address at Convention Hall, Philadelphia

    Speech at Convention Hall, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (31 October 1960)
    I believe in an America where the free enterprise system flourishes for all other systems to see and admire — where no businessman lacks either competition or credit — and where no monopoly, no racketeer, no government bureaucracy can put him out of business that he built up with his own initiative.
    I believe in an America where the rights that I have described are enjoyed by all, regardless of their race or their creed or their national origin — where every citizen is free to think and speak as he pleases and write and worship as he pleases — and where every citizen is free to vote as he pleases, without instructions from anyone, his employer, the union leader or his clergyman.
    Finally, I believe in an America with a government of men devoted solely to the public interests — men of ability and dedication, free from conflict or corruption or other commitment — a responsible government that is efficient and economical, with a balanced budget over the years of the cycle, reducing its debt in prosperous times — a government willing to entrust the people with the facts that they have — not a businessman’s government, with business in the saddle, as the late Secretary McKay described this administration of which he was a member — not a labor government, not a farmer’s government, not a government of one section of the country or another, but a government of, for and by the people.
    In short, I believe in an America that is on the march — an America respected by all nations, friends and foes alike — an America that is moving, doing, working, trying — a strong America in a world of peace. That peace must be based on world law and world order, on the mutual respect of all nations for the rights and powers of others and on a world economy in which no nation lacks the ability to provide a decent standard of living for all of its people. But we cannot have such a world, and we cannot have such a peace, unless the United States has the vitality and the inspiration and the strength. If we continue to stand still, if we continue to lie at anchor, if we continue to sit on dead center, if we content ourselves with the easy life and the rosy assurances, then the gates will soon be open to a lean and hungry enemy.
    Sport at the New Frontier: The Soft American

    Physical fitness is not only one of the most important keys to a healthy body; it is the basis of dynamic and creative intellectual activity.

    The stamina and strength which the defense of liberty requires are not the product of a few weeks’ basic training or a month’s conditioning. These only come from bodies which have been conditioned by a lifetime of participation in sports and interest in physical activity.
    John F. Kennedy, “Sport at the New Frontier: The Soft American” in Sports Illustrated Vol. 13, Issue 26 (26 December 1960), p. 14-17
    This knowledge, the knowledge that the physical well-being of the citizen is an important foundation for the vigor and vitality of all the activities of the nation, is as old as Western civilization itself.
    But the harsh fact of the matter is that there is also an increasingly large number of young Americans who are neglecting their bodies — whose physical fitness is not what it should be — who are getting soft. And such softness on the part of individual citizens can help to strip and destroy the vitality of a nation. For the physical vigor of our citizens is one of America’s most precious resources. If we waste and neglect this resource, if we allow it to dwindle and grow soft then we will destroy much of our ability to meet the great and vital challenges which confront our people. We will be unable to realize our full potential as a nation.
    Throughout our history we have been challenged to armed conflict by nations which sought to destroy our independence or threatened our freedom. The young men of America have risen to those occasions, giving themselves freely to the rigors and hardships of warfare. But the stamina and strength which the defense of liberty requires are not the product of a few weeks’ basic training or a month’s conditioning. These only come from bodies which have been conditioned by a lifetime of participation in sports and interest in physical activity. Our struggles against aggressors throughout our history have been won on the playgrounds and corner lots and fields of America. Thus, in a very real and immediate sense, our growing softness, our increasing lack of physical fitness, is a menace to our security.
    But physical fitness is as vital to the activities of peace as to those of war, especially when our success in those activities may well determine the future of freedom in the years to come. We face in the Soviet Union a powerful and implacable adversary determined to show the world that only the Communist system possesses the vigor and determination necessary to satisfy awakening aspirations for progress and the elimination of poverty and want. To meet the challenge of this enemy will require determination and will and effort on the part of all Americans. Only if our citizens are physically fit will they be fully capable of such an effort.
    For physical fitness is not only one of the most important keys to a healthy body; it is the basis of dynamic and creative intellectual activity. The relationship between the soundness of the body and the activities of the mind is subtle and complex. Much is not yet understood. But we do know what the Greeks knew: that intelligence and skill can only function at the peak of their capacity when the body is healthy and strong; that hardy spirits and tough minds usually inhabit sound bodies.
    In this sense, physical fitness is the basis of all the activities of our society. And if our bodies grow soft and inactive, if we fail to encourage physical development and prowess, we will undermine our capacity for thought, for work and for the use of those skills vital to an expanding and complex America. Thus the physical fitness of our citizens is a vital prerequisite to America’s realization of its full potential as a nation, and to the opportunity of each individual citizen to make full and fruitful use of his capacities.
    It is ironic that at a time when the magnitude of our dangers makes the physical fitness of our citizens a matter of increasing importance, it takes greater effort and determination than ever before to build the strength of our bodies. The age of leisure and abundance can destroy vigor and muscle tone as effortlessly as it can gain time. Today human activity, the labor of the human body, is rapidly being engineered out of working life.
    1961

    Our Constitution wisely assigns both joint and separate roles to each branch of the government; and a President and a Congress who hold each other in mutual respect will neither permit nor attempt any trespass.
    First State of the Union Address (30 January 1961)
    Where nature makes natural allies of us all, we can demonstrate that beneficial relations are possible even with those with whom we most deeply disagree-and this must someday be the basis of world peace and world law.
    First State of the Union Address (30 January 1961)
    The deadly arms race, and the huge resources it absorbs, have too long overshadowed all else we must do. We must prevent that arms race from spreading to new nations, to new nuclear powers and to the reaches of outer space.
    First State of the Union Address (30 January 1961)
    I have pledged myself and my colleagues in the cabinet to a continuous encouragement of initiative, responsibility and energy in serving the public interest. Let every public servant know, whether his post is high or low, that a man’s rank and reputation in this Administration will be determined by the size of the job he does, and not by the size of his staff, his office or his budget. Let it be clear that this Administration recognizes the value of dissent and daring — that we greet healthy controversy as the hallmark of healthy change. Let the public service be a proud and lively career. And let every man and woman who works in any area of our national government, in any branch, at any level, be able to say with pride and with honor in future years: “I served the United States government in that hour of our nation’s need.”
    For only with complete dedication by us all to the national interest can we bring our country through the troubled years that lie ahead. Our problems are critical. The tide is unfavorable. The news will be worse before it is better. And while hoping and working for the best, we should prepare ourselves now for the worst.
    First State of the Union Address (30 January 1961)
    The Federal Budget can and should be made an instrument of prosperity and stability, not a deterrent to recovery.
    “Special message to Congress: Program for Economic Recovery and Growth (17)”, (2 February 1961)
    For I can assure you that we love our country, not for what it was, though it has always been great — not for what it is, though of this we are deeply proud — but for what it someday can, and, through the efforts of us all, someday will be.
    “Address at a Luncheon Meeting of the National Industrial Conference Board (33)”, (13 February 1961)
    Our progress as a nation can be no swifter than our progress in education. Our requirements for world leadership, our hopes for economic growth, and the demands of citizenship itself in an era such as this all require the maximum development of every young American’s capacity. The human mind is our fundamental resource.
    Special Message to the Congress on Education (20 February 1961)
    It cannot be surprising that, as resistance within Cuba grows, refugees have been using whatever means are available to return and support their countrymen in the continuing struggle for freedom. Where people are denied the right of choice, recourse to such struggle is the only means of achieving their liberties.
    Message to Chairman Khrushchev Concerning the Meaning of Events in Cuba (18 April 1961)
    The great revolution in the history of man, past, present and future, is the revolution of those determined to be free.
    Message to Chairman Khrushchev Concerning the Meaning of Events in Cuba (18 April 1961).
    There’s an old saying that victory has a hundred fathers and defeat is an orphan…. I’m the responsible officer of the Government.
    State Department press conference (21 April 1961), following the Bay of Pigs Invasion, as quoted in A Thousand Days : John F. Kennedy in the White House (1965, 2002 edition), by Arthur Schlesinger, p. 262; also in The Quote Verifier (2006) by Ralph Keyes, p. 234). The exact wording used by Kennedy (a hundred, not a thousand) had appeared in the 1951 film The Desert Fox: The Story of Rommel, as reported in Safire’s New Political Dictionary (1993) by William Safire, pp 841–842). The earliest known occurrence is Galeazzo Ciano, Diary 1937-1943, entry for 9 September 1942 (“La victoria trova cento padri, e nessuno vuole riconoscere l’insuccesso.”), but the earliest known occurrence on such a theme is in Tacitus’s : Agricola Book 1 ab paragraph 27: “Iniquissima haec bellorum condicio est: prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur.” (It is the singularly unfair peculiarity of war that the credit of success is claimed by all, while a disaster is attributed to one alone.)
    If all of you had voted the other way — there’s about 5500 of you here tonight — I would not be the President of the United States.
    “Address in Chicago at a dinner of the Democratic Party of Cook County (155),” (28 April 1961)
    Commander Shepard has pointed out from the time that this flight began and from the time this flight was a success, that this was a common effort in which a good many men were involved. I think it does credit to him that he is associated with such a distinguished group of Americans whom we are all glad to honor today, his companions in the flight into outer space, so I think we want to give them all a hand. … I also want to take cognizance of the fact that this flight was made out in the open with all the possibilities of failure, which would have been damaging to our country’s prestige. Because great risks were taken in that regard, it seems to me that we have some right to claim that this open society of ours which risked much, gained much. … This is a civilian award for a great civilian accomplishment, and therefore I want to again express my congratulations to Alan Shepard. We are very proud of him, and I speak on behalf of the Vice President, who is Chairman of our Space Council and who bears great responsibilities in this field, and the Members of the House and Senate Space Committee who are with us today. [accidentally drops the medallion, and picks it up] This decoration which has gone from the ground up — here.
    Remarks at the presentation of NASA’s Distinguished Service Medal to Astronaut Alan B. Shepard (8 May 1961) — Video of presentation at YouTube
    Geography has made us neighbors. History has made us friends. Economics has made us partners. And necessity has made us allies. Those whom nature hath so joined together, let no man put asunder.
    Address to the Canadian Parliament (17 May 1961)
    There is danger that totalitarian governments, not subject to vigorous popular debate, will underestimate the will and unity of democratic societies where vital interests are concerned.
    President Kennedy’s 13th News Conferences on June 28, 1961 John Source: F. Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum
    And lastly, Chairman Khrushchev has compared the United States to a worn-out runner living on its past performance, and stated that the Soviet Union would out-produce the United States by 1970. Without wishing to trade hyperbole with the Chairman, I do suggest that he reminds me of the tiger hunter who has picked a place on the wall to hang the tiger’s skin long before he his caught the tiger. This tiger has other ideas.
    President Kennedy’s 13th News Conferences on June 28, 1961 John Source: F. Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum
    The education of our people should be a lifelong process by which we continue to feed new vigor into the lifestream of the Nation through intelligent, reasoned decisions. Let us not think of education only in terms of its costs, but rather in terms of the infinite potential of the human mind that can be realized through education. Let us think of education as the means of developing our greatest abilities, because in each of us there is a private hope and dream which, fulfilled, can be translated into benefit for everyone and greater strength for our Nation.
    “Proclamation 3422 — American Education Week, 1961” (25 July 1961)
    Freedom is not merely a word or an abstract theory, but the most effective instrument for advancing the welfare of man.
    Message to the Inter-American Economic and Social Conference at Punta del Este, Uruguay (5 August 1961)
    Somebody once said that Washington was a city of Northern charm and Southern efficiency.
    Speech to the Trustees and Advisory Committee of the National Cultural Center in the White House Movie Theater, 14 November 1961
    We have become more and more not a nation of athletes but a nation of spectators.
    “Remarks at National Football Foundation and Hall of Fame Banquet (496),” December 5 1961. Public Papers of the Presidents: John F. Kennedy, 1961.
    We must use time as a tool, not as a couch.
    “Address in New York City to the National Association of Manufacturers (496),” December 5, 1961, Public Papers of the Presidents: John F. Kennedy, 1961.
    I wonder how it is with you, Harold? If I don’t have a woman for three days, I get terrible headaches.
    Conversation with Harold Macmillan, in Bermuda (1961) as recounted by Richard Reeves in his book President Kennedy: Profile of Power (1994)
    The City upon a Hill speech

    Speech to Massachusetts State Legislature (9 January 1961) in The State House, Boston; Congressional Record, January 10, 1961, vol. 107, Appendix, p. A169. In this speech, given eleven days prior to his inauguration, the President-elect quotes John Winthrop’s “city upon a hill” sermon and highlights four qualities that he hopes to bring to his presidency: courage, judgment, integrity and dedication.

    When at some future date the high court of history sits in judgment on each of us — recording whether in our brief span of service we fulfilled our responsibilities to the state — our success or failure, in whatever office we hold, will be measured by the answers to four questions: …
    During the last sixty days, I have been at the task of constructing an administration. It has been a long and deliberate process. Some have counseled greater speed. Others have counseled more expedient tests. But I have been guided by the standard John Winthrop set before his shipmates on the flagship Arbella three hundred and thirty-one years ago, as they, too, faced the task of building a new government on a perilous frontier. “We must always consider,” he said, “that we shall be as a city upon a hill — the eyes of all people are upon us.” Today the eyes of all people are truly upon us — and our governments, in every branch, at every level, national, state and local, must be as a city upon a hill — constructed and inhabited by men aware of their great trust and their great responsibilities. For we are setting out upon a voyage in 1961 no less hazardous than that undertaken by the Arbella in 1630. We are committing ourselves to tasks of statecraft no less awesome than that of governing the Massachusetts Bay Colony, beset as it was then by terror without and disorder within. History will not judge our endeavors — and a government cannot be selected — merely on the basis of color or creed or even party affiliation. Neither will competence and loyalty and stature, while essential to the utmost, suffice in times such as these.
    For of those to whom much is given, much is required. And when at some future date the high court of history sits in judgment on each of us — recording whether in our brief span of service we fulfilled our responsibilities to the state — our success or failure, in whatever office we hold, will be measured by the answers to four questions:
    First, were we truly men of courage — with the courage to stand up to one’s enemies — and the courage to stand up, when necessary, to one’s associates — the courage to resist public pressure, as well as private greed?
    Secondly, were we truly men of judgment — with perceptive judgment of the future as well as the past — of our mistakes as well as the mistakes of others — with enough wisdom to know what we did not know and enough candor to admit it?
    Third, were we truly men of integrity — men who never ran out on either the principles in which we believed or the men who believed in us — men whom neither financial gain nor political ambition could ever divert from the fulfillment of our sacred trust?
    Finally, were we truly men of dedication — with an honor mortgaged to no single individual or group, and comprised of no private obligation or aim, but devoted solely to serving the public good and the national interest?
    Courage — judgment — integrity — dedication — these are the historic qualities … which, with God’s help … will characterize our Government’s conduct in the 4 stormy years that lie ahead.
    Inaugural Address

    In your hands, my fellow citizens, more than in mine, will rest the final success or failure of our course.

    The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it — and the glow from that fire can truly light the world. And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country.

    With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God’s work must truly be our own.
    Inaugural address, Washington D.C. (20 January 1961) (video file). In his speech President Kennedy urges American citizens to participate in public service and “ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country.” This is also the speech he delivered announcing the dawn of a new era as young Americans born in the 20th century first assumed leadership of the Nation.
    Vice President Johnson, Mr. Speaker, Mr. Chief Justice, President Eisenhower, Vice President Nixon, President Truman, reverend clergy, fellow citizens, we observe today not a victory of party, but a celebration of freedom — symbolizing an end, as well as a beginning — signifying renewal, as well as change. For I have sworn before you and Almighty God the same solemn oath our forebears prescribed nearly a century and three quarters ago.
    The world is very different now. For man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty and all forms of human life. And yet the same revolutionary beliefs for which our forebears fought are still at issue around the globe — the belief that the rights of man come not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.
    Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans — born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage — and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this Nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world.
    The quote “Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans” is one of seven quotes inscribed on the walls at the gravesite of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery. One can see it inscribed on the walls at the gravesite of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery.
    Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.
    This is one of seven quotes inscribed on the walls at the gravesite of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery.
    To those old allies whose cultural and spiritual origins we share, we pledge the loyalty of faithful friends. United, there is little we cannot do in a host of cooperative ventures. Divided, there is little we can do — for we dare not meet a powerful challenge at odds and split asunder.
    To those new States whom we welcome to the ranks of the free, we pledge our word that one form of colonial control shall not have passed away merely to be replaced by a far more iron tyranny. We shall not always expect to find them supporting our view. But we shall always hope to find them strongly supporting their own freedom — and to remember that, in the past, those who foolishly sought power by riding the back of the tiger ended up inside.
    To those people in the huts and villages of half the globe struggling to break the bonds of mass misery, we pledge our best efforts to help them help themselves, for whatever period is required — not because the communists may be doing it, not because we seek their votes, but because it is right. If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich.
    Finally, to those nations who would make themselves our adversary, we offer not a pledge but a request: that both sides begin anew the quest for peace, before the dark powers of destruction unleashed by science engulf all humanity in planned or accidental self-destruction. We dare not tempt them with weakness. For only when our arms are sufficient beyond doubt can we be certain beyond doubt that they will never be employed.
    So let us begin anew — remembering on both sides that civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof. Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate.
    Let both sides explore what problems unite us instead of belaboring those problems which divide us. […] Let both sides seek to invoke the wonders of science instead of its terrors. Together let us explore the stars, conquer the deserts, eradicate disease, tap the ocean depths, and encourage the arts and commerce.
    Let both sides unite to heed in all corners of the earth the command of Isaiah — to “undo the heavy burdens … and to let the oppressed go free.”
    If a beachhead of cooperation may push back the jungle of suspicion, let both sides join in creating a new endeavor, not a new balance of power, but a new world of law, where the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace preserved.
    All this will not be finished in the first one hundred days. Nor will it be finished in the first one thousand days, nor in the life of this Administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But let us begin.
    In your hands, my fellow citizens, more than in mine, will rest the final success or failure of our course. Since this country was founded, each generation of Americans has been summoned to give testimony to its national loyalty. The graves of young Americans who answered the call to service surround the globe.
    Now the trumpet summons us again — not as a call to bear arms, though arms we need; not as a call to battle, though embattled we are — but a call to bear the burden of a long twilight struggle, year in and year out, “rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation” — a struggle against the common enemies of man: tyranny, poverty, disease, and war itself. Can we forge against these enemies a grand and global alliance, North and South, East and West, that can assure a more fruitful life for all mankind? Will you join in that historic effort?
    The bold portions are one of seven quotes inscribed on the walls at the gravesite of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery.
    In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility — I welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it — and the glow from that fire can truly light the world.
    And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country.
    My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.
    “In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility — I welcome it.” is one of seven quotes inscribed on the walls at the gravesite of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery.
    “The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it — and the glow from that fire can truly light the world.” is one of seven quotes inscribed on the walls at the gravesite of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery.
    “And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country. My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.” is one of seven quotes inscribed on the walls at the gravesite of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery.
    It has been reported at various places on the internet that in JFK’s Inaugural address, the famous line “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country”, was inspired by, or even a direct quotation of the famous and much esteemed writer and poet Khalil Gibran. Gibran in 1925 wrote in Arabic a line that has been translated as:
    Are you a politician asking what your country can do for you or a zealous one asking what you can do for your country?
    If you are the first, then you are a parasite; if the second, then you are an oasis in a desert.
    However, this translation of Gibran is one that occurred over a decade after Kennedy’s 1961 speech, appearing in A Third Treasury of Kahlil Gibran (1975) edited by Andrew Dib Sherfan, and the translator most likely drew upon Kennedy’s famous words in expressing Gibran’s prior ideas. For a further discussion regarding the quote see here.
    Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God’s work must truly be our own.
    This is one of seven quotes inscribed on the walls at the gravesite of John F. Kennedy, Arlington National Cemetery.
    Address before the American Society of Newspaper Editors

    The President of a great democracy such as ours, and the editors of great newspapers such as yours, owe a common obligation to the people: an obligation to present the facts, to present them with candor, and to present them in perspective.
    If the self-discipline of the free cannot match the iron discipline of the mailed fist-in economic, political, scientific and all the other kinds of struggles as well as the military-then the peril to freedom will continue to rise.
    The complacent, the self-indulgent, the soft societies are about to be swept away with the debris of history. Only the strong, only the industrious, only the determined, only the courageous, only the visionary who determine the real nature of our struggle can possibly survive.
    Address to ANPA

    Address before the American Newspaper Publishers Association (27 April 1961) Audio President Kennedy’s address was delivered to the American Newspaper Publishers Association at a Bureau of Advertising dinner held at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City. In his speech President Kennedy addresses his discontent with the press’s news coverage before, during, and after the Bay of Pigs incident, suggesting that there is a need for “far greater public information” and “far greater official secrecy.”

    No President should fear public scrutiny of his program. For from that scrutiny comes understanding; and from that understanding comes support or opposition. And both are necessary.

    Man will be what he was born to be: free and independent.
    I appreciate very much your generous invitation to be here tonight. You bear heavy responsibilities these days and an article I read some time ago reminded me of how particularly heavily the burdens of present day events bear upon your profession. You may remember that in 1851 the New York Herald Tribune under the sponsorship and publishing of Horace Greeley, employed as its London correspondent an obscure journalist by the name of Karl Marx.
    We are told that foreign correspondent Marx, stone broke, and with a family ill and undernourished, constantly appealed to Greeley and managing editor Charles Dana for an increase in his munificent salary of $5 per installment, a salary which he and Engels ungratefully labeled as the “lousiest petty bourgeois cheating.”
    But when all his financial appeals were refused, Marx looked around for other means of livelihood and fame, eventually terminating his relationship with the Tribune and devoting his talents full time to the cause that would bequeath the world the seeds of Leninism, Stalinism, revolution and the cold war.
    If only this capitalistic New York newspaper had treated him more kindly; if only Marx had remained a foreign correspondent, history might have been different. And I hope all publishers will bear this lesson in mind the next time they receive a poverty-stricken appeal for a small increase in the expense account from an obscure newspaper man.
    I want to talk about our common responsibilities in the face of a common danger. The events of recent weeks may have helped to illuminate that challenge for some; but the dimensions of its threat have loomed large on the horizon for many years. Whatever our hopes may be for the future — for reducing this threat or living with it — there is no escaping either the gravity or the totality of its challenge to our survival and to our security — a challenge that confronts us in unaccustomed ways in every sphere of human activity.
    This deadly challenge imposes upon our society two requirements of direct concern both to the press and to the President — two requirements that may seem almost contradictory in tone, but which must be reconciled and fulfilled if we are to meet this national peril. I refer, first, to the need for a far greater public information; and, second, to the need for far greater official secrecy.
    The very word “secrecy” is repugnant in a free and open society; and we are as a people inherently and historically opposed to secret societies, to secret oaths and to secret proceedings. We decided long ago that the dangers of excessive and unwarranted concealment of pertinent facts far outweighed the dangers which are cited to justify it. Even today, there is little value in opposing the threat of a closed society by imitating its arbitrary restrictions. Even today, there is little value in insuring the survival of our nation if our traditions do not survive with it. And there is very grave danger that an announced need for increased security will be seized upon by those anxious to expand its meaning to the very limits of official censorship and concealment. That I do not intend to permit to the extent that it is in my control. And no official of my Administration, whether his rank is high or low, civilian or military, should interpret my words here tonight as an excuse to censor the news, to stifle dissent, to cover up our mistakes or to withhold from the press and the public the facts they deserve to know.
    Today no war has been declared — and however fierce the struggle may be, it may never be declared in the traditional fashion. Our way of life is under attack. Those who make themselves our enemy are advancing around the globe. The survival of our friends is in danger. And yet no war has been declared, no borders have been crossed by marching troops, no missiles have been fired.
    If the press is awaiting a declaration of war before it imposes the self-discipline of combat conditions, then I can only say that no war ever posed a greater threat to our security. If you are awaiting a finding of “clear and present danger,” then I can only say that the danger has never been more clear and its presence has never been more imminent.
    It requires a change in outlook, a change in tactics, a change in missions — by the government, by the people, by every businessman or labor leader, and by every newspaper. For we are opposed around the world by a monolithic and ruthless conspiracy that relies primarily on covert means for expanding its sphere of influence — on infiltration instead of invasion, on subversion instead of elections, on intimidation instead of free choice, on guerrillas by night instead of armies by day. It is a system which has conscripted vast human and material resources into the building of a tightly knit, highly efficient machine that combines military, diplomatic, intelligence, economic, scientific and political operations. Its preparations are concealed, not published. Its mistakes are buried, not headlined. Its dissenters are silenced not praised. No expenditure is questioned, no rumor is printed, no secret is revealed. It conducts the Cold War, in short, with a war-time discipline no democracy would ever hope or wish to match.
    Nevertheless, every democracy recognizes the necessary restraints of national security — and the question remains whether those restraints need to be more strictly observed if we are to oppose this kind of attack as well as outright invasion.
    No President should fear public scrutiny of his program. For from that scrutiny comes understanding; and from that understanding comes support or opposition. And both are necessary. I am not asking your newspapers to support the Administration, but I am asking your help in the tremendous task of informing and alerting the American people. For I have complete confidence in the response and dedication of our citizens whenever they are fully informed.
    I not only could not stifle controversy among your readers — I welcome it. This Administration intends to be candid about its errors; for as a wise man once said: “An error does not become a mistake until you refuse to correct it.” We intend to accept full responsibility for our errors; and we expect you to point them out when we miss them.
    Without debate, without criticism, no Administration and no country can succeed — and no republic can survive. That is why the Athenian lawmaker Solon decreed it a crime for any citizen to shrink from controversy. And that is why our press was protected by the First Amendment — the only business in America specifically protected by the Constitution- -not primarily to amuse and entertain, not to emphasize the trivial and the sentimental, not to simply “give the public what it wants” — but to inform, to arouse, to reflect, to state our dangers and our opportunities, to indicate our crises and our choices, to lead, mold, educate and sometimes even anger public opinion.
    This means greater coverage and analysis of international news — for it is no longer far away and foreign but close at hand and local. It means greater attention to improved understanding of the news as well as improved transmission. And it means, finally, that government at all levels, must meet its obligation to provide you with the fullest possible information outside the narrowest limits of national security — and we intend to do it.
    It was early in the Seventeenth Century that Francis Bacon remarked on three recent inventions already transforming the world: the compass, gunpowder and the printing press. Now the links between the nations first forged by the compass have made us all citizens of the world, the hopes and threats of one becoming the hopes and threats of us all. In that one world’s efforts to live together, the evolution of gunpowder to its ultimate limit has warned mankind of the terrible consequences of failure.
    And so it is to the printing press — to the recorder of man’s deeds, the keeper of his conscience, the courier of his news — that we look for strength and assistance, confident that with your help man will be what he was born to be: free and independent.
    Kennedy here references Francis Bacon’s Aphorism 129 of Novum Organum: Again, we should notice the force, effect, and consequences of inventions, which are nowhere more conspicuous than in those three which were unknown to the ancients; namely, printing, gunpowder, and the compass. For these three have changed the appearance and state of the whole world; first in literature, then in warfare, and lastly in navigation: and innumerable changes have been thence derived, so that no empire, sect, or star, appears to have exercised a greater power and influence on human affairs than these mechanical discoveries.
    Speech to Special Joint Session of Congress

    But in a very real sense, it will not be one man going to the moon — if we make this judgment affirmatively, it will be an entire nation.

    If we are to go only half way, or reduce our sights in the face of difficulty, in my judgment it would be better not to go at all.
    Address to a Joint Session of Congress (25 May 1961); this includes his Special Message to the Congress on urgent national needs the goal of sending a Man to the Moon before the 1960’s are over. More specifically President Kennedy asked for an additional $7 billion to $9 billion over the next five years for the space program, proclaiming that “this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before the decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the earth.” President Kennedy settled upon this dramatic goal as a means of focusing and mobilizing our lagging space efforts. He did not justify the needed expenditure on the basis of science and exploration, but placed the program clearly in the camp of the competing ideologies of democracy vs. communism.
    I stress the strength of our economy because it is essential to the strength of our nation. And what is true in our case is true in the case of other countries. Their strength in the struggle for freedom depends on the strength of their economic and their social progress. We would be badly mistaken to consider their problems in military terms alone. For no amount of arms and armies can help stabilize those governments which are unable or unwilling to achieve social and economic reform and development. Military pacts cannot help nations whose social injustice and economic chaos invite insurgency and penetration and subversion. The most skillful counter-guerrilla efforts cannot succeed where the local population is too caught up in its own misery to be concerned about the advance of communism.
    Military and economic assistance has been a heavy burden on our citizens for a long time, and I recognize the strong pressures against it; but this battle is far from over, it is reaching a crucial stage, and I believe we should participate in it. We cannot merely state our opposition to totalitarian advance without paying the price of helping those now under the greatest pressure. We cannot merely state our opposition to totalitarian advance without paying the price of helping those now under the greatest pressure.
    Finally, if we are to win the battle that is now going on around the world between freedom and tyranny, the dramatic achievements in space which occurred in recent weeks should have made clear to us all, as did the Sputnik in 1957, the impact of this adventure on the minds of men everywhere, who are attempting to make a determination of which road they should take. […] Now it is time to take longer strides — time for a great new American enterprise — time for this nation to take a clearly leading role in space achievement, which in many ways may hold the key to our future on earth. I believe we possess all the resources and talents necessary. But the facts of the matter are that we have never made the national decisions or marshaled the national resources required for such leadership. We have never specified long-range goals on an urgent time schedule, or managed our resources and our time so as to insure theft fulfillment.
    Recognizing the head start obtained by the Soviets with their large rocket engines, which gives them many months of lead-time, and recognizing the likelihood that they will exploit this lead for some time to come in still more impressive successes, we nevertheless are required to make new efforts on our own. For while we cannot guarantee that we shall one day be first, we can guarantee that any failure to make this effort will make us last. We take an additional risk by making it in full view of the world, but as shown by feat of astronaut Shepard, this very risk enhances our stature when we are successful. But this is not merely a race. Space is open to us now; and our eagerness to share its meaning is not governed by the efforts of others. We go into space because whatever mankind must undertake, free men must fully share.
    I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the earth. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind, or more important for the long-range exploration of space; and none will be so difficult or expensive to accomplish. We propose to accelerate the development of the appropriate lunar space craft. We propose to develop alternate liquid and solid fuel boosters, much larger than any now being developed, until certain which is superior. We propose additional funds for other engine development and for unmanned explorations — explorations which are particularly important for one purpose which this nation will never overlook: the survival of the man who first makes this daring flight. But in a very real sense, it will not be one man going to the moon — if we make this judgment affirmatively, it will be an entire nation. For all of us must work to put him there.
    Let it be clear — and this is a judgment which the Members of the Congress must finally make — let it be clear that I am asking the Congress and the country to accept a firm commitment to a new course of action — a course which will last for many years and carry very heavy costs: 531 million dollars in fiscal ’62 — an estimated seven to nine billion dollars additional over the next five years. If we are to go only half way, or reduce our sights in the face of difficulty, in my judgment it would be better not to go at all.
    I believe we should go to the moon. But I think every citizen of this country as well as the Members of the Congress should consider the matter carefully in making their judgment, to which we have given attention over many weeks and months, because it is a heavy burden, and there is no sense in agreeing or desiring that the United States take an affirmative position in outer space, unless we are prepared to do the work and bear the burdens to make it successful. If we are not, we should decide today and this year.
    This decision demands a major national commitment of scientific and technical manpower, materiel and facilities, and the possibility of their diversion from other important activities where they are already thinly spread. It means a degree of dedication, organization and discipline which have not always characterized our research and development efforts. It means we cannot afford undue work stoppages, inflated costs of material or talent, wasteful interagency rivalries, or a high turnover of key personnel. New objectives and new money cannot solve these problems. They could in fact, aggravate them further — unless every scientist, every engineer, every serviceman, every technician, contractor, and civil servant gives his personal pledge that this nation will move forward, with the full speed of freedom, in the exciting adventure of space.
    Berlin Crisis speech

    “Radio and Television Report to the American People on the Berlin Crisis” (25 July 1961); addressing the impending possibility of war between the United States and the Soviet Union (USSR) over the crisis in Berlin, Germany. In his speech the President addresses the Soviet Union’s attempts to cut off America’s access to West Berlin, thus making it impossible to secure freedom from communism for the people of Berlin. The President goes on to discuss the imminent threat of nuclear war and his plan to increase funding and manpower for the military, provide appropriate communications for air raid warnings, and ensure that all Americans have access to fall-out shelters should a nuclear holocaust occur.
    When I ran for Presidency of the United States, I knew that this country faced serious challenges, but I could not realize — nor could any man realize who does not bear the burdens of this office — how heavy and constant would be those burdens.
    We do not want to fight — but we have fought before. And others in earlier times have made the same dangerous mistake of assuming that the West was too selfish and too soft and too divided to resist invasions of freedom in other lands. Those who threaten to unleash the forces of war on a dispute over West Berlin should recall the words of the ancient philosopher: “A man who causes fear cannot be free from fear.”
    We do not intend to abandon our duty to mankind to seek a peaceful solution. As signers of the UN Charter, we shall always be prepared to discuss international problems with any and all nations that are willing to talk — and listen — with reason. If they have proposals — not demands — we shall hear them. If they seek genuine understanding — not concessions of our rights — we shall meet with them.
    The strength of the alliance on which our security depends is dependent in turn on our willingness to meet our commitments to them.
    We will at all times be ready to talk, if talk will help. But we must also be ready to resist with force, if force is used upon us. Either alone would fail. Together, they can serve the cause of freedom and peace.
    And as Americans know from our history on our own old frontier, gun battles are caused by outlaws, and not by officers of the peace.
    And if there is one path above all others to war, it is the path of weakness and disunity.
    Now, in the thermonuclear age, any misjudgment on either side about the intentions of the other could rain more devastation in several hours than has been wrought in all the wars of human history.
    The steps I have indicated tonight are aimed at avoiding that war. To sum it all up: we seek peace — but we shall not surrender. That is the central meaning of this crisis, and the meaning of your government’s policy. With your help, and the help of other free men, this crisis can be surmounted. Freedom can prevail and peace can endure.
    UN speech

    Mankind must put an end to war or war will put an end to mankind.

    The weapons of war must be abolished before they abolish us.

    Unless man can match his strides in weaponry and technology with equal strides in social and political development, our great strength, like that of the dinosaur, will become incapable of proper control — and like the dinosaur vanish from the earth.

    Together we shall save our planet, or together we shall perish in its flames.
    Address before the General Assembly of the United Nations (25 September 1961); this addresses the recent death of U.N. Secretary-General Dag Hammarskjold, presents six proposals for the new Disarmament Program, and provides information on the current crises in Berlin, Germany, Laos, and South Vietnam.
    We meet in an hour of grief and challenge. Dag Hammarskjold is dead. But the United Nations lives. His tragedy is deep in our hearts, but the task for which he died is at the top of our agenda. A noble servant of peace is gone. But the quest for peace lies before us.
    The problem is not the death of one man — the problem is the life of this organization. It will either grow to meet the challenges of our age, or it will be gone with the wind, without influence, without force, without respect. Were we to let it die, to enfeeble its vigor, to cripple its powers, we would condemn our future. For in the development of this organization rests the only true alternative to war — and war appeals no longer as a rational alternative. Unconditional war can no longer lead to unconditional victory. It can no longer serve to settle disputes. It can no longer concern the great powers alone. For a nuclear disaster, spread by wind and water and fear, could well engulf the great and the small, the rich and the poor, the committed and the uncommitted alike. Mankind must put an end to war — or war will put an end to mankind.
    So let us here resolve that Dag Hammarskjold did not live, or die, in vain. Let us call a truce to terror. Let us invoke the blessings of peace. And as we build an international capacity to keep peace, let us join in dismantling the national capacity to wage war.
    Disarmament without checks is but a shadow — and a community without law is but a shell.
    The great question which confronted this body in 1945 is still before us: whether man’s cherished hopes for progress and peace are to be destroyed by terror and disruption, whether the “foul winds of war” can be tamed in time to free the cooling winds of reason, and whether the pledges of our Charter are to be fulfilled or defied — pledges to secure peace, progress, human rights and world law.
    The Secretary General, in a very real sense, is the servant of the General Assembly. Diminish his authority and you diminish the authority of the only body where all nations, regardless of power, are equal and sovereign. Until all the powerful are just, the weak will be secure only in the strength of this Assembly.
    Today, every inhabitant of this planet must contemplate the day when this planet may no longer be habitable. Every man, woman and child lives under a nuclear sword of Damocles, hanging by the slenderest of threads, capable of being cut at any moment by accident, or miscalculation, or by madness. The weapons of war must be abolished before they abolish us.
    Men no longer debate whether armaments are a symptom or a cause of tension. The mere existence of modern weapons — ten million times more powerful than any that the world has ever seen, and only minutes away from any target on earth — is a source of horror, and discord and distrust. Men no longer maintain that disarmament must await the settlement of all disputes — for disarmament must be a part of any permanent settlement. And men may no longer pretend that the quest for disarmament is a sign of weakness — for in a spiraling arms race, a nation’s security may well be shrinking even as its arms increase.
    For fifteen years this organization has sought the reduction and destruction of arms. Now that goal is no longer a dream — it is a practical matter of life or death. The risks inherent in disarmament pale in comparison to the risks inherent in an unlimited arms race.
    In short, general and complete disarmament must no longer be a slogan, used to resist the first steps. It is no longer to be a goal without means of achieving it, without means of verifying its progress, without means of keeping the peace. It is now a realistic plan, and a test — a test of those only willing to talk and a test of those willing to act.
    Such a plan would not bring a world free from conflict and greed — but it would bring a world free from the terrors of mass destruction. It would not usher in the era of the super state — but it would usher in an era in which no state could annihilate or be annihilated by another.
    But to halt the spread of these terrible weapons, to halt the contamination of the air, to halt the spiraling nuclear arms race, we remain ready to seek new avenues of agreement, our new Disarmament Program thus includes the following proposals:
    First, signing the test-ban treaty by all nations. This can be done now. Test ban negotiations need not and should not await general disarmament.
    Second, stopping the production of fissionable materials for use in weapons, and preventing their transfer to any nation now lacking in nuclear weapons.
    Third, prohibiting the transfer of control over nuclear weapons to states that do not own them.
    Fourth, keeping nuclear weapons from seeding new battlegrounds in outer space.
    Fifth, gradually destroying existing nuclear weapons and converting their materials to peaceful uses; and
    Finally, halting the unlimited testing and production of strategic nuclear delivery vehicles, and gradually destroying them as well.
    But we are well aware that all issues of principle are not settled, and that principles alone are not enough. It is therefore our intention to challenge the Soviet Union, not to an arms race, but to a peace race- -to advance together step by step, stage by stage, until general and complete disarmament has been achieved. We invite them now to go beyond agreement in principle to reach agreement on actual plans.
    Peace is not solely a matter of military or technical problems — it is primarily a problem of politics and people. And unless man can match his strides in weaponry and technology with equal strides in social and political development, our great strength, like that of the dinosaur, will become incapable of proper control — and like the dinosaur vanish from the earth.
    Political sovereignty is but a mockery without the means of meeting poverty and illiteracy and disease. Self-determination is but a slogan if the future holds no hope.
    I do not ignore the remaining problems of traditional colonialism which still confront this body. Those problems will be solved, with patience, good will, and determination. Within the limits of our responsibility in such matters, my Country intends to be a participant and not merely an observer, in the peaceful, expeditious movement of nations from the status of colonies to the partnership of equals. That continuing tide of self-determination, which runs so strong, has our sympathy and our support. But colonialism in its harshest forms is not only the exploitation of new nations by old, of dark skins by light, or the subjugation of the poor by the rich. My Nation was once a colony, and we know what colonialism means; the exploitation and subjugation of the weak by the powerful, of the many by the few, of the governed who have given no consent to be governed, whatever their continent, their class, their color.
    For a city or a people to be truly free they must have the secure right, without economic, political or police pressure, to make their own choice and to live their own lives.
    The political disposition of peoples should rest upon their own wishes, freely expressed in plebiscites or free elections. If there are legal problems, they can be solved by legal means. If there is a threat of force, it must be rejected. If there is desire for change, it must be a subject for negotiation, and if there is negotiation, it must be rooted in mutual respect and concern for the rights of others.
    I pledge you that we will neither commit nor provoke aggression, that we shall neither flee nor invoke the threat of force, that we shall never negotiate out of fear, we shall never fear to negotiate.
    Terror is not a new weapon. Throughout history it has been used by those who could not prevail, either by persuasion or example. But inevitably they fail, either because men are not afraid to die for a life worth living, or because the terrorists themselves came to realize that free men cannot be frightened by threats, and that aggression would meet its own response. And it is in the light of that history that every nation today should know, be he friend or foe, that the United States has both the will and the weapons to join free men in standing up to their responsibilities.
    I come here today to look across this world of threats to a world of peace. In that search we cannot expect any final triumph — for new problems will always arise. We cannot expect that all nations will adopt like systems — for conformity is the jailor of freedom, and the enemy of growth. Nor can we expect to reach our goal by contrivance, by fiat or even by the wishes of all.
    But however close we sometimes seem to that dark and final abyss, let no man of peace and freedom despair. For he does not stand alone. If we all can persevere, if we can in every land and office look beyond our own shores and ambitions, then surely the age will dawn in which the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace preserved.
    Ladies and gentlemen of this Assembly, the decision is ours. Never have the nations of the world had so much to lose, or so much to gain. Together we shall save our planet, or together we shall perish in its flames. Save it we can — and save it we must — and then shall we earn the eternal thanks of mankind and, as peacemakers, the eternal blessing of God.
    Address at the University of Washington

    Address at the University of Washington’s 100th Anniversary Program (16 November 1961). As 1961 drew to an end, the United States and the Soviet Union were at the height of the Cold War, and Cuba and Berlin were hot spots. In April 1961, the United States Central Intelligence Agency had organized 1,400 armed Cuban exiles in a failed attempt to invade Cuba at the Bay of Pigs. On August 20, 1961, East Germany erected a five foot high concrete wall dividing East and West Berlin and on October 28, 1961, a tense, 16-hour face off occurred at the Berlin Wall between Soviet and American tanks. On August 31, 1961, the Soviet Union began conducting aboveground nuclear tests, detonating perhaps 15 bombs during September 1961. Local newspapers advised Seattleites on how to construct and stock personal nuclear fallout shelters. It was in this context that President John F. Kennedy arrived at Boeing Airport in Seattle, Washington on November 16, 1961 to deliver a major foreign policy speech at the University of Washington Centennial Convocation. In his speech President Kennedy discusses the creation of educational institutions through the Morrill Acts of 1862 and 1890. He also addresses the current state of American international relations, with emphasis on the challenges of defending freedom and maintaining peace as a world power. · “President John F. Kennedy’s University of Washington Speech” in Primary Sources: Workshops in American History Annenberg Media Learner.org

    The basis of self-government and freedom requires the development of character and self-restraint and perseverance and the long view. And these are qualities which require many years of training and education.

    For to save mankind’s future freedom, we must face up to any risk that is necessary. We will always seek peace — but we will never surrender.
    The basis of self-government and freedom requires the development of character and self-restraint and perseverance and the long view. And these are qualities which require many years of training and education.
    We increase our arms at a heavy cost, primarily to make certain that we will not have to use them. We must face up to the chance of war, if we are to maintain the peace. We must work with certain countries lacking in freedom in order to strengthen the cause of freedom. We find some who call themselves neutral who are our friends and sympathetic to us, and others who call themselves neutral who are unremittingly hostile to us. And as the most powerful defender of freedom on earth, we find ourselves unable to escape the responsibilities of freedom, and yet unable to exercise it without restraints imposed by the very freedoms we seek to protect.
    We cannot, as a free nation, compete with our adversaries in tactics of terror, assassination, false promises, counterfeit mobs and crises.
    We cannot, under the scrutiny of a free press and public, tell different stories to different audiences, foreign and domestic, friendly and hostile.
    We cannot abandon the slow processes of consulting with our allies to match the swift expediencies of those who merely dictate to their satellites.
    We can neither abandon nor control the international organization in which we now cast less than 1 percent of the vote in the General Assembly.
    We possess weapons of tremendous power — but they are least effective in combating the weapons most often used by freedom’s foes: subversion, infiltration, guerrilla warfare, civil disorder.
    We send arms to other peoples — just as we send them the ideals of democracy in which we believe — but we cannot send them the will to use those arms or to abide by those ideals.
    And while we believe not only in the force of arms but in the force of right and reason, we have learned that reason does not always appeal to unreasonable men — that it is not always true that “a soft answer turneth away wrath” — and that right does not always make might.
    In short, we must face problems which do not lend themselves to easy or quick or permanent solutions. And we must face the fact that the United States is neither omnipotent or omniscient — that we are only 6 percent of the world’s population — that we cannot impose our will upon the other 94 percent of mankind — that we cannot right every wrong or reverse each adversity — and that therefore there cannot be an American solution to every world problem.
    Also quoted in “Warrior for Peace” by David Talbot, in TIME (2 July 2007), p. 50
    These burdens and frustrations are accepted by most Americans with maturity and understanding. They may long for the days when war meant charging up San Juan Hill-or when our isolation was guarded by two oceans — or when the atomic bomb was ours alone — or when much of the industrialized world depended upon our resources and our aid. But they now know that those days are gone — and that gone with them are the old policies and the old complacency’s. And they know, too, that we must make the best of our new problems and our new opportunities, whatever the risk and the cost.
    But there are others who cannot bear the burden of a long twilight struggle. They lack confidence in our long-run capacity to survive and succeed. Hating communism, yet they see communism in the long run, perhaps, as the wave of the future. And they want some quick and easy and final and cheap solution — now.
    There are two groups of these frustrated citizens, far apart in their views yet very much alike in their approach. On the one hand are those who urge upon us what I regard to be the pathway of surrender-appeasing our enemies, compromising our commitments, purchasing peace at any price, disavowing our arms, our friends, our obligations. If their view had prevailed, the world of free choice would be smaller today.
    On the other hand are those who urge upon us what I regard to be the pathway of war: equating negotiations with appeasement and substituting rigidity for firmness. If their view had prevailed, we would be at war today, and in more than one place.
    It is a curious fact that each of these extreme opposites resembles the other. Each believes that we have only two choices: appeasement or war, suicide or surrender, humiliation or holocaust, to be either Red or dead. Each side sees only “hard” and “soft” nations, hard and soft policies, hard and soft men. Each believes that any departure from its own course inevitably leads to the other: one group believes that any peaceful solution means appeasement; the other believes that any arms build-up means war. One group regards everyone else as warmongers, the other regards everyone else as appeasers. Neither side admits that its path will lead to disaster — but neither can tell us how or where to draw the line once we descend the slippery slopes of appeasement or constant intervention.
    In short, while both extremes profess to be the true realists of our time, neither could be more unrealistic. While both claim to be doing the nation a service, they could do it no greater disservice. This kind of talk and easy solutions to difficult problems, if believed, could inspire a lack of confidence among our people when they must all — above all else — be united in recognizing the long and difficult days that lie ahead. It could inspire uncertainty among our allies when above all else they must be confident in us. And even more dangerously, it could, if believed, inspire doubt among our adversaries when they must above all be convinced that we will defend our vital interests.
    The essential fact that both of these groups fail to grasp is that diplomacy and defense are not substitutes for one another. Either alone would fail. A willingness to resist force, unaccompanied by a willingness to talk, could provoke belligerence — while a willingness to talk, unaccompanied by a willingness to resist force, could invite disaster.
    But as long as we know what comprises our vital interests and our long-range goals, we have nothing to fear from negotiations at the appropriate time, and nothing to gain by refusing to take part in them. At a time when a single clash could escalate overnight into a holocaust of mushroom clouds, a great power does not prove its firmness by leaving the task of exploring the other’s intentions to sentries or those without full responsibility. Nor can ultimate weapons rightfully be employed, or the ultimate sacrifice rightfully demanded of our citizens, until every reasonable solution has been explored. “How many wars,” Winston Churchill has written, “have been averted by patience and persisting good will! …. How many wars have been precipitated by firebrands!”
    If vital interests under duress can be preserved by peaceful means, negotiations will find that out. If our adversary will accept nothing-less than a concession of our rights, negotiations will find that out. And if negotiations are to take place, this nation cannot abdicate to its adversaries the task of choosing the forum and the framework and the time.
    No one should be under the illusion that negotiations for the sake of negotiations always advance the cause of peace. If for lack of preparation they break up in bitterness, the prospects of peace have been endangered. If they are made a forum for propaganda or a cover for aggression, the processes of peace have been abused. But it is a test of our national maturity to accept the fact that negotiations are not a contest spelling victory or defeat. They may succeed — they may fail. They are likely to be successful only if both sides reach an agreement which both regard as preferable to the status quo — an agreement in which each side can consider its own situation to be improved. And this is most difficult to obtain. But, while we shall negotiate freely, we shall not negotiate freedom. Our answer to the classic question of Patrick Henry is still no-life is not so dear, and peace is not so precious, “as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery.” And that is our answer even though, for the first time since the ancient battles between Greek city-states, war entails the threat of total annihilation, of everything we know, of society itself. For to save mankind’s future freedom, we must face up to any risk that is necessary. We will always seek peace — but we will never surrender.
    In short, we are neither “warmongers” nor “appeasers,” neither “hard” nor “soft.” We are Americans, determined to defend the frontiers of freedom, by an honorable peace if peace is possible, but by arms if arms are used against us. And if we are to move forward in that spirit, we shall need all the calm and thoughtful citizens that this great University can produce, all the light they can shed, all the wisdom they can bring to bear. It is customary, both here and around the world, to regard life in the United States as easy. Our advantages are many. But more than any other people on earth, we bear burdens and accept risks unprecedented in their size and their duration, not for ourselves alone but for all who wish to be free.
    1962

    The world was not meant to be a prison in which man awaits his execution.

    We sometimes chafe at the burden of our obligations, the complexity of our decisions, the agony of our choices. But there is no comfort or security for us in evasion, no solution in abdication, no relief in irresponsibility.

    Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.

    A nation that is afraid to let its people judge the truth and falsehood in an open market is a nation that is afraid of its people.

    What really counts is not the immediate act of courage or of valor, but those who bear the struggle day in and day out — not the sunshine patriots but those who are willing to stand for a long period of time.

    There is such a difference between those who advise or speak or legislate, and between the man who must select from the various alternatives proposed and say that this shall be the policy of the United States. It is much easier to make the speeches than it is to finally make the judgments.
    The success of this Government, and thus the success of our Nation, depends in the last analysis upon the quality of our career services. The legislation enacted by the Congress, as well as the decisions made by me and by the department and agency heads, must all be implemented by the career men and women in the Federal service. In foreign affairs, national defense, science and technology, and a host of other fields, they face problems of unprecedented importance and perplexity. We are all dependent on their sense of loyalty and responsibility as well as their competence and energy.”
    “Special Message to the Congress on Federal Pay Reform (55)” (20 February 1962)
    We welcome the views of others. We seek a free flow of information across national boundaries and oceans, across iron curtains and stone walls. We are not afraid to entrust the American people with unpleasant facts, foreign ideas, alien philosophies, and competitive values. For a nation that is afraid to let its people judge the truth and falsehood in an open market is a nation that is afraid of its people.
    John F. Kennedy: “Remarks on the 20th Anniversary of the Voice of America” (26 February 1962)
    For one true measure of a nation is its success in fulfilling the promise of a better life for each of its members. Let this be the measure of our nation.
    Special message to the Congress on National Health Needs (65)” (27 February 1962)
    Our deep spiritual confidence that this nation will survive the perils of today — which may well be with us for decades to come — compels us to invest in our nation’s future, to consider and meet our obligations to our children and the numberless generations that will follow.
    “Special message to the Congress on Conservation (69)” (1 March 1962)
    …what really counts is not the immediate act of courage or of valor, but those who bear the struggle day in and day out — not the sunshine patriots but those who are willing to stand for a long period of time.
    “Remarks at the White House to Members of the American Legion (70)” (1 March 1962)
    …there is always inequity in life. Some men are killed in a war and some men are wounded, and some men never leave the country, and some men are stationed in the Antarctic and some are stationed in San Francisco. It’s very hard in the military or personal life to assure complete equality. Life is unfair.
    [http://www.jfklibrary.org/Research/Research-Aids/Ready-Reference/JFK-Quotations.aspx “President’s News Conference (107)” (21 March 1962)
    And Prince Bismack was even more specific. One third, he said, of the students of German universities broke down from overwork, another third broked down from dissipation, and the other third ruled Germany.
    “Address in Berkeley at the University of California (109)” (23 March 1962)
    The green beret’ is again becoming a symbol of excellence, a badge of courage, a mark of distinction in the fight for freedom. I know the United States Army will live up to its reputation for imagination, resourcefulness, and spirit as we meet this challenge.
    “Letter to the United States Army” (11 April 1962); Box 5, President’s Outgoing Executive Correspondence, White House Central Chronological Files, Papers of John F. Kennedy, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    I think it is most appropriate that the President of the United States, whose business place is in Washington, should come to this city and participate in these rallies. Because the business of the Government is the business of the people — and the people are right here.
    Speech at Madison Square Garden in New York City to support his program of “medical care for the aged.” (20 May 1962)[1][2]
    The great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie — deliberate, contrived and dishonest — but the myth — persistent, persuasive, and unrealistic. Too often we hold fast to the cliches of our forebears. We subject all facts to a prefabricated set of interpretations. We enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought.
    Commencement address, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut (11 June 1962) [3]
    Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.
    Address to Latin American diplomats at the White House (13 March 1962) [4]
    I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered together at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.
    Address at a White House dinner honoring Nobel Prize winners (29 April 1962), quoted in The White House Diary, at the JFK Library
    While geography has made us neighbors, tradition has made us friends. Economics has made us partners. And necessity has made us allies — in a vast Alianza para el Progreso. Those whom nature has so joined together, let no man put asunder.
    [http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ws/index.php?pid=8741&st=&st1= Address by the President at a Luncheon Given in His Honor by President Lopez Matcos (29 June 1962)
    I have seen in many places housing which has been developed under government influences, but I have never seen any projects in which governments have played their part which have fountains and statues and grass and trees, which are as important to the concept of the home as the roof itself.”
    Remarks at the Unidad Independencia Housing Project, City of Mexico (269)” (30 June 1962)
    It’s only when they join together in a forward movement that this country moves ahead…
    “Remarks at Los Banos, CA at the Groundbreaking Ceremonies for the San Luis Dam (337)” (18 August 1962)
    I really don’t know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it’s because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it’s because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea — whether it is to sail or to watch it — we are going back from whence we came.”
    “Remarks in Newport at the Australian Ambassador’s Dinner for the America’s Cup Crews (383)” (14 September 1962)
    All students, members of the faculty, and public officials in both Mississippi and the Nation will be able, it is hoped, to return to their normal activities with full confidence in the integrity of American law. This is as it should be, for our Nation is founded on the principle that observance of the law is the eternal safeguard of liberty and defiance of the law is the surest road to tyranny. The law which we obey includes the final rulings of the courts, as well as the enactments of our legislative bodies. Even among law-abiding men few laws are universally loved, but they are uniformly respected and not resisted. Americans are free, in short, to disagree with the law but not to disobey it. For in a government of laws and not of men, no man, however prominent or powerful, and no mob however unruly or boisterous, is entitled to defy a court of law. If this country should ever reach the point where any man or group of men by force or threat of force could long defy the commands of our court and our Constitution, then no law would stand free from doubt, no judge would be sure of his writ, and no citizen would be safe from his neighbors.
    Radio and Television Report to the Nation on the Situation at the University of Mississippi (30 September 1962)]
    In 1945 a Mississippi sergeant, Jake Lindsey, was honored by an unusual joint session of the Congress. I close therefore, with this appeal to the students of the University, the people who are most concerned. You have a great tradition to uphold, a tradition of honor and courage won on the field of battle and on the gridiron as well as the University campus. You have a new opportunity to show that you are men of patriotism and integrity. For the most effective means of upholding the law is not the State policeman or the marshals or the National Guard. It is you. It lies in your courage to accept those laws with which you disagree as well as those with which you agree.
    Radio and Television Report to the Nation on the Situation at the University of Mississippi (30 September 1962)
    Bullfight critics row on row
    Fill the enormous Plaza de toros
    But only one is there who knows
    And he is the one who fights the bull.
    Slightly misquoting Domingo Ortega, as translated by the English poet Robert Graves), in remarks during a Presidential Backgrounder before the National Foreign Policy Conference for Editors and Radio-TV Public Affairs Broadcasters (16 October 1962)]; “Presidential Backgrounder 16 October 1962 #50,” Box 134, Classified Background Briefing Material Series, Pierre Salinger Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    The original poem: Bullfight critics ranked in rows
    Crowd the enormous Plaza full
    But only one is there who knows
    And he’s the man who fights the bull.
    I am certain that after the dust of centuries has passed over our cities, we, too, will be remembered not for victories or defeats in battle or in politics, but for our contribution to the human spirit.
    “Remarks at a Closed-circuit Television Broadcast on Behalf of the National Cultural Center (527)” (29 November 1962)
    It is increasingly clear that no matter what party is in power, so long as our national security needs keep rising, an economy hampered by restrictive tax rates will never produce enough jobs or enough profits.
    “Address and Question and Answer Period at the Economic Club of New York (549)” (14 December 1962)
    If the economy of today were operating close to capacity levels with little unemployment, or if a sudden change in our military requirements should cause a scramble for men and resources, then I would oppose tax reductions as irresponsible and inflationary; and I would not hesitate to recommend a tax increase if that were necessary.
    “Address and Question and Answer Period at the Economic Club of New York (549)” (14 December 1962)
    There is a limitation, in other words, upon the power of the United States to bring about solutions. I think our people get awfully impatient and maybe fatigued and tired, and saying “We have been carrying this burden for 17 years; can we lay it down?” We can’t lay it down, and I don’t see how we are going to lay it down in this century. So that I would say that the problems are more difficult than I had imagined them to be. The responsibilities placed on the United States are greater than I imagined them to be, and there are greater limitations upon our ability to bring about a favorable result than I had imagined them to be. And I think that is probably true of anyone who becomes President, because there is such a difference between those who advise or speak or legislate, and between the man who must select from the various alternatives proposed and say that this shall be the policy of the United States. It is much easier to make the speeches than it is to finally make the judgments, because unfortunately your advisers are frequently divided. If you take the wrong course, and on occasion I have, the President bears the burden of the responsibility quite rightly. The advisers may move on to new advice.
    John F. Kennedy: “Television and Radio Interview: “After Two Years — a Conversation With the President” (17 December 1962)
    To further the appreciation of culture among all the people, to increase respect for the creative individual, to widen participation by all the processes and fulfillments of art — this is one of the fascinating challenges of these days.
    “The Arts in America” in LOOK magazine (18 December 1962), p. 110; also reported in Public Papers of the Presidents of the United States: John F. Kennedy, 1962, p. 907 and inscribed on the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Washington, D.C.
    Too often in the past, we have thought of the artist as an idler and dilettante and of the lover of arts as somehow sissy and effete. We have done both an injustice. The life of the artist is, in relation to his work, stern and lonely. He has labored hard, often amid deprivation, to perfect his skill. He has turned aside from quick success in order to strip his vision of everything secondary or cheapening. His working life is marked by intense application and intense discipline.
    “LOOK Magazine Article ‘The Arts in America’ (552)” (18 December 1962)
    The life of the arts, far from being an interruption, a distraction, in the life of a nation, is very close to the center of a nation’s purpose…and is a test of the quality of a nation’s civilization.
    “LOOK Magazine Article ‘The Arts in America’ (552)” (18 December 1962); also inscribed at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Washington, D.C.
    Second State of the Union Address

    Second State of the Union Address (11 January 1962)
    Members of the Congress, the Constitution makes us not rivals for power but partners for progress. We are all trustees for the American people, custodians of the American heritage. It is my task to report the State of the Union — to improve it is the task of us all.
    The time to repair the roof is when the sun is shining — by filling three basic gaps in our anti-recession protection.
    World order will be secured only when the whole world has laid down these weapons which seem to offer us present security but threaten the future survival of the human race. That armistice day seems very far away. The vast resources of this planet are being devoted more and more to the means of destroying, instead of enriching, human life.
    But the world was not meant to be a prison in which man awaits his execution. Nor has mankind survived the tests and trials of thousands of years to surrender everything — including its existence — now. This Nation has the will and the faith to make a supreme effort to break the log jam on disarmament and nuclear tests — and we will persist until we prevail, until the rule of law has replaced the ever dangerous use of force.
    These various elements in our foreign policy lead, as I have said, to a single goal — the goal of a peaceful world of free and independent states. This is our guide for the present and our vision for the future — a free community of nations, independent but interdependent, uniting north and south, east and west, in one great family of man, outgrowing and transcending the hates and fears that rend our age.
    We will not reach that goal today, or tomorrow. We may not reach it in our own lifetime. But the quest is the greatest adventure of our century. We sometimes chafe at the burden of our obligations, the complexity of our decisions, the agony of our choices. But there is no comfort or security for us in evasion, no solution in abdication, no relief in irresponsibility.
    Address at Independence Hall

    Address at Independence Hall by John F. Kennedy in Independence Square at Independence Hall in Philadelphia (4 July 1962). In his speech President Kennedy praises the American democratic system which encourages differences and allows for dissent, discusses the enduring relevance of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, and addresses the role of the United States in relation to the emerging European Community.
    The necessity for comity between the National Government and the several States is an indelible lesson of our long history. Because our system is designed to encourage both differences and dissent, because its checks and balances are designed to preserve the rights of the individual and the locality against preeminent central authority, you and I, Governors, recognize how dependent we both are, one upon the other, for the successful operation of our unique and happy form of government. Our system and our freedom permit the legislative to be pitted against the executive, the State against the Federal Government, the city against the countryside, party against party, interest against interest, all in competition or in contention one with another. Our task — your task in the State House and my task in the White House — is to weave from all these tangled threads a fabric of law and progress. We are not permitted the luxury of irresolution. Others may confine themselves to debate, discussion, and that ultimate luxury — free advice. Our responsibility is one of decision — for to govern is to choose.
    The theory of independence is as old as man himself, and it was not invented in this hall. But it was in this hall that the theory became a practice; that the word went out to all, in Thomas Jefferson’s phrase, that “the God who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time.” And today this Nation — conceived in revolution, nurtured in liberty, maturing in independence — has no intention of abdicating its leadership in that worldwide movement for independence to any nation or society committed to systematic human oppression.
    As apt and applicable as the Declaration of Independence is today, we would do well to honor that other historic document drafted in this hall — the Constitution of the United States. For it stressed not independence but interdependence — not the individual liberty of one but the indivisible liberty of all.
    A great new edifice is not built overnight. It was 11 years from the Declaration of Independence to the writing of the Constitution. The construction of workable federal institutions required still another generation. The greatest works of our Nation’s founders lay not in documents and in declarations, but in creative, determined action. The building of the new house of Europe has followed the same practical, purposeful course. Building the Atlantic partnership now will not be easily or cheaply finished.
    In most of the old colonial world, the struggle for independence is coming to an end. Even in areas behind the Curtain, that which Jefferson called “the disease of liberty” still appears to be infectious. With the passing of ancient empires, today less than 2 percent of the world’s population lives in territories officially termed “dependent.” As this effort for independence, inspired by the American Declaration of Independence, now approaches a successful close, a great new effort — for interdependence — is transforming the world about us. And the spirit of that new effort is the same spirit which gave birth to the American Constitution. That spirit is today most clearly seen across the Atlantic Ocean. The nations of Western Europe, long divided by feuds far more bitter than any which existed among the 13 colonies, are today joining together, seeking, as our forefathers sought, to find freedom in diversity and in unity, strength.
    Acting on our own, by ourselves, we cannot establish justice throughout the world; we cannot insure its domestic tranquility, or provide for its common defense, or promote its general welfare, or secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity. But joined with other free nations, we can do all this and more. We can assist the developing nations to throw off the yoke of poverty. We can balance our worldwide trade and payments at the highest possible level of growth. We can mount a deterrent powerful enough to deter any aggression. And ultimately we can help to achieve a world of law and free choice, banishing the world of war and coercion.
    On this fourth day of July, 1962, we who are gathered at this same hall, entrusted with the fate and future of our States and Nation, declare now our vow to do our part to lift the weights from the shoulders of all, to join other men and nations in preserving both peace and freedom, and to regard any threat to the peace or freedom of one as a threat to the peace and freedom of all.
    Rice University speech

    The exploration of space will go ahead, whether we join in it or not, and it is one of the great adventures of all time, and no nation which expects to be the leader of other nations can expect to stay behind in this race for space.

    We have vowed that we shall not see space filled with weapons of mass destruction, but with instruments of knowledge and understanding.
    Address at Rice University on the Nation’s Space Effort, Houston, TX (12 September 1962); addresses the necessity for the United States to become an international leader in space exploration and famously states, “We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.”
    The greater our knowledge increases the greater our ignorance unfolds.
    No man can fully grasp how far and how fast we have come, but condense, if you will, the 50 thousand years of man’s recorded history in a time span of but a half-century. Stated in these terms, we know very little about the first 40 years, except at the end of them advanced man had learned to use the skins of animals to cover them. Then about 10 years ago, under this standard, man emerged from his caves to construct other kinds of shelter. Only five years ago man learned to write and use a cart with wheels. Christianity began less than two years ago. The printing press came this year, and then less than two months ago, during this whole 50-year span of human history, the steam engine provided a new source of power. Newton explored the meaning of gravity. Last month electric lights and telephones and automobiles and airplanes became available. Only last week did we develop penicillin and television and nuclear power, and now if America’s new spacecraft succeeds in reaching Venus, we will have literally reached the stars before midnight tonight.
    This is a breathtaking pace, and such a pace cannot help but create new ills as it dispels old, new ignorance, new problems, new dangers. Surely the opening vistas of space promise high costs and hardships, as well as high reward.
    So it is not surprising that some would have us stay where we are a little longer to rest, to wait. But this city of Houston, this state of Texas, this country of the United States was not built by those who waited and rested and wished to look behind them. This country was conquered by those who moved forward — and so will space.
    If this capsule history of our progress teaches us anything, it is that man, in his quest for knowledge and progress, is determined and cannot be deterred. The exploration of space will go ahead, whether we join in it or not, and it is one of the great adventures of all time, and no nation which expects to be the leader of other nations can expect to stay behind in this race for space.
    Those who came before us made certain that this country rode the first waves of the industrial revolution, the first waves of modern invention, and the first wave of nuclear power, and this generation does not intend to founder in the backwash of the coming age of space. We mean to be a part of it — we mean to lead it. For the eyes of the world now look into space, to the moon and to the planets beyond, and we have vowed that we shall not see it governed by a hostile flag of conquest, but by a banner of freedom and peace. We have vowed that we shall not see space filled with weapons of mass destruction, but with instruments of knowledge and understanding.
    Yet the vows of this Nation can only be fulfilled if we in this Nation are first, and, therefore, we intend to be first. In short, our leadership in science and industry, our hopes for peace and security, our obligations to ourselves as well as others, all require us to make this effort, to solve these mysteries, to solve them for the good of all men, and to become the world’s leading space-faring nation.
    We set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people. For space science, like nuclear science and all technology, has no conscience of its own. Whether it will become a force for good or ill depends on man, and only if the United States occupies a position of pre-eminence can we help decide whether this new ocean will be a sea of peace or a new terrifying theater of war. I do not say that we should or will go unprotected against the hostile misuse of space any more than we go unprotected against the hostile use of land or sea, but I do say that space can be explored and mastered without feeding the fires of war, without repeating the mistakes that man has made in extending his writ around this globe of ours.
    There is no strife, no prejudice, no national conflict in outer space as yet. Its hazards are hostile to us all. Its conquest deserves the best of all mankind, and its opportunity for peaceful cooperation many never come again.
    We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too.
    We have had our failures, but so have others, even if they do not admit them. And they may be less public.
    The growth of our science and education will be enriched by new knowledge of our universe and environment, by new techniques of learning and mapping and observation, by new tools and computers for industry, medicine, the home as well as the school. Technical institutions, such as Rice, will reap the harvest of these gains. And finally, the space effort itself, while still in its infancy, has already created a great number of new companies, and tens of thousands of new jobs. Space and related industries are generating new demands in investment and skilled personnel, and this city and this state, and this region, will share greatly in this growth.
    Many years ago the great British explorer George Mallory, who was to die on Mount Everest, was asked why did he want to climb it. He said, “Because it is there.” Well, space is there, and we’re going to climb it, and the moon and the planets are there, and new hopes for knowledge and peace are there. And, therefore, as we set sail we ask God’s blessing on the most hazardous and dangerous and greatest adventure on which man has ever embarked.
    Cuban Missile Crisis speech

    Radio and televison address about the Cuban missile crisis (22 October 1962). This reports on the establishment of offensive missile sites presumably intended to launch a nuclear offensive against Western nations. The President characterizes the transformation of Cuba into an important strategic base as an explicit threat to American security, and explains seven components to his proposed course of action: quarantine all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba, increase the degree of surveillance, regard a possible attack launched from Cuba as a Soviet attack, reinforce the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, call for a meeting of the Organ of Consultation, call for an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council, and demand that Premier Nikita Khrushchev cease his current course of action.
    Neither the United States of America nor the world community of nations can tolerate deliberate deception and offensive threats on the part of any nation, large or small. We no longer live in a world where only the actual firing of weapons represents a sufficient challenge to a nation’s security to constitute maximum peril. Nuclear weapons are so destructive and ballistic missiles are so swift, that any substantially increased possibility of their use or any sudden change in their deployment may well be regarded as a definite threat to peace.
    The 1930’s taught us a clear lesson: aggressive conduct, if allowed to go unchecked and unchallenged ultimately leads to war.
    We will not prematurely or unnecessarily risk the costs of a worldwide nuclear war in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth — but neither shall we shrink from that risk any time it must be faced.
    The path we have chosen for the present is full of hazards, as all paths are; but it is one of the most consistent with our character and our courage as a nation and our commitments around the world. The cost of freedom is always high — but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and this is the path of surrender or submission. Our goal is not victory of might but the vindication of right — not peace at the expense of freedom, but both peace and freedom, here in this hemisphere and, we hope, around the world. God willing, that goal will be achieved. Thank you, and good night.
    First letter to Nikita Khrushchev

    JFK points out that the U.S. is pursuing a “minimum response” but will do whatever is necessary to assure its security.(22 October 1962)
    A copy of the statement I am making tonight concerning developments in Cuba and the reaction of my Government thereto has been handed to your Ambassador in Washington. In view of the gravity of the developments to which I refer, I want you to know immediately and accurately the position of my Government in this matter.
    In our discussions and exchanges on Berlin and other international questions, the one thing that has most concerned me has been the possibility that your Government would not correctly understand the will and determination of the United States in any given situation, since I have not assumed that you or any other sane man would, in this nuclear age, deliberately plunge the world into war which it is crystal clear no country could win and which could only result in catastrophic consequences to the whole world, including the aggressor.
    At our meeting in Vienna and subsequently, I expressed our readiness and desire to find, through peaceful negotiation, a solution to any and all problems that divide us. At the same time. I made clear that in view of the objectives of the ideology to which you adhere, the United States could not tolerate any action on your part which in a major way disturbed the existing over-all balance of power in the world. I stated that an attempt to force abandonment of our responsibilities and commitments in Berlin would constitute such an action and that the United States would resist with all the power at its command.
    It was in order to avoid any incorrect assessment on the part of your Government with respect to Cuba that I publicly stated that if certain developments in Cuba took place, the United States would do whatever must be done to protect its own security and that of its allies.
    Moreover, the Congress adopted a resolution expressing its support of this declared policy. Despite this, the rapid development of long-range missile bases and other offensive weapons systems in Cuba has proceeded. I must tell you that the United States is determined that this threat to the security of this hemisphere be removed. At the same time, I wish to point out that the action we are taking is the minimum necessary to remove the threat to the security of the nations of this hemisphere. The fact of this minimum response should not be taken as a basis, however, for any misjudgment on your part.
    I hope that your Government will refrain from any action which would widen or deepen this already grave crisis and that we can agree to resume the path of peaceful negotiation.
    Second Letter to Nikita Khrushchev

    This is a response from Kennedy to Nikita Khrushchev reassuring the Soviets that the U.S. would not invade Cuba. President Kennedy responded to the requests of Khrushchev’s first letter to him, disregarding the second letter. Upon agreement of these letters, the Missile Crisis was over (27 October 1962)
    I have read your letter of October 26th with great care and welcomed the statement of your desire to seek a prompt solution to the problem. The first thing that needs to be done, however, is for work to cease on offensive missile bases on Cuba and for all weapons systems in Cuba capable of offensive use to be rendered inoperable, under effective United Nations arrangements.
    Assuming this is done promptly, I have given my representatives in New York instructions that will permit them to work out this weekend — in cooperation with the Acting Secretary General and your representative — an arrangement for a permanent solution to the Cuban problem along the lines suggested in your letter of October 26th. As I read your letter, the key elements of your proposals — which seem generally acceptable as I understand them — are as follows:
    1) You would agree to remove these weapons systems from Cuba under appropriate United Nations observation and supervision; and undertake, with suitable safeguards, to halt the further introduction of such weapons systems into Cuba.
    2) We, on our part, would agree — upon the establishment of adequate arrangements through the United Nations to ensure the carrying out and continuation of these commitments — (a) to remove promptly the quarantine measures now in effect and (b) to give assurances against an invasion of Cuba. I am confident that other nations of the Western Hemisphere would be prepared to do likewise.
    If you will give your representative similar instructions, there is no reason why we should not be able to complete these arrangements and announce them to the world within a couple of days. The effect of such a settlement on easing world tensions would enable us to work toward a more general arrangement regarding “other armaments,” as proposed in your second letter which you made public. I would like to say again that the United States is very much interested in reducing tensions and halting the arms race; and if your letter signifies that you are prepared to discuss a detente affecting NATO and the Warsaw Pact, we are quite prepared to consider with our allies any useful proposals.
    But the first ingredient, let me emphasize, is the cessation of work on missile sites on Cuba and measures to render such weapons inoperable, under effective international guarantees. The continuations of this threat, or prolonging of this discussion concerning Cuba by linking these problems to the broader questions of European and world security, would surely lead to the peace of the world. For this reason I hope we can quickly agree along the lines outlined in this letter of October 26th.
    1963

    Dante once said that the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a period of moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.

    As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words but to live by them.

    The problems of the world cannot possibly be solved by skeptics or cynics whose horizons are limited by the obvious realities. We need men who can dream of things that never were and ask “why not?”.
    A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on. Ideas have endurance without death.
    Remarks Recorded for the Opening of a USIA Transmitter at Greenville, North Carolina (8 February 1963) Audio at JFK Library (01:29 – 01:40) · Text of speech at The American Presidency Project
    This increase in the life span and in the number of our senior citizens presents this Nation with increased opportunities: the opportunity to draw upon their skill and sagacity — and the opportunity to provide the respect and recognition they have earned. It is not enough for a great nation merely to have added new years to life — our objective must also be to add new life to those years.
    Special message to the Congress on the needs of the nation’s senior citizens (21 February 1963); in Public Papers of the Presidents of the United States: John F. Kennedy, 1963, p. 189
    With all of the history of war, and the human race’s history unfortunately has been a good deal more war than peace, with nuclear weapons distributed all through the world, and available, and the strong reluctance of any people to accept defeat, I see the possibility in the 1970’s of the President of the United States having to face a world in which 15 or 20 or 25 nations may have these weapons.”
    The President’s News Conference (107)” (21 March 1963)
    “…we must think and act not only for the moment but for our time. I am reminded of the story of the great French Marshal Lyautey, who once asked his gardener to plant a tree. The gardener objected that the tree was slow-growing and would not reach maturity for a hundred years. The Marshal replied, ‘In that case, there is no time to lose, plant it this afternoon.’”
    [http://www.jfklibrary.org/Research/Research-Aids/Ready-Reference/JFK-Quotations.aspx “Address in Berkeley at the University of California (109)” (23 March 1962)
    I think when we talk about corporal punishment, and we have to think about our own children, and we are rather reluctant, it seems to me, to have other people administering punishment to our own children, because we are reluctant, it puts a special obligation on us to maintain order and to send children out from our homes who accept the idea of discipline. So I would not be for corporal punishment in the school, but I would be for very strong discipline at home so we don’t place an unfair burden on our teachers.
    News Conference 56 (22 May 1963)
    “O God, thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.”
    “Remarks in New York City at the Dedication of the East Coast Memorial to the Missing at Sea (203)” (23 May 1963) Quoting an old Breton fishermen’s prayer that Admiral Rickover had inscribed on plaques that he gave to newly commissioned submarine captains. Rickover presented President Kennedy with one of these plaques, which sat on his desk in the Oval Office.
    No country can possibly move ahead, no free society can possibly be sustained, unless it has an educated citizenry whose qualities of mind and heart permit it to take part in the complicated and increasingly sophisticated decisions that pour not only upon the President and upon the Congress, but upon all the citizens who exercise the ultimate power…Quite obviously, there is a higher purpose, and that is the hope that you will turn to the service of the State the scholarship, the education, the qualities which society has helped develop in you; that you will render on the community level, or on the state level, or on the national level, or render on the community level, or on the state level, or on the national level, or the international level a contribution to the maintenance of freedom and peace and the security of our country and those associated with it in a most critical time.
    “Commencement Address at San Diego State College (226)” (6 June 1963)
    This Nation was founded by men of many nations and backgrounds. It was founded on the principle that all men are created equal, and that the rights of every man are diminished when the rights of one man are threatened.
    Radio and television report to the American people on civil rights (11 June 1963)]
    Dante once said that the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a period of moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.
    At the signing of a charter establishing the German Peace Corps, Bonn, West Germany (24 June 1963);
    according to the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum President Kennedy got his facts wrong. Dante never made this statement. The closest to what President Kennedy meant is in the Inferno where the souls in the ante-room of hell, who “lived without disgrace and without praise,” and the coward angels, who did not rebel but did not resist the cohorts of Lucifer, are condemned to being whirled through the air by great winds while being stung by wasps and horseflies. Dante placed those who “non furon ribelli né fur fedeli” — were neither for nor against God, in a special region near the mouth of Hell; the lowest part of Hell, a lake of ice, was for traitors. According to Bartleby.com Kennedy’s remark may have been inspired by the passage from Dante Alighieri’s La Comedia Divina “Inferno,” canto 3, lines 35–42 (1972) passage as translated by Geoffrey L. Bickersteth: “by those disbodied wretches who were loth when living, to be either blamed or praised. […] Fear to lose beauty caused the heavens to expel these caitiffs; nor, lest to the damned they theng ave cause to boast, receives them the deep hell.” A more modern-sounding translation from the foregoing Dante’s Inferno passage was translataed 1971 by Mark Musa thus: “They are mixed with that repulsive choir of angels … undecided in neutrality. Heaven, to keep its beauty, cast them out, but even Hell itself would not receive them for fear the wicked there might glory over them.”
    There are those who regard this history of past strife and exile as better forgotten. But, to use the phrase of Yeats, let us not casually reduce “that great past to a trouble of fools.” For we need not feel the bitterness of the past to discover its meaning for the present and the future.
    Speech to a joint session of the Dail and the Seanad, Dublin, Ireland (28 June 1963)
    The world is even smaller today, though the enemy of John Boyle O’Reilly is no longer a hostile power. Indeed, across the gulfs and barriers that now divide us, we must remember that there are no permanent enemies. Hostility today is a fact, but it is not a ruling law. The supreme reality of our time is our indivisibility as children of God and our common vulnerability on this planet.
    Speech to a joint session of the Dail and the Seanad, Dublin, Ireland (28 June 1963)
    The problems of the world cannot possibly be solved by skeptics or cynics whose horizons are limited by the obvious realities. We need men who can dream of things that never were and ask “why not?”.
    Speech delivered to the Dail (Parliament of Ireland) (28 June 1963)
    The peace-keeping machinery of the United Nations cannot work without the help of the smaller nations, nations whose forces threaten no one and whose forces can thus help create a world in which no nation is threatened. Great powers have their responsibilities and their burdens, but the smaller nations of the world must fulfill their obligations as well.
    Speech to a joint session of the Dail and the Seanad, Dublin, Ireland (28 June 1963)
    Five score years ago the ground on which we here stand shuddered under the clash of arms and was consecrated for all time by the blood of American manhood. Abraham Lincoln, in dedicating this great battlefield, has expressed, in words too eloquent for paraphrase or summary, why this sacrifice was necessary. Today, we meet not to add to his words nor to amend his sentiment but to recapture the feeling of awe that comes when contemplating a memorial to so many who placed their lives at hazard for right, as God gave them to see right. Among those who fought here were young men who but a short time before were pursuing truth in the peaceful halls of the then new University of Notre Dame. Since that time men of Notre Dame have proven, on a hundred battlefields, that the words, “For God, For Country, and For Notre Dame,” are full of meaning. Let us pray that God may grant us the wisdom to find and to follow a path that will enable the men of Notre Dame and all of our young men to seek truth in the halls of study rather than on the field of battle.”
    “Message from the President on the Occasion of Field Mass at Gettysburg, delivered by John S. Gleason, Jr.” (29 June 1963); Box 10, President’s Outgoing Executive Correspondence, White House Central Chronological Files, Papers of John F. Kennedy, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
    I must say that though other days may not be so bright, as we look toward the future, that the brightest days will continue to be those we spent with you here in Ireland.
    Speech at Eyre Square, Galway, Ireland (29 June 1963)
    This is not the land of my birth, but it is the land for which I hold the greatest affection, and I certainly will come back in the springtime
    Speech at Limerick, Ireland (29 June 1963)
    Communism has sometimes succeeded as a scavenger, but never as a leader. It has never come to power in a country that was not disrupted by war or corruption, or both.
    Speech at NATO Headquarters, Naples Italy (2 July 1963)
    Children are the world’s most valuable resource and its best hope for the future.
    Re: United States Committee for UNICEF (25 July 1963); Box 11, President’s Outgoing Executive Correspondence Series, White House Central Chronological File, Presidential Papers, Papers of John F. Kennedy
    And any man who may be asked in this century what he did to make his life worth while, I think can respond with a good deal of pride and satisfaction: “I served in the United States Navy.”
    Remarks at the U.S. Naval Academy (1 August 1963), Public Papers of the Presidents 321, p. 620
    I want to drink a cup of tea to all those Kennedys who went and all those Kennedys who stayed.
    While visiting his ancestral homestead in Wexford, as quoted in BBC News
    This is a great country and requires a good deal of all of us, so I can imagine nothing more important than for all of you to continue to work in public affairs and be interested in them, not only to bring up a family, but also give part of your time to your community, your state, and your country.
    “Remarks to the Delegates of Girls Nation (322)” (2 August 1963)
    As this State’s income rises, so does the income of Michigan. As the income of Michigan rises, so does the income of the United States. A rising tide lifts all the boats and as Arkansas becomes more prosperous so does the United States and as this section declines so does the United States. So I regard this as an investment by the people of the United States in the United States.
    Remarks in Heber Springs, Arkansas, at the Dedication of Greers Ferry Dam (3 October 1963)
    Variant: Rising tide lifts all boats.
    Remarks in Pueblo, Colorado following Approval of the Frying Pan-Arkansas Project (336)” (17 August 1962)
    I can assure you that there is no career which you will adopt when you leave college that will bring you a more and greater sense of satisfaction and a greater feeling of participation in a great effort than will your work here or in your state or in your community…this generation of Americans — you here who will be in positions of responsibility for the rest of this century — will deal with the most difficult, sensitive, and dangerous problems that any society of people has ever dealt with at any age…The Greeks defined happiness as the full use of your powers along the lines of excellence, and I can imagine no place where you can use your powers more fully along lines more excellent in the 1960’s than to be in the service of the United States.
    “Remarks to Student Participants in the White House Seminar in Government (334)” (27 August 1963)
    A tax cut means higher family income and higher business profits and a balanced federal budget…. As the national income grows, the federal government will ultimately end up with more revenues. Prosperity is the real way to balance our budget. By lowering tax rates, by increasing jobs and income, we can expand tax revenues and finally bring our budget into balance.
    “Radio and Television Address to the Nation on the Test Ban Treaty and the Tax Reduction Bill” (18 September 1963)
    What we seek to advance, what we seek to develop in all of our colleges and universities, are educated men and women who can bear the burdens of responsible citizenship, who can make judgments about life as it is, and as it must be, and encourage the people to make those decisions which can bring not only prosperity and security, but happiness to the people of the United Sates and those who depend upon it.
    “Address at the University of North Dakota (379)” (25 September 1963)
    I hope that all of you who are students here will recognize the great opportunity that lies before you in this decade, and in the decades to come, to be of service to our country. The Greeks once defined happiness as full use of your powers along lines of excellence, and I can assure you that there is no area of life where you will have an opportunity to use whatever powers you have, and to use them along more excellent lines, bringing ultimately, I think, happiness to you and those whom you serve.”
    “Address at the University of Wyoming (381)” (25 September 1963)
    I ask particularly that those of you who are now in school will prepare yourselves to bear the burden of leadership over the next 40 years here in the United States, and make sure that the United States — which I believe almost alone has maintained watch and ward for freedom — that the United States meet its responsibility. That is a wonderful challenge for us as a people.
    “Remarks at the Cheney Stadium in Tacoma, Washington (387)” (27 September 1963)
    A young man who does not have what it takes to perform military service is not likely to have what it takes to make a living. Today’s military rejects include tomorrow’s hard core unemployed.
    President JOHN F. KENNEDY, statement on the need for training or rehabilitation of Selective Service rejectees” (30 September 1963); also: [http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ws/index.php?pid=9446&st=&st1= John F. Kennedy: “Statement by the President on the Need for Training or Rehabilitation of Selective Service Rejectees” (30 September 1963)
    Things don’t just happen, they are made to happen.
    Speech given at the Arkansas State Fairground, Little Rock, United States of America (3 October 1963); quoted in John F. Kennedy in Quotations: A Topical Dictionary, with Sources (2013), McFarland, entry 1729
    We can say with some assurance that, although children may be the victims of fate, they will not be the victims of our neglect.
    “Remarks upon signing the Maternal and Child Health and Mental Retardation Planning Bill (434)” (24 October 1963)]
    A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers.
    Remarks at Amherst College (26 October 1963)
    The men who create power make an indispensable contribution to the Nation’s greatness, but the men who question power make a contribution just as dispensable, especially when that questioning is disinterested, for they determine whether we use power or power uses us.
    Remarks at Amherst College (26 October 1963)
    When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truth which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.
    Remarks at Amherst College (26 October 1963)
    The artist, however faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrusive society and an officious state. The great artist is thus a solitary figure.
    Remarks at Amherst College (26 October 1963)
    We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth.
    Remarks at Amherst College (26 October 1963)
    I have said that control of arms is a mission that we undertake particularly for our children and our grandchildren and that they have no lobby in Washington.
    “Statement by the President to American Women Concerning their Role in Securing World Peace (449)” (1 November 1963)
    This nation has tossed its cap over the wall of space, and we have no choice but to follow it.
    “Remarks in San Antonio at the Dedication of the Aerospace Medical Health Center (472),” (21 November 1963); the original anecdote from which Kennedy derived this comparison is in An Only Child (1961) by Frank O’Connor, p. 180.
    Today we give our thanks, most of all, for the ideals of honor and faith we inherit from our forefathers — for the decency of purpose, steadfastness of resolve and strength of will, for the courage and the humility, which they possessed and which we must seek every day to emulate. As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words but to live by them.
    Let us therefore proclaim our gratitude to Providence for manifold blessings — let us be humbly thankful for inherited ideals — and let us resolve to share those blessings and those ideals with our fellow human beings throughout the world.
    “Proclamation 3560 — Thanksgiving Day, 1963” (5 November 1963)
    I come here today…not just because you are doing well and because you are outstanding students, but because we expect something of you. And unless in this free country of ours we are able to demonstrate that we are able to make this society work and progress, unless we can hope that from you we are going to get back all of the talents which society has helped develop in you, then, quite obviously, all the hopes of all of us that freedom will not only endure but prevail, of course, will be disappointed. So we ask the best of you…I congratulate you on what you have done, and most of all I congratulate you on what you are going to do.
    “Remarks in New York City to the National Convention of the Catholic Youth Organization (463),” (15 November 1963)
    Third State of the Union Address

    “Annual Message to the Congress on the State of the Union” (14 January 1963)
    Little more than 100 weeks ago I assumed the office of President of the United States. In seeking the help of the Congress and our countrymen, I pledged no easy answers. I pledged — and asked — only toil and dedication. These the Congress and the people have given in good measure.
    In short, both at home and abroad, there may now be a temptation to relax. For the road has been long, the burden heavy, and the pace consistently urgent. But we cannot be satisfied to rest here. This is the side of the hill, not the top. The mere absence of war is not peace. The mere absence of recession is not growth. We have made a beginning — but we have only begun. Now the time has come to make the most of our gains — to translate the renewal of our national strength into the achievement of our national purpose.
    I am convinced that the enactment this year of tax reduction and tax reform overshadows all other domestic problems in this Congress. For we cannot for long lead the cause of peace and freedom, if we ever cease to set the pace here at home. For we cannot for long lead the cause of peace and freedom, if we ever cease to set the pace here at home.
    This country cannot afford to be materially rich and spiritually poor.
    The future of any country which is dependent upon the will and wisdom of its citizens is damaged, and irreparably damaged, whenever any of its children is not educated to the full extent of his talent, from grade school through graduate school.
    As the idealism of our youth has served world peace, so can it serve the domestic tranquility.
    These are not domestic concerns alone. For upon our achievement of greater vitality and strength here at home hang our fate and future in the world: our ability to sustain and supply the security of free men and nations, our ability to command their respect for our leadership, our ability to expand our trade without threat to our balance of payments, and our ability to adjust to the changing demands of cold war competition and challenge. We shall be judged more by what we do at home than by what we preach abroad. Nothing we could do to help the developing countries would help them half as much as a booming U.S. economy. And nothing our opponents could do to encourage their own ambitions would encourage them half as much as a chronic lagging U.S. economy. These domestic tasks do not divert energy from our security — they provide the very foundation for freedom’s survival and success.
    But complacency or self-congratulation can imperil our security as much as the weapons of tyranny. A moment of pause is not a promise of peace.
    For the road to world peace and freedom is still long, and there are burdens which only full partners can share — in supporting the common defense, in expanding world trade, in aligning our balance of payments, in aiding the emergent nations, in concerting political and economic policies, and in welcoming to our common effort other industrialized nations, notably Japan, whose remarkable economic and political development of the 1950’s permits it now to play on the world scene a major constructive role.
    For the unity of freedom has never relied on uniformity of opinion.
    While we shall never weary in the defense of freedom, neither shall we ever abandon the pursuit of peace.
    For we seek not the worldwide victory of one nation or system but a worldwide victory of man. The modern globe is too small, its weapons are too destructive, and its disorders are too contagious to permit any other kind of victory.
    Address at Vanderbilt University

    Liberty without learning is always in peril, and learning without liberty is always in vain.

    Only an educated and informed people will be a free people.

    Law is the adhesive force in the cement of society, creating order out of chaos and coherence in place of anarchy.

    Only a respect for the law makes it possible for free men to dwell together in peace and progress.
    Remarks in Nashville at the 90th Anniversary Convocation of Vanderbilt University (18 May 1963). In May of 1963, President Kennedy added his weight to the federal government’s preparation for the impending clash with the state of Alabama over the integration of the University of Alabama. Less than a week after the bombing of a Black American’s home and hotel in Birmingham, President Kennedy made a one-day trip to Tennessee and Alabama, saluting the ninetieth anniversary of Vanderbilt University and the thirtieth anniversary of the Tennessee Valley Authority, but in addition reminding his listeners of their roles and responsibilities as citizens. In a spirited and eloquent speech before an estimated crowd of 30,000 people in the stadium at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee on May 18, 1963, President Kennedy reminded his listeners that it falls to the educated man to assume the greater obligations of citizenship — for the pursuit of learning, to serve the public and to uphold the law.
    The essence of Vanderbilt is still learning, the essence of its outlook is still liberty, and liberty and learning will be and must be the touchstones of Vanderbilt University and of any free university in this country or the world. I say two touchstones, yet they are almost inseparable, inseparable if not indistinguishable, for liberty without learning is always in peril, and learning without liberty is always in vain.
    This State, this city, this campus, have stood long for both human rights and human enlightenment — and let that forever be true. This Nation is now engaged in a continuing debate about the rights of a portion of its citizens. This Nation is now engaged in a continuing debate about the rights of a portion of its citizens. That will go on, and those rights will expand until the standard first forged by the Nation’s founders has been reached, and all Americans enjoy equal opportunity and liberty under law. But this Nation was not founded solely on the principle of citizens’ rights. Equally important, though too often not discussed, is the citizen’s responsibility. For our privileges can be no greater than our obligations. The protection of our rights can endure no longer than the performance of our responsibilities. Each can be neglected only at the peril of the other. I speak to you today, therefore, not of your rights as Americans, but of your responsibilities. They are many in number and different in nature. They do not rest with equal weight upon the shoulders of all. Equality of opportunity does not mean equality of responsibility. All Americans must be responsible citizens, but some must be more responsible than others, by virtue of their public or their private position, their role in the family or community, their prospects for the future, or their legacy from the past. Increased responsibility goes with increased ability, for “of those to whom much is given, much is required.”
    You have responsibilities, in short, to use your talents for the benefit of the society which helped develop those talents. You must decide, as Goethe put it, whether you will be an anvil or a hammer, whether you will give to the world in which you were reared and educated the broadest possible benefits of that education. Of the many special obligations incumbent upon an educated citizen, I would cite three as outstanding: your obligation to the pursuit of learning, your obligation to serve the public, your obligation to uphold the law.
    If the pursuit of learning is not defended by the educated citizen, it will not be defended at all. For there will always be those who scoff at intellectuals, who cry out against research, who seek to limit our educational system. Modern cynics and skeptics see no more reason for landing a man on the moon, which we shall do, than the cynics and skeptics of half a millennium ago saw for the discovery of this country. They see no harm in paying those to whom they entrust the minds of their children a smaller wage than is paid to those to whom they entrust the care of their plumbing.
    But the educated citizen knows how much more there is to know. He knows that “knowledge is power,” more so today than ever before. He knows that only an educated and informed people will be a free people, that the ignorance of one voter in a democracy impairs the security of all, and that if we can, as Jefferson put it, “enlighten the people generally … tyranny and the oppressions of mind and body will vanish, like evil spirits at the dawn of day.” And, therefore, the educated citizen has a special obligation to encourage the pursuit of learning, to promote exploration of the unknown, to preserve the freedom of inquiry, to support the advancement of research, and to assist at every level of government the improvement of education for all Americans, from grade school to graduate school.
    Secondly, the educated citizen has an obligation to serve the public. He may be a precinct worker or President. He may give his talents at the courthouse, the State house, the White House. He may be a civil servant or a Senator, a candidate or a campaign worker, a winner or a loser. But he must be a participant and not a spectator. “At the Olympic games,” Aristotle wrote, “it is not the finest and strongest men who are crowned, but they who enter the lists-for out of these the prize-men are elected. So, too, in life, of the honorable and the good, it is they who act who rightly win the prizes.”
    I urge all of you today, especially those who are students, to act, to enter the lists of public service and rightly win or lose the prize. For we can have only one form of aristocracy in this country, as Jefferson wrote long ago in rejecting John Adams’ suggestion of an artificial aristocracy of wealth and birth. It is, he wrote, the natural aristocracy of character and talent, and the best form of government, he added, was that which selected these men for positions of responsibility.
    I would hope that all educated citizens would fulfill this obligation — in politics, in Government, here in Nashville, here in this State, in the Peace Corps, in the Foreign Service, in the Government Service, in the Tennessee Valley, in the world. You will find the pressures greater than the pay. You may endure more public attacks than support. But you will have the unequaled satisfaction of knowing that your character and talent are contributing to the direction and success of this free society.
    Third, and finally, the educated citizen has an obligation to uphold the law. This is the obligation of every citizen in a free and peaceful society — but the educated citizen has a special responsibility by the virtue of his greater understanding. For whether he has ever studied history or current events, ethics or civics, the rules of a profession or the tools of a trade, he knows that only a respect for the law makes it possible for free men to dwell together in peace and progress.
    He knows that law is the adhesive force in the cement of society, creating order out of chaos and coherence in place of anarchy. He knows that for one man to defy a law or court order he does not like is to invite others to defy those which they do not like, leading to a breakdown of all justice and all order. He knows, too, that every fellowman is entitled to be regarded with decency and treated with dignity. Any educated citizen who seeks to subvert the law, to suppress freedom, or to subject other human beings to acts that are less than human, degrades his heritage, ignores his learning, and betrays his obligation.
    Certain other societies may respect the rule of force — we respect the rule of law.
    Ninety years from now I have no doubt that Vanderbilt University will still be fulfilling this mission. It will still uphold learning, encourage public service, and teach respect for the law. It will neither turn its back on proven wisdom or turn its face from newborn challenge. It will still pass on to the youth of our land the full meaning of their rights and their responsibilities. And it will still be teaching the truth — the truth that makes us free and will keep us free.
    American University speech

    Commencement Address at American University (10 June 1963); also entitled “Strategy of Peace”, is considered one of Kennedy’s most powerful speeches, in which Kennedy laid out a hopeful, yet realistic route for world peace at a time when the U.S. and Soviet Union faced the potential for an escalating nuclear arms race. Kennedy addressed American University graduates mere months after the fierce standoff over the Cuban Missile Crisis. At the time of his speech world powers were gathered in Geneva to discuss complete nuclear disarmament. In his speech the President asks the graduates to re-examine their attitudes towards peace, the Soviet Union, and the Cold War, famously remarking, “If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can make the world safe for diversity.” The President also announces that he, Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev, and British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan have agreed to hold discussions concerning a comprehensive nuclear test ban treaty. Finally, he explains that the United States will not conduct atmospheric nuclear tests on the condition that other countries uphold this same promise.

    Our problems are manmade — therefore, they can be solved by man. And man can be as big as he wants. No problem of human destiny is beyond human beings.

    If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can make the world safe for diversity.

    No government or social system is so evil that its people must be considered as lacking in virtue.

    Nuclear powers must avert those confrontations which bring an adversary to a choice of either a humiliating retreat or a nuclear war. To adopt that kind of course in the nuclear age would be evidence only of the bankruptcy of our policy — or of a collective death-wish for the world.
    I have, therefore, chosen this time and this place to discuss a topic on which ignorance too often abounds and the truth is too rarely perceived — yet it is the most important topic on earth: world peace. What kind of peace do I mean? What kind of peace do we seek? Not a Pax Americana enforced on the world by American weapons of war. Not the peace of the grave or the security of the slave. I am talking about genuine peace, the kind of peace that makes life on earth worth living, the kind that enables men and nations to grow and to hope and to build a better life for their children — not merely peace for Americans but peace for all men and women — not merely peace in our time but peace for all time.
    I speak of peace because of the new face of war. Total war makes no sense in an age when great powers can maintain large and relatively invulnerable nuclear forces and refuse to surrender without resort to those forces. It makes no sense in an age when a single nuclear weapon contains almost ten times the explosive force delivered by all the allied air forces in the Second World War. It makes no sense in an age when the deadly poisons produced by a nuclear exchange would be carried by wind and water and soil and seed to the far corners of the globe and to generations yet unborn. Today the expenditure of billions of dollars every year on weapons acquired for the purpose of making sure we never need to use them is essential to keeping the peace. But surely the acquisition of such idle stockpiles — which can only destroy and never create — is not the only, much less the most efficient, means of assuring peace. I speak of peace, therefore, as the necessary rational end of rational men. I realize that the pursuit of peace is not as dramatic as the pursuit of war — and frequently the words of the pursuer fall on deaf ears. But we have no more urgent task.
    Some say that it is useless to speak of world peace or world law or world disarmament — and that it will be useless until the leaders of the Soviet Union adopt a more enlightened attitude. I hope they do. I believe we can help them do it. But I also believe that we must reexamine our own attitude — as individuals and as a Nation — for our attitude is as essential as theirs. And every graduate of this school, every thoughtful citizen who despairs of war and wishes to bring peace, should begin by looking inward — by examining his own attitude toward the possibilities of peace, toward the Soviet Union, toward the course of the cold war and toward freedom and peace here at home.
    Let us examine our attitude toward peace itself. Too many of us think it is impossible. Too many think it unreal. But that is a dangerous, defeatist belief. It leads to the conclusion that war is inevitable — that mankind is doomed — that we are gripped by forces we cannot control. We need not accept that view. Our problems are manmade — therefore, they can be solved by man. And man can be as big as he wants. No problem of human destiny is beyond human beings. Man’s reason and spirit have often solved the seemingly unsolvable — and we believe they can do it again.
    I am not referring to the absolute, infinite concept of peace and good will of which some fantasies and fanatics dream. I do not deny the value of hopes and dreams but we merely invite discouragement and incredulity by making that our only and immediate goal. Let us focus instead on a more practical, more attainable peace — based not on a sudden revolution in human nature but on a gradual evolution in human institutions — on a series of concrete actions and effective agreements which are in the interest of all concerned. There is no single, simple key to this peace — no grand or magic formula to be adopted by one or two powers. Genuine peace must be the product of many nations, the sum of many acts. It must be dynamic, not static, changing to meet the challenge of each new generation. For peace is a process — a way of solving problems.
    Kennedy’s “focus on a more practical, more attainable peace, based not on a sudden revolution in human nature but on a gradual evolution of human institutions.” was quoted by Barack Obama in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
    World peace, like community peace, does not require that each man love his neighbor — it requires only that they live together in mutual tolerance, submitting their disputes to a just and peaceful settlement. And history teaches us that enmities between nations, as between individuals, do not last forever. However fixed our likes and dislikes may seem, the tide of time and events will often bring surprising changes in the relations between nations and neighbors.
    Peace need not be impracticable, and war need not be inevitable. By defining our goal more clearly, by making it seem more manageable and less remote, we can help all peoples to see it, to draw hope from it, and to move irresistibly toward it.
    No government or social system is so evil that its people must be considered as lacking in virtue.
    In short, both the United States and its allies, and the Soviet Union and its allies, have a mutually deep interest in a just and genuine peace and in halting the arms race. Agreements to this end are in the interests of the Soviet Union as well as ours — and even the most hostile nations can be relied upon to accept and keep those treaty obligations, and only those treaty obligations, which are in their own interest. So, let us not be blind to our differences — but let us also direct attention to our common interests and to the means by which those differences can be resolved. And if we cannot end now our differences, at least we can help make the world safe for diversity. For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children’s future. And we are all mortal.
    Let us reexamine our attitude toward the cold war, remembering that we are not engaged in a debate, seeking to pile up debating points. We are not here distributing blame or pointing the finger of judgment. We must deal with the world as it is, and not as it might have been had the history of the last 18 years been different. We must, therefore, persevere in the search for peace in the hope that constructive changes within the Communist bloc might bring within reach solutions which now seem beyond us. We must conduct our affairs in such a way that it becomes in the Communists’ interest to agree on a genuine peace. Above all, while defending our own vital interests, nuclear powers must avert those confrontations which bring an adversary to a choice of either a humiliating retreat or a nuclear war. To adopt that kind of course in the nuclear age would be evidence only of the bankruptcy of our policy — or of a collective death-wish for the world. To secure these ends, America’s weapons are nonprovocative, carefully controlled, designed to deter, and capable of selective use. Our military forces are committed to peace and disciplined in self- restraint. Our diplomats are instructed to avoid unnecessary irritants and purely rhetorical hostility. For we can seek a relaxation of tension without relaxing our guard. And, for our part, we do not need to use threats to prove that we are resolute. We do not need to jam foreign broadcasts out of fear our faith will be eroded. We are unwilling to impose our system on any unwilling people — but we are willing and able to engage in peaceful competition with any people on earth.
    The one major area of these negotiations where the end is in sight, yet where a fresh start is badly needed, is in a treaty to outlaw nuclear tests. The conclusion of such a treaty, so near and yet so far, would check the spiraling arms race in one of its most dangerous areas. It would place the nuclear powers in a position to deal more effectively with one of the greatest hazards which man faces in 1963, the further spread of nuclear arms. It would increase our security — it would decrease the prospects of war. Surely this goal is sufficiently important to require our steady pursuit, yielding neither to the temptation to give up the whole effort nor the temptation to give up our insistence on vital and responsible safeguards.
    The quality and spirit of our own society must justify and support our efforts abroad.
    And is not peace, in the last analysis, basically a matter of human rights — the right to live out our lives without fear of devastation — the right to breathe air as nature provided it — the right of future generations to a healthy existence?
    While we proceed to safeguard our national interests, let us also safeguard human interests. And the elimination of war and arms is clearly in the interest of both.
    No treaty, however much it may be to the advantage of all, however tightly it may be worded, can provide absolute security against the risks of deception and evasion. But it can — if it is sufficiently effective in its enforcement and if it is sufficiently in the interests of its signers — offer far more security and far fewer risks than an unabated, uncontrolled, unpredictable arms race.
    The United States, as the world knows, will never start a war. We do not want a war. We do not now expect a war. This generation of Americans has already had enough — more than enough — of war and hate and oppression. We shall be prepared if others wish it. We shall be alert to try to stop it. But we shall also do our part to build a world of peace where the weak are safe and the strong are just. We are not helpless before that task or hopeless of its success. Confident and unafraid, we labor on — not toward a strategy of annihilation but toward a strategy of peace.
    Civil Rights Address

    The Civil Rights Address delivered on radio and television from the Oval Office (11 June 1963) in which he proposed the Civil Rights Act of 1964. He responds to the threats of violence and obstruction on the University of Alabama campus following desegregation attempts, explaining that the United States was founded on the principle that all men are created equal and thus, all American students are entitled to attend public educational institutions, regardless of race. He also discusses how discrimination affects education, public safety, and international relations, noting that the country cannot preach freedom internationally while ignoring it domestically. The President asks Congress to enact legislation protecting all Americans’ voting rights, legal standing, educational opportunities, and access to public facilities, but recognizes that legislation alone cannot solve the country’s problems concerning race relations.

    This Nation was founded by men of many nations and backgrounds. It was founded on the principle that all men are created equal, and that the rights of every man are diminished when the rights of one man are threatened.

    A great change is at hand, and our task, our obligation, is to make that revolution, that change, peaceful and constructive for all.

    This Nation, for all its hopes and all its boasts, will not be fully free until all its citizens are free.
    This Nation was founded by men of many nations and backgrounds. It was founded on the principle that all men are created equal, and that the rights of every man are diminished when the rights of one man are threatened.
    Today we are committed to a worldwide struggle to promote and protect the rights of all who wish to be free. And when Americans are sent to Vietnam or West Berlin, we do not ask for whites only. It ought to be possible, therefore, for American students of any color to attend any public institution they select without having to be backed up by troops.
    It ought to be possible for American consumers of any color to receive equal service in places of public accommodation, such as hotels and restaurants and theaters and retail stores, without being forced to resort to demonstrations in the street, and it ought to be possible for American citizens of any color to register and to vote in a free election without interference or fear of reprisal. It ought to be possible, in short, for every American to enjoy the privileges of being American without regard to his race or his color. In short, every American ought to have the right to be treated as he would wish to be treated, as one would wish his children to be treated. But this is not the case.
    This is not a sectional issue. Difficulties over segregation and discrimination exist in every city, in every State of the Union, producing in many cities a rising tide of discontent that threatens the public safety. Nor is this a partisan issue. In a time of domestic crisis men of good will and generosity should be able to unite regardless of party or politics. This is not even a legal or legislative issue alone. It is better to settle these matters in the courts than on the streets, and new laws are needed at every level, but law alone cannot make men see right. We are confronted primarily with a moral issue. It is as old as the scriptures and is as clear as the American Constitution.
    The heart of the question is whether all Americans are to be afforded equal rights and equal opportunities, whether we are going to treat our fellow Americans as we want to be treated. If an American, because his skin is dark, cannot eat lunch in a restaurant open to the public, if he cannot send his children to the best public school available, if he cannot vote for the public officials who represent him, if, in short, he cannot enjoy the full and free life which all of us want, then who among us would be content to have the color of his skin changed and stand in his place? Who among us would then be content with the counsels of patience and delay?
    One hundred years of delay have passed since President Lincoln freed the slaves, yet their heirs, their grandsons, are not fully free. They are not yet freed from the bonds of injustice. They are not yet freed from social and economic oppression. And this Nation, for all its hopes and all its boasts, will not be fully free until all its citizens are free.
    We preach freedom around the world, and we mean it, and we cherish our freedom here at home, but are we to say to the world, and much more importantly, to each other that this is a land of the free except for the Negroes; that we have no second-class citizens except Negroes; that we have no class or caste system, no ghettoes, no master race except with respect to Negroes?
    The fires of frustration and discord are burning in every city, North and South, where legal remedies are not at hand. Redress is sought in the streets, in demonstrations, parades, and protests which create tensions and threaten violence and threaten lives. We face, therefore, a moral crisis as a country and as a people. It cannot be met by repressive police action. It cannot be left to increased demonstrations in the streets. It cannot be quieted by token moves or talk. It is a time to act in the Congress, in your State and local legislative body and, above all, in all of our daily lives. It is not enough to pin the blame on others, to say this is a problem of one section of the country or another, or deplore the fact that we face. A great change is at hand, and our task, our obligation, is to make that revolution, that change, peaceful and constructive for all. Those who do nothing are inviting shame as well as violence. Those who act boldly are recognizing right as well as reality.
    This is one country. It has become one country because all of us and all the people who came here had an equal chance to develop their talents. We cannot say to 10 percent of the population that you can’t have that right; that your children can’t have the chance to develop whatever talents they have; that the only way that they are going to get their rights is to go into the streets and demonstrate. I think we owe them and we owe ourselves a better country than that. Therefore, I am asking for your help in making it easier for us to move ahead and to provide the kind of equality of treatment which we would want ourselves; to give a chance for every child to be educated to the limit of his talents. As I have said before, not every child has an equal talent or an equal ability or an equal motivation, but they should have the equal right to develop their talent and their ability and their motivation, to make something of themselves.
    We have a right to expect that the Negro community will be responsible, will uphold the law, but they have a right to expect that the law will be fair, that the Constitution will be color blind, as Justice Harlan said at the turn of the century.
    Address in the Assembly Hall at the Paulskirche in Frankfurt

    We must seek a world of peace — a world in which peoples dwell together in mutual respect and work together in mutual regard — a world where peace is not a mere interlude between wars, but an incentive to the creative energies of humanity.
    “Address in the Assembly Hall at the Paulskirche in Frankfurt, West Germany” (25 June 1963); The Public Papers of the Presidents of the United States: John F. Kennedy, 1963, p. 519; also in The Burden and the Glory (1964) by John F. Kennedy, edited by Allan Nevins, p. 115]
    Partnership is not a posture but a process-a continuous process that grows stronger each year as we devote ourselves to common tasks.
    As they say on my own Cape Cod, a rising tide lifts all the boats. And a partnership, by definition, serves both partners, without domination or unfair advantage. Together we have been partners in adversity — let us also be partners in prosperity.
    But Goethe tells us in his greatest poem that Faust lost the liberty of his soul when he said to the passing moment: “Stay, thou art so fair.” And our liberty, too, is endangered if we pause for the passing moment, if we rest on our achievements, if we resist the pace of progress. For time and the world do not stand still. Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or the present are certain to miss the future.
    Variant: Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or the present are certain to miss the future.
    Documents on International Affairs, 1963, Royal Institute of International Affairs, ed. Sir John Wheeler Wheeler-Bennett, p. 36.
    The mission is to create a new social order, rounded on liberty and justice, in which men are the masters of their fate, in which states are the servants of their citizens, and in which all men and women can share a better life for themselves and their children. That is the object of our common policy. To realize this vision, we must seek a world of peace — a world in which peoples dwell together in mutual respect and work together in mutual regard — a world where peace is not a mere interlude between wars, but an incentive to the creative energies of humanity. We will not find such a peace today, or even tomorrow. The obstacles to hope are large and menacing. Yet the goal of a peaceful world — today and tomorrow-must shape our decisions and inspire our purposes. So we are all idealists. We are all visionaries. Let it not be said of this Atlantic generation that we left ideals and visions to the past, nor purpose and determination to our adversaries. We have come too far, we have sacrificed too much, to disdain the future now. And we shall ever remember what Goethe told us — that the “highest wisdom, the best that mankind ever knew” was the realization that “he only earns his freedom and existence who daily conquers them anew.”
    Ich bin ein Berliner

    “Ich bin ein Berliner” address at ‘Rathaus Schöneberg’ in West-Berlin, Germany (26 June 1963); presented in the midst of a five-nation tour of Western Europe, Kennedy discusses his hopes for the reunification of Germany, and emphasizes the philosophical differences between capitalism and communism, noting, “Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free.” In his remarks President Kennedy famously proclaims, “Ich bin ein Berliner.”

    All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words “Ich bin ein Berliner.”
    Two thousand years ago the proudest boast was “civis Romanus sum.” Today, in the world of freedom, the proudest boast is “Ich bin ein Berliner.”
    There are many people in the world who really don’t understand, or say they don’t, what is the great issue between the free world and the Communist world. Let them come to Berlin. There are some who say that communism is the wave of the future. Let them come to Berlin. And there are some who say in Europe and elsewhere we can work with the Communists. Let them come to Berlin. And there are even a few who say that it is true that communism is an evil system, but it permits us to make economic progress. Lass’ sie nach Berlin kommen. Let them come to Berlin.
    Freedom has many difficulties and democracy is not perfect, but we have never had to put a wall up to keep our people in, to prevent them from leaving us. […] While the wall is the most obvious and vivid demonstration of the failures of the Communist system, for all the world to see, we take no satisfaction in it, for it is, as your Mayor has said, an offense not only against history but an offense against humanity, separating families, dividing husbands and wives and brothers and sisters, and dividing a people who wish to be joined together.
    What is true of this city is true of Germany — real, lasting peace in Europe can never be assured as long as one German out of four is denied the elementary right of free men, and that is to make a free choice. In 18 years of peace and good faith, this generation of Germans has earned the right to be free, including the right to unite their families and their nation in lasting peace, with good will to all people. You live in a defended island of freedom, but your life is part of the main. So let me ask you as I close, to lift your eyes beyond the dangers of today, to the hopes of tomorrow, beyond the freedom merely of this city of Berlin, or your country of Germany, to the advance of freedom everywhere, beyond the wall to the day of peace with justice, beyond yourselves and ourselves to all mankind.
    Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free. When all are free, then we can look forward to that day when this city will be joined as one and this country and this great Continent of Europe in a peaceful and hopeful globe. When that day finally comes, as it will, the people of West Berlin can take sober satisfaction in the fact that they were in the front lines for almost two decades.
    All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words “Ich bin ein Berliner.”
    Address at the Free University of Berlin

    Address at the Free University of Berlin (26 June 1963)

    The duty of the scholar, of the educated man, of the man or woman whom society has developed talents in, the duty of that man or woman is to help build the society which has made their own advancement possible.

    What does truth require? It requires us to face the facts as they are, not to involve ourselves in self-deception; to refuse to think merely in slogans. […] let us deal with the realities as they actually are, not as they might have been, and not as we wish they were.
    Prince Bismarck once said that one-third of the students of German universities broke down from overwork; another third broke down from dissipation, and the other third ruled Germany.
    The duty of the scholar, of the educated man, of the man or woman whom society has developed talents in, the duty of that man or woman is to help build the society which has made their own advancement possible.
    The scholar, the teacher, the intellectual, have a higher duty than any of the others, for society has trained you to think as well as do.
    First, what does truth require? It requires us to face the facts as they are, not to involve ourselves in self-deception; to refuse to think merely in slogans. If we are to work for the future of the city, let us deal with the realities as they actually are, not as they might have been, and not as we wish they were.
    We must first bring others to see their own true interests better than they do today.
    Secondly, what does justice require? In the end, it requires liberty.
    This right of free choice is no special privilege claimed by the Germans alone. It is an elemental requirement of human justice.
    The truth doesn’t die. The desire for liberty cannot be fully suppressed.
    As I said this morning, I am not impressed by the opportunities open to popular fronts throughout the world. I do not believe that any democrat can successfully ride that tiger. But I do believe in the necessity of great powers working together to preserve the human race, or otherwise we can be destroyed.
    But life is never easy. There is work to be done and obligations to be met — obligations to truth, to justice, and to liberty.
    Limited Nuclear Test Ban Treaty speech

    Radio and Television Address to the American People on the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty (26 July 1963), asserting that the Limited Nuclear Test Ban Treaty will strengthen national security, lessen the risk and fear of radioactive fallout, reduce world tension by encouraging further dialogue, and prevent acquisition of nuclear weapons by nations not currently possessing them. The President emphasizes that while the treaty does not eliminate the threat of nuclear war, a limited test ban is safer than an unlimited arms race.

    I ask you to stop and think for a moment what it would mean to have nuclear weapons in so many hands, in the hands of countries large and small, stable and unstable, responsible and irresponsible, scattered throughout the world. There would be no rest for anyone then, no stability, no real security, and no chance of effective disarmament.
    Eighteen years ago the advent of nuclear weapons changed the course of the world as well as the war. Since that time, all mankind has been struggling to escape from the darkening prospect of mass destruction on earth. In an age when both sides have come to possess enough nuclear power to destroy the human race several times over, the world of communism and the world of free choice have been caught up in a vicious circle of conflicting ideology and interest. Each increase of tension has produced an increase of arms; each increase of arms has produced an increase of tension.
    Yesterday a shaft of light cut into the darkness. Negotiations were concluded in Moscow on a treaty to ban all nuclear tests in the atmosphere, in outer space, and under water. For the first time, an agreement has been reached on bringing the forces of nuclear destruction under international control-a goal first sought in 1946 when Bernard Baruch presented a comprehensive control plan to the United Nations.
    I do not say that a world without aggression or threats of war would be an easy world. It will bring new problems, new challenges from the Communists, new dangers of relaxing our vigilance or of mistaking their intent. But those dangers pale in comparison to those of the spiraling arms race and a collision course towards war. Since the beginning of history, war has been mankind’s constant companion. It has been the rule, not the exception. Even a nation as young and as peace-loving as our own has fought through eight wars.
    A war today or tomorrow, if it led to nuclear war, would not be like any war in history. A full-scale nuclear exchange, lasting less than 60 minutes, with the weapons now in existence, could wipe out more than 300 million Americans, Europeans, and Russians, as well as untold numbers elsewhere. And the survivors, as Chairman Khrushchev warned the Communist Chinese, “the survivors would envy the dead.” For they would inherit a world so devastated by explosions and poison and fire that today we cannot even conceive of its horrors. So let us try to turn the world away from war. Let us make the most of this opportunity, and every opportunity, to reduce tension, to slow down the perilous nuclear arms race, and to check the world’s slide toward final annihilation.
    Continued unrestricted testing by the nuclear powers, joined in time by other nations which may be less adept in limiting pollution, will increasingly contaminate the air that all of us must breathe. Even then, the number of children and grandchildren with cancer in their bones, with leukemia in their blood, or with poison in their lungs might seem statistically small to some, in comparison with natural health hazards. But this is not a natural health hazard — and it is not a statistical issue. The loss of even one human life, or the malformation of even one baby — who may be born long after we are gone — should be of concern to us all. Our children and grandchildren are not merely statistics toward which we can be indifferent.
    During the next several years, in addition to the four current nuclear powers, a small but significant number of nations will have the intellectual, physical, and financial resources to produce both nuclear weapons and the means of delivering them. In time, it is estimated, many other nations will have either this capacity or other ways of obtaining nuclear warheads, even as missiles can be commercially purchased today. I ask you to stop and think for a moment what it would mean to have nuclear weapons in so many hands, in the hands of countries large and small, stable and unstable, responsible and irresponsible, scattered throughout the world. There would be no rest for anyone then, no stability, no real security, and no chance of effective disarmament. There would only be the increased chance of accidental war, and an increased necessity for the great powers to involve themselves in what otherwise would be local conflicts. If only one thermonuclear bomb were to be dropped on any American, Russian, or any other city, whether it was launched by accident or design, by a madman or by an enemy, by a large nation or by a small, from any corner of the world, that one bomb could release more destructive power on the inhabitants of that one helpless city than all the bombs dropped in the Second World War.
    No one can be certain what the future will bring. No one can say whether the time has come for an easing of the struggle. But history and our own conscience will judge us harsher if we do not now make every effort to test our hopes by action. And this is the place to begin.
    According to the ancient Chinese proverb, “A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.” My fellow Americans, let us take that first step. Let us, if we can, step back from the shadows of war and seek out the way of peace. And if that journey is a thousand miles, or even more, let history record that we, in this land, at this time, took the first step.
    UN speech

    The task of building the peace lies with the leaders of every nation, large and small. … The long labor of peace is an undertaking for every nation — and in this effort none of us can remain unaligned.To this goal none can be uncommitted.
    Address Before the 18th General Assembly of the United Nations (20 September 1963). In his speech the President discusses the recently signed treaty banning atmospheric nuclear weapons tests (later known as the Partial Test Ban Treaty or Limited Test Ban Treaty), remarking that peace may be attainable when two nations with incompatible ideologies negotiate with each other. The President famously asks, “Space offers no problems of sovereignty…Why, therefore, should man’s first flight to the moon be a matter of national competition?” President Kennedy also explains that the task of maintaining peace and decreasing global tension must be shared by all nations. He proposes ways for the United Nations to increase and improve their efforts in developing countries, specifically focusing on health, human rights, agriculture, communication, and the environment.
    The world has not escaped from the darkness. The long shadows of conflict and crisis envelop us still. But we meet today in an atmosphere of rising hope, and at a moment of comparative calm. My presence here today is not a sign of crisis, but of confidence. I am not here to report on a new threat to the peace or new signs of war. I have come to salute the United Nations and to show the support of the American people for your daily deliberations. For the value of this body’s work is not dependent on the existence of emergencies — nor can the winning of peace consist only of dramatic victories. Peace is a daily, a weekly, a monthly process, gradually changing opinions, slowly eroding old barriers, quietly building new structures. And however undramatic the pursuit of peace, that pursuit must go on.
    The task of building the peace lies with the leaders of every nation, large and small. For the great powers have no monopoly on conflict or ambition. The cold war is not the only expression of tension in this world — and the nuclear race is not the only arms race. Even little wars are dangerous in a nuclear world. The long labor of peace is an undertaking for every nation — and in this effort none of us can remain unaligned. To this goal none can be uncommitted.
    Chronic disputes which divert precious resources from the needs of the people or drain the energies of both sides serve the interests of no one — and the badge of responsibility in the modern world is a willingness to seek peaceful solutions.
    I would say to the leaders of the Soviet Union, and to their people, that if either of our countries is to be fully secure, we need a much better weapon than the H-bomb — a weapon better than ballistic missiles or nuclear submarines — and that better weapon is peaceful cooperation.
    In these and other ways, let us move up the steep and difficult path toward comprehensive disarmament, securing mutual confidence through mutual verification, and building the institutions of peace as we dismantle the engines of war. We must not let failure to agree on all points delay agreements where agreement is possible. And we must not put forward proposals for propaganda purposes.
    Finally, in a field where the United States and the Soviet Union have a special capacity — in the field of space — there is room for new cooperation, for further joint efforts in the regulation and exploration of space. I include among these possibilities a joint expedition to the moon. Space offers no problems of sovereignty; by resolution of this Assembly, the members of the United Nations have foresworn any claim to territorial rights in outer space or on celestial bodies, and declared that international law and the United Nations Charter will apply. Why, therefore, should man’s first flight to the moon be a matter of national competition? Why should the United States and the Soviet Union, in preparing for such expeditions, become involved in immense duplications of research, construction, and expenditure? Surely we should explore whether the scientists and astronauts of our two countries — indeed of all the world — cannot work together in the conquest of space, sending someday in this decade to the moon not the representatives of a single nation, but the representatives of all of our countries.
    The contest will continue — the contest between those who see a monolithic world and those who believe in diversity — but it should be a contest in leadership and responsibility instead of destruction, a contest in achievement instead of intimidation. Speaking for the United States of America, I welcome such a contest. For we believe that truth is stronger than error — and that freedom is more enduring than coercion. And in the contest for a better life, all the world can be a winner.
    The effort to improve the conditions of man, however, is not a task for the few. It is the task of all nations — acting alone, acting in groups, acting in the United Nations, for plague and pestilence, and plunder and pollution, the hazards of nature, and the hunger of children are the foes of every nation. The earth, the sea, and the air are the concern of every nation. And science, technology, and education can be the ally of every nation. Never before has man had such capacity to control his own environment, to end thirst and hunger, to conquer poverty and disease, to banish illiteracy and massive human misery. We have the power to make this the best generation of mankind in the history of the world — or to make it the last.
    New efforts are needed if this Assembly’s Declaration of Human Rights, now 15 years old, is to have full meaning. And new means should be found for promoting the free expression and trade of ideas — through travel and communication, and through increased exchanges of people, and books, and broadcasts. For as the world renounces the competition of weapons, competition in ideas must flourish — and that competition must be as full and as fair as possible.
    The United Nations cannot survive as a static organization. Its obligations are increasing as well as its size. Its Charter must be changed as well as its customs. The authors of that Charter did not intend that it be frozen in perpetuity. The science of weapons and war has made us all, far more than 18 years ago in San Francisco, one world and one human race, with one common destiny. In such a world, absolute sovereignty no longer assures us of absolute security. The conventions of peace must pull abreast and then ahead of the inventions of war. The United Nations, building on its successes and learning from its failures, must be developed into a genuine world security system.
    But peace does not rest in charters and covenants alone. It lies in the hearts and minds of all people. And if it is cast out there, then no act, no pact, no treaty, no organization can hope to preserve it without the support and the wholehearted commitment of all people. So let us not rest all our hopes on parchment and on paper; let us strive to build peace, a desire for peace, a willingness to work for peace, in the hearts and minds of all our people. I believe that we can. I believe the problems of human destiny are not beyond the reach of human beings.
    Two years ago I told this body that the United States had proposed, and was willing to sign, a limited test ban treaty. Today that treaty has been signed. It will not put an end to war. It will not remove basic conflicts. It will not secure freedom for all. But it can be a lever, and Archimedes, in explaining the principles of the lever, was said to have declared to his friends: “Give me a place where I can stand — and I shall move the world.” My fellow inhabitants of this planet: Let us take our stand here in this Assembly of nations. And let us see if we, in our own time, can move the world to a just and lasting peace.
    Speech at Amherst College

    Remarks upon receiving an honorary degree, Amherst College, Amherst, Massachusetts (October 26, 1963); reported in Public Papers of the Presidents of the United States: John F. Kennedy, 1963, p. 817. In his speech President Kennedy explains the importance of public service from educated citizens, and describes the role of an artist in society, noting Frost’s contributions to American arts, culture, and ideology. The President discusses the nature of strength and power, famously stating, “When power leads men towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.”

    When power leads men towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations…
    Privilege is here, and with privilege goes responsibility.
    A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers.
    The men who create power make an indispensable contribution to the Nation’s greatness, but the men who question power make a contribution just as indispensable, especially when that questioning is disinterested, for they determine whether we use power or power uses us.
    When power leads men towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truth which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.
    The artist, however faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrusive society and an officious state. The great artist is thus a solitary figure. He has, as Frost said, a lover’s quarrel with the world. In pursuing his perceptions of reality, he must often sail against the currents of his time. This is not a popular role. If Robert Frost was much honored in his lifetime, it was because a good many preferred to ignore his darker truths. Yet in retrospect, we see how the artist’s fidelity has strengthened the fibre of our national life. If sometimes our great artist have been the most critical of our society, it is because their sensitivity and their concern for justice, which must motivate any true artist, makes him aware that our Nation falls short of its highest potential. I see little of more importance to the future of our country and our civilization than full recognition of the place of the artist.
    If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him. We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth. And as Mr. MacLeish once remarked of poets, there is nothing worse for our trade than to be in style. In free society art is not a weapon and it does not belong to the spheres of polemic and ideology. Artists are not engineers of the soul. It may be different elsewhere. But democratic society — in it, the highest duty of the writer, the composer, the artist is to remain true to himself and to let the chips fall where they may. In serving his vision of the truth, the artist best serves his nation. And the nation which disdains the mission of art invites the fate of Robert Frost’s hired man, the fate of having “nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope.”
    I look forward to a great future for America, a future in which our country will match its military strength with our moral restraint, its wealth with our wisdom, its power with our purpose. I look forward to an America which will not be afraid of grace and beauty, which will protect the beauty of our natural environment, which will preserve the great old American houses and squares and parks of our national past, and which will build handsome and balanced cities for our future.
    I look forward to an America which will reward achievement in the arts as we reward achievement in business or statecraft. I look forward to an America which will steadily raise the standards of artistic accomplishment and which will steadily enlarge cultural opportunities for all of our citizens. And I look forward to an America which commands respect throughout the world not only for its strength but for its civilization as well. And I look forward to a world which will be safe not only for democracy and diversity but also for personal distinction.
    President John F. Kennedy’s last formal speech and public words

    President John F. Kennedy last formal speech and public words at Aerospace Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas on November 21, 1963.
    For more than 3 years I have spoken about the New Frontier. This is not a partisan term, and it is not the exclusive property of Republicans or Democrats. It refers, instead, to this Nation’s place in history, to the fact that we do stand on the edge of a great new era, filled with both crisis and opportunity, an era to be characterized by achievement and by challenge. It is an era which calls for action and for the best efforts of all those who would test the unknown and the uncertain in every phase of human endeavor. It is a time for pathfinders and pioneers.
    Many Americans make the mistake of assuming that space research has no values here on earth. Nothing could be further from the truth. Just as the wartime development of radar gave us the transistor, and all that it made possible, so research in space medicine holds the promise of substantial benefit for those of us who are earthbound. For our effort in space is not as some have suggested, a competitor for the natural resources that we need to develop the earth. It is a working partner and a coproducer of these resources. And nothing makes this clearer than the fact that medicine in space is going to make our lives healthier and happier here on earth.
    I give you three examples: first, medical space research may open up new understanding of man’s relation to his environment. Examinations of the astronaut’s physical, and mental, and emotional reactions can teach us more about the differences between normal and abnormal, about the causes and effects of disorientation, about changes in metabolism which could result in extending the life span. When you study the effects on our astronauts of exhaust gases which can contaminate their environment, and you seek ways to alter these gases so as to reduce their toxicity, you are working on problems similar to those in our great urban centers which themselves are being corrupted by gases and which must be clear.
    And second, medical space research may revolutionize the technology and the techniques of modern medicine. Whatever new devices are created, for example, to monitor our astronauts, to measure their heart activity, their breathing, their brain waves, their eye motion, at great distances and under difficult conditions, will also represent a major advance in general medical instrumentation. Heart patients may even be able to wear a light monitor which will sound a warning if their activity exceeds certain limits. An instrument recently developed to record automatically the impact of acceleration upon an astronaut’s eyes will also be of help to small children who are suffering miserably from eye defects, but are unable to describe their impairment. And also by the use of instruments similar to those used in Project Mercury, this Nation’s private as well as public nursing services are being improved, enabling one nurse now to give more critically ill patients greater attention than they ever could in the past.
    And third, medical space research may lead to new safeguards against hazards common to many environments. Specifically, our astronauts will need fundamentally new devices to protect them from the ill effects of radiation which can have a profound influence upon medicine and man’s relations to our present environment.
    I think the United States should be a leader. A country as rich and powerful as this which bears so many burdens and responsibilities, which has so many opportunities, should be second to none. And in December, while I do not regard our mastery of space as anywhere near complete, while I recognize that there are still areas where we are behind — at least in one area, the size of the booster — this year I hope the United States will be ahead. And I am for it. We have a long way to go. Many weeks and months and years of long, tedious work lie ahead. There will be setbacks and frustrations and disappointments. There will be, as there always are, pressures in this country to do less in this area as in so many others, and temptations to do something else that is perhaps easier. But this research here must go on. This space effort must go on. The conquest of space must and will go ahead. That much we know. That much we can say with confidence and conviction.
    Frank O’Connor, the Irish writer, tells in one of his books how, as a boy, he and his friends would make their way across the countryside, and when they came to an orchard wall that seemed too high and too doubtful to try and too difficult to permit their voyage to continue, they took off their hats and tossed them over the wall — and then they had no choice but to follow them.
    This Nation has tossed its cap over the wall of space, and we have no choice but to follow it. Whatever the difficulties, they will be overcome. Whatever the hazards, they must be guarded against. With the vital help of this Aerospace Medical Center, with the help of all those who labor in the space endeavor, with the help and support of all Americans, we will climb this wall with safety and with speed-and we shall then explore the wonders on the other side.
    The original anecdote from whence Kennedy derived this comparison is in An Only Child, Frank O’Connor, London: MacMillan & Co. Ltd., 1961; p. 180.
    Remarks Prepared for Delivery at the Trade Mart in Dallas

    The following quotes were meant to be delivered on 22 November 1963, in Dallas, Texas. They were however never delivered; Kennedy was on his way to the Trade Mart when he was assassinated.

    If we are strong, our strength will speak for itself. If we are weak, words will be of no help.

    Only an America which has fully educated its citizens is fully capable of tackling the complex problems and perceiving the hidden dangers of the world in which we live.
    It is fitting that these two symbols of Dallas progress are united in the sponsorship of this meeting, for they represent the best qualities, I am told, of leadership and learning in this city — and leadership and learning are indispensable to each other. The advancement of learning depends on community leadership for financial and political support and the products of that learning, in turn, are essential to the leadership’s hopes for continued progress and prosperity. It is not a coincidence that those communities possessing the best in research and graduate facilities — from MIT to Cal Tech — tend to attract the new and growing industries. […] This link between leadership and learning is not only essential at the community level, it is even more indispensable in world affairs. Ignorance and misinformation can handicap the progress of a city or a company, but they can, if allowed to prevail in foreign policy, handicap this country’s security. In a world of complex and continuing problems, in a world full of frustrations and irritations, America’s leadership must be guided by the lights of learning and reason, or else those who confuse rhetoric with reality and the plausible with the possible will gain the popular ascendancy with their seemingly swift and simple solutions to every world problem.
    We cannot expect that everyone, to use the phrase of a decade ago, will “talk sense to the American people”. But we can hope that fewer people will listen to nonsense. And the notion that this Nation is headed for defeat through deficit, or that strength is but a matter of slogans, is nothing but just plain nonsense.
    I want to discuss with you today the status of our strength and our security because this question clearly calls for the most responsible qualities of leadership and the most enlightened products of scholarship. For this Nation’s strength and security are not easily or cheaply obtained, nor are they quickly and simply explained. There are many kinds of strength and no one kind will suffice. Overwhelming nuclear strength cannot stop a guerrilla war. Formal pacts of alliance cannot stop internal subversion. Displays of material wealth cannot stop the disillusionment of diplomats subjected to discrimination. Above all, words alone are not enough. The United States is a peaceful nation. And where our strength and determination are clear, our words need merely to convey conviction, not belligerence. If we are strong, our strength will speak for itself. If we are weak, words will be of no help.
    In this administration also it has been necessary at times to issue specific warnings — warnings that we could not stand by and watch the Communists conquer Laos by force, or intervene in the Congo, or swallow West Berlin, or maintain offensive missiles on Cuba. But while our goals were at least temporarily obtained in these and other instances, our successful defense of freedom was due not to the words we used, but to the strength we stood ready to use on behalf of the principles we stand ready to defend. This strength is composed of many different elements, ranging from the most massive deterrents to the most subtle influences. And all types of strength are needed — no one kind could do the job alone.
    Our security and strength, in the last analysis, directly depend on the security and strength of others, and that is why our military and economic assistance plays such a key role in enabling those who live on the periphery of the Communist world to maintain their independence of choice. Our assistance to these nations can be painful, risky and costly, as is true in Southeast Asia today. But we dare not weary of the task. For our assistance makes possible the stationing of 3-5 million allied troops along the Communist frontier at one-tenth the cost of maintaining a comparable number of American soldiers.
    Our foreign aid program is not growing in size, it is, on the contrary, smaller now than in previous years. It has had its weaknesses, but we have undertaken to correct them. And the proper way of treating weaknesses is to replace them with strength, not to increase those weaknesses by emasculating essential programs. Dollar for dollar, in or out of government, there is no better form of investment in our national security than our much-abused foreign aid program.
    Finally, it should be clear by now that a nation can be no stronger abroad than she is at home. Only an America which practices what it preaches about equal rights and social justice will be respected by those whose choice affects our future. Only an America which has fully educated its citizens is fully capable of tackling the complex problems and perceiving the hidden dangers of the world in which we live. And only an America which is growing and prospering economically can sustain the worldwide defenses of freedom, while demonstrating to all concerned the opportunities of our system and society.
    Our adversaries have not abandoned their ambitions, our dangers have not diminished, our vigilance cannot be relaxed. But now we have the military, the scientific, and the economic strength to do whatever must be done for the preservation and promotion of freedom. That strength will never be used in pursuit of aggressive ambitions — it will always be used in pursuit of peace. It will never be used to promote provocations — it will always be used to promote the peaceful settlement of disputes.
    We in this country, in this generation, are — by destiny rather than choice — the watchmen on the walls of world freedom. We ask, therefore, that we may be worthy of our power and responsibility, that we may exercise our strength with wisdom and restraint, and that we may achieve in our time and for all time the ancient vision of “peace on earth, good will toward men”. That must always be our goal, and the righteousness of our cause must always underlie our strength. For as was written long ago: “except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.”
    Remarks Intended for Delivery to the Texas Democratic State Committee in the Municipal Auditorium in Austin

    JFK’s words at a speech he planned to give at Texas Welcome Dinner at Municipal Auditorium, Austin, Texas, night of 11/22/1963. The following quotes were meant to be delivered on 22 November 1963, in Austin, Texas. They were however never delivered; Kennedy was on his way to the Trade Mart when he was assassinated. Michael Beschloss, a presidential historian and PBS contributor, flagged the final lines of the speech that JFK would have given on the night of his assassination. Sources: John F. Kennedy: “Remarks Intended for Delivery to the Texas Democratic State Committee in the Municipal Auditorium in Austin,” November 22, 1963. , [http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/10425030/JFK-the-last-word.html JFK: the last word by The Guardian’s Alex Hannaford on November 6, 2013, The Last Lines Of The Speech JFK Would Have Given The Night Of His Assassination by The Huffington Post’s Paige Lavender on November 7, 2013, and Read the Last Lines of the Speech JFK Was Supposed to Give on the Night of His Assassination by The Blaze’s Jason Howert on November 7, 2013
    Civilization, it was once said, is a race between education and catastrophe — and we intend to win that race for education.
    For this country is moving and it must not stop. It cannot stop. For this is a time for courage and a time for challenge. Neither conformity nor complacency will do. Neither the fanatics nor the faint-hearted are needed. And our duty as a Party is not to our Party alone, but to the nation, and, indeed, to all mankind. Our duty is not merely the preservation of political power but the preservation of peace and freedom.
    So let us not be petty when our cause is so great. Let us not quarrel amongst ourselves when our Nation’s future is at stake.
    Let us stand together with renewed confidence in our cause — united in our heritage of the past and our hopes for the future — and determined that this land we love shall lead all mankind into new frontiers of peace and abundance.
    Attributed

    Just as I went into politics because Joe died, if anything happened to me tomorrow, my brother Bobby would run for my seat in the Senate. And if Bobby died, Teddy would take over for him.
    Quoted in The Remarkable Kennedys, Joe McCarthy, New York: Dial Press, 1960, page 114.
    I’m always rather nervous about how you talk about women who are active in politics, whether they want to be talked about as women or as politicians.
    Quoted in Bill Adler, “The Presidency,” The Wit of President Kennedy (1964).
    [JFK was speaking]…To a group of women delegates to the United Nations who had suggested that there might one day be a woman President.
    Whether I serve one or two terms in the Presidency, I will find myself at the end of that period at what might be called the awkward age — too old to begin a new career and too young to write my memoirs.
    Quoted in A Thousand Days: John F. Kennedy in the White House, Arthur Schlesinger (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1965), page 1017. According to a footnote in Schlesinger’s manuscript (1st draft, page 1378), this was stated on February 13, 1961.
    All my life I’ve known better than to depend on the experts. How could I have been so stupid, to let them go ahead?
    Conversation with Theodore C. Sorensen concerning the Bay of Pigs Invasion; as quoted in Sorensen’s Kennedy (1965), p. 309.
    If anyone is crazy enough to want to kill a president of the United States, he can do it. All he must be prepared to do is give his life for the president’s.
    Pierre Salinger, With Kennedy (1966), Chapter 1: Lancer to Wayside, page 1
    When discussing the possibility of a complete military takeover in the country after reading the book Seven Days in May, President Kennedy said, “…if there were a third Bay of Pigs, it could happen.” He paused and then said “But it won’t happen on my watch.”
    Related in The Pleasure of His Company, Paul Fay, Jr., New York: Harper & Row, 1966, p. 190.
    I have a nice home, the office is close by, and the pay is good.
    Quoted in Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye, Kenneth O’Donnell, Dave Powers, and Joseph McCarthy, Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1970, page 262.
    I was assured by every son of a bitch I checked with — all the military experts and the CIA — that the plan would succeed.
    Comment to Richard Nixon, about the failure of the Bay of Pigs Invasion, as quoted in The Memoirs of Richard Nixon (1978) by Richard Nixon
    Forgive your enemies, but never forget their names.
    As quoted in Mayor (1984) by Ed Koch
    It really is true that foreign affairs is the only important issue for a president to handle, isn’t? … I mean, Who gives a shit if the minimum wage is $1.15 or $1.25 in comparison to something like this?
    Comment to Richard Nixon, after the Bay of Pigs Invasion, as quoted in John F. Kennedy: The Presidential Portfolio : History as told through the collection of the John F. Kennedy Library and Museum (2000) by Charles Kenney
    A wall is a hell of a lot better than a war.
    Upon hearing about the construction of the Berlin Wall, as quoted in “Savage century” in “The Sunday Times (28 May 2006)
    I think ‘Hail to the Chief’ has a nice ring to it.
    When asked what his favorite song was, as quoted in The Ultimate Book of Useless Information (2007) by Noel Botham
    I’m an idealist without illusions.
    Comment about JFK by Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis as quoted in the Audiobook Jacqueline Kennedy: Historic Conversations on Life with John F. Kennedy (December 27, 2011) by Caroline Kennedy (Author, Narrator), Michael Beschloss (Author, Narrator), Jacqueline Kennedy (Narrator) & Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr. (Narrator) and published by Hyperion AudioBooks.
    What would Lincoln have been without the Civil War? Just another railroad lawyer!
    JFK to Gore Vidal, quoted in David Swanson’s Daybreak: Undoing the Imperial Presidency and Forming a More Perfect Union (2011).
    Misattributed

    A revolution is coming — a revolution which will be peaceful if we are wise enough; compassionate if we care enough; successful if we are fortunate enough — But a revolution which is coming whether we will it or not. We can affect its character; we cannot alter its inevitability.
    Robert F. Kennedy, in a speech in the US Senate (9 May 1966)
    One person can make a difference, and every person should try.
    Political scientist Thomas E. Cronin, “Leadership and Democracy”, in ‘Liberal Education’, 1987
    A child miseducated is a child lost.
    Umaru Tanko Al-Makura on 29th July, 2013 at The Official Commissioning Of Ta’al Model School, Lafia By Nigeria’s President Goodluck Ebele Jonathan where Umaru Tanko Al-Makura said: “And, because the human mind is our fundamental resource, we are determined to avail our children the opportunity to acquire the best education possible, since a child mis-educated is a child lost.”
    Quotes about Kennedy

    President Kennedy stood for the belief that idealism, high aspirations, and deep convictions are not incompatible with the most practical and efficient of programs — that there is no basic inconsistency between ideals and realistic possibilities, no separation between the deepest desires of heart and of mind and the rational application of human effort to human problems. ~ Robert F. Kennedy
    McCarthy was a Republican. The Democrats, however, have skeletons in their own closet and it’s worth remembering them, too. For example, Democrat Woodrow Wilson’s Attorney General, A. Mitchell Palmer, who was just as rabid an anti-Communist as McCarthy, did far more to repress free speech and political freedom than McCarthy ever attempted. It wasn’t a Republican president who locked up thousands of loyal Americans of Japanese descent in concentration camps for years. It was Democrat Franklin D. Roosevelt. And it wasn’t a Republican who wiretapped and snooped on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., but Democrats John F. Kennedy and his brother Robert, who signed the order as Attorney General.
    Bruce Bartlett, as quoted in Wrong on Race: The Democratic Party’s Buried Past (2008), by B. Bartlett, p. xi.
    I met him in the 1950s when I was at Harvard, and I thought the world of him. I was greatly inspired by him when he became president, I found his inaugural address moving, I liked that special sense of vigor and enthusiasm that he injected into an America that seemed to be a little bit uncertain of itself, especially after the launch of the Sputnik. And I was profoundly shocked when he was shot. I remember that moment vividly, but I have to add that the more I learned about him later on, the more I became inclined to temper my enthusiasm for him. I began to see that he was much more manipulative, much more opportunistic, much more self-serving, much less guided by any profound sort of code of conduct or standard than I had believed. So it was, in a way, a disillusioning reassessment.
    Zbigniew Brzezinski, “The World According to Zbig” by Charles Gati in Politico, November 27, 2013.
    Kennedy was at the hawkish end of the administration.
    Noam Chomsky in Rethinking Camelot (1993).
    “I’m sure Obama is an atheist, I’m sure Kennedy was an atheist, but I doubt if Pope Frank is.
    Richard Dawkins Interview with Bill Maher (2013)
    Kennedy survived as an orator to the point of delivering his own funeral oration, since Theodore Sorensen continued to write speeches for his successor in the same style that had contributed so much toward the dead man’s public persona.
    Guy Debord, The Society of the Spectacle (1967)
    [The] premise is that Kennedy was a very good president, and might have been a great one if he’d lived. Few serious historians take this view … In reality, the kindest interpretation of Kennedy’s presidency is that he was a mediocrity whose death left his final grade as “incomplete.” The harsher view would deem him a near disaster — ineffective in domestic policy, evasive on civil rights and a serial blunderer in foreign policy, who barely avoided a nuclear war that his own brinksmanship had pushed us toward … We confuse charisma with competence, rhetoric with results, celebrity with genuine achievement.
    Ross Douthat The Enduring Cult of Kennedy, New York Times, November 26, 2011.
    John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 35th President of the United States, has been taken from us by an act which outrages decent men everywhere. He upheld the faith of our fathers, which is freedom for all men. He broadened the frontiers of that faith, and backed it with the energy and the courage which are the mark of the Nation he led. A man of wisdom, strength, and peace, he moulded and moved the power of our Nation in the service of a world of growing liberty and order. All who love freedom will mourn his death. As he did not shrink from his responsibilities, but welcomed them, so he would not have us shrink from carrying on his work beyond this hour of national tragedy. […] I earnestly recommend the people […] to pay their homage of love and reverence to the memory of a great and good man.
    Lyndon B. Johnson, Lyndon B. Johnson declaration upon John F. Kennedy’s assassination (1963)
    The greatest leader of our time has been struck down by the foulest deed of our time. Today John Fitzgerald Kennedy lives on in the immortal words and works that he left behind. He lives on in the mind and memories of mankind. He lives on in the hearts of his countrymen. No words are sad enough to express our sense of loss. No words are strong enough to express our determination to continue the forward thrust of America that he began. The dream of conquering the vastness of space — the dream of partnership across the Atlantic — and across the Pacific as well-the dream of a Peace Corps in less developed nations — the dream of education for all of our children — the dream of jobs for all who seek them and need them — the dream of care for our elderly — the dream of an all-out attack on mental illness — and above all, the dream of equal rights for all Americans, whatever their race or color — these and other American dreams have been vitalized by his drive and by his dedication. And now the ideas and the ideals which he so nobly represented must and will be translated into effective action.
    Lyndon B. Johnson, [http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ws/index.php?pid=25988&st=&st1= Address Before a Joint Session of the Congress (27 November 1963)
    Courage is the virtue that President Kennedy most admired. He sought out those people who had demonstrated in some way, whether it was on a battlefield or a baseball diamond, in a speech or fighting for a cause, that they had courage that they would stand up, that they could be counted on.
    Robert F. Kennedy, 1964 Memorial Edition of Profiles in Courage, Foreword by Robert F. Kennedy, p. 9
    But if there was one thing that President Kennedy stood for that touched the most profound feeling of young people around the world, it was the belief that idealism, high aspirations, and deep convictions are not incompatible with the most practical and efficient of programs — that there is no basic inconsistency between ideals and realistic possibilities, no separation between the deepest desires of heart and of mind and the rational application of human effort to human problems.
    Robert F. Kennedy, Day of Affirmation Address (1966).
    In the Vietnam War, the leaders of the White House claimed at the time that it was a necessary and crucial war, and during it, Donald Rumsfeld and his aides murdered two million villagers. And when Kennedy took over the presidency and deviated from the general line of policy drawn up for the White House and wanted to stop this unjust war, that angered the owners of the major corporations who were benefiting from its continuation. And so Kennedy was killed, and al-Qaida wasn’t present at that time, but rather, those corporations were the primary beneficiary from his killing. And the war continued after that for approximately one decade. But after it became clear to you that it was an unjust and unnecessary war, you made one of your greatest mistakes, in that you neither brought to account nor punished those who waged this war, not even the most violent of its murderers, Rumsfeld.
    Osama bin Laden, as quoted in Not Popular.
    Kennedy would have ordered nuclear retaliation on Cuba — and perhaps the Soviet Union — if nuclear weapons had been fired at United States forces.
    Robert McNamara, U.S. secretary of defense under President John F. Kennedy, according to The New York Times; On the Brink of Nuclear War, Awake! magazine, May 22, 1992.
    And who was JFK the Man, ultimately? A gifted speaker and eloquent communicator. A man who understood the pulse of the nation enough in 1946 when he postioned himself apart from the natural heirs to the liberal New Deal tradition. A man who recognized early the need for an assertive stance in the developing days of the Cold War, and who positioned himself perfectly within the framework of what Louis Hartz has called the “Age of Consensus.” Part of the consensus on America’s place in the world, and on the moral correctness of the Cold War struggle that would endure until the late 1960s. A man who understood the moral correctness of integration but who was reluctant to press too far in the struggle for racial justice. A man who as President, never forgot his roots and was an active Cold Warrior in the tradition of Truman and Eisenhower, and who in domestic policy kept himself positoned to the right of the Democratic party’s liberal wing
    Eric Paddon (Department of History, Wheaton College): St John the Liberal?
    Shouldn’t someone tag Mr. Kennedy’s “bold new imaginative” program with its proper age? Under the tousled boyish haircut it is still old Karl Marx — first launched a century ago. There is nothing new in the idea of a government being Big Brother to us all. Hitler called his “State Socialism” and way before him it was “benevolent monarchy.”
    Ronald Reagan in a 1960 letter to the GOP presidential candidate Richard Nixon, quoted in Matthew Dallek’s The Right Moment: Ronald Reagan’s First Victory and the Decisive Turning Point in American Politics (2000), p. 38
    Yet another universally held conviction [among Europeans is that] Americans make it a point of honor to elect only mental defectives as Presidents. From the Missouri tie salesman Harry Truman to the Texas cretin George W. Bush, not to mention the peanut farmer Jimmy Carter and the B-movie actor Ronald Reagan, the White House offers us a gallery of nincompoops. Only John F. Kennedy, in the eyes of the French, rose a little above this undistinguished bunch, probably because he had the merit of having married someone of French extraction; naturally, this union could not fail to raise President Kennedy’s intelligence to at least average level — but doubtless still too high for his fellow citizens, who never forgave him and ended up assassinating him.
    Jean-François Revel, “Europe’s Anti-American Obsession” (2003)
    Jack ought to show a little less profile and a little more courage.
    Former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, quoted in James C. Humes’s My Fellow Americans: Presidential Addresses that Shaped History (1992).
    I was charmed and delighted by Kennedy personally, and certainly he was intelligent. But any man who gave us an invasion of Cuba, a missile crisis, and the war in Vietnam in 1,000 days — give him another 1,000 days, and we would be irradiated atoms in space. No, he was a mistake as president.
    Gore Vidal, quoted in I Told You So: Gore Vidal Talks Politics: Interviews with Jon Wiener (2013).
    He was in my view the most dangerous cold warrior that we have had since the end of World War II.
    Historian Richard Walton, “Kennedy Remembered”, Newsweek, November 28, 1983.
    External links

    The White House Biography
    John F. Kennedy Library
    John F. Kennedy at the Notable Names Database
    Address to the Greater Houston Ministerial Association, at the Rice Hotel in Houston, Texas (12 September 1960)
    Video, Audio, Text of John F. Kennedy’s Inaugural Address
    World Peace Speech at The American University (10 June 1963)
    Video footage of John F. Kennedy
    John F. Kennedy Birthplace National Historic Site
    JFK at the Avalon Project
    JFK’s Secret White House Recordings @ University of Virginia’s Miller Center of Public Affairs
    Kennedy Administration Official Documentary Historical Record of Major Foreign Policy Decisions
    Armigerous American Presidents Series
    The JFK Years And Popular Culture
    Audio clips of Kennedy’s speeches and other commentary
    JFK Reloaded — Recreate the assassination of JFK
    InnerVIEWS with Ernie Manouse: Nelley Connally (TV Interview with an eye witness of the Kennedy assassination)
    Assassination of President Kennedy Encyclopaedia
    McAdams website about JFK
    Facts and Fiction in the Kennedy Assassination
    John F. Kennedy in United States Census Records
    Medical and Health history of John F. Kennedy
    Works by John F. Kennedy at Project Gutenberg
    St. John the Liberal?
    Biographical Directory of the U.S. Congress
    John F. Kennedy Audio Soundboard
    Gretchen Rubin radio interview: November 4, 2005 on Up To Date
    John F. Kennedy’s inaugural address: from the National Archives
    Presidents of the United States
    Archive.org collection of audio recordings

  • Divine Comedy

    Front Cover.jpg
    ‘Climb with me the steep…..’

    Keats, sonnet ‘O Solitude!’ line 3.
    The Divine Comedy

    Dante bust.jpg

    DANTE ALIGHIERI

    A Translation into English Prose

    by A. S. KLINE

    Published in Entirety with Index, Notes

    & Illustrations by GUSTAVE DORÉ

    POETRY IN TRANSLATION

    www.poetryintranslation.com

    © Copyright 2000 A. S. Kline

    Cover design by Poetry in Translation

    All rights reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions.

    This work MAY be FREELY reproduced, stored and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any NON-COMMERCIAL purpose. Usage of any material for commercial purposes resulting in direct, indirect or incidental commercial gain requires permission to be sought and granted in writing from the copyright holder

    Any statements or opinions expressed in this book reflect the views of the author alone. Although the author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at the time of going to press, the author does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause

    Please direct sales or editorial enquiries to:

    tonykline@poetryintranslation.com

    logo.png

    This digital edition is published by Poetry In Translation (www.poetryintranslation.com)

    ISBN-10: 1502732777

    ISBN-13: 978-1502732774

    Contents

    The Text is fully hyper-linked to the index and notes and vice versa. Each Canto is arranged in paragraphs, with each paragraph headed by the corresponding line reference in the Italian text.

    The Inferno

    The Purgatorio

    The Paradiso

    Index

    Notes to the Inferno

    Notes to the Purgatorio

    Notes to the Paradiso

    The Inferno

    Contents

    Inferno Canto I:1-60 The Dark Wood and the Hill
    Inferno Canto I:61-99 Dante meets Virgil
    Inferno Canto I:100-111 The salvation of Italy
    Inferno Canto I:112-136 Virgil will be his guide through Hell
    Inferno Canto II:1-42 Dante’s doubts as to his fitness for the journey
    Inferno Canto II:43-93 Virgil explains his mission:Beatrice
    Inferno Canto II:94-120 The Virgin sends Lucia to Beatrice
    Inferno Canto II:121-142 Virgil strengthens Dante’s will
    Inferno Canto III:1-21 The Gate of Hell
    Inferno Canto III:22-69 The spiritually neutral
    Inferno Canto III:58-69 Their punishment
    Inferno Canto III:70-99 Charon, the ferryman of the Acheron
    Inferno Canto III:100-136 The souls by the shore of Acheron
    Inferno Canto IV:1-63 The First Circle: Limbo:The Heathens
    Inferno Canto IV:64-105 The Great Poets
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129 The Heroes and Heroines
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151 The Philosophers and other great spirits
    Inferno Canto V:1-51 The Second Circle:Minos:The Carnal Sinners
    Inferno Canto V:52-72 Virgil names the sinners
    Inferno Canto V:70-142 Paolo and Francesca
    Inferno Canto VI:1-33 The Third Circle: Cerberus: The Gluttonous
    Inferno Canto VI:34-63 Ciacco, the glutton.
    Inferno Canto VI:64-93 Ciacco’s prophecy concerning Florence
    Inferno Canto VI:94-115 Virgil speaks of The Day of Judgement
    Inferno Canto VII:1-39 The Fourth Circle: Plutus: The Avaricious
    Inferno Canto VII:40-66 The avaricious and prodigal churchmen
    Inferno Canto VII:67-99 Virgil speaks about Fortune
    Inferno Canto VII:100-130 The Styx: They view the Fifth Circle
    Inferno Canto VIII:1-30 The Fifth Circle: Phlegyas: The Wrathful
    Inferno Canto VIII:31-63 They meet Filippo Argenti
    Inferno Canto VIII:64-81 They approach the city of Dis
    Inferno Canto VIII:82-130 The fallen Angels obstruct them
    Inferno Canto IX:1-33 Dante asks about precedents
    Inferno Canto IX:34-63 The Furies (Conscience) and Medusa (Obduracy)
    Inferno Canto IX:64-105 The Messenger from Heaven
    Inferno Canto IX:106-133 The Sixth Circle: Dis: The Heretics
    Inferno Canto X:1-21 Epicurus and his followers
    Inferno Canto X:22-51 Farinata degli Uberti
    Inferno Canto X:52-72 Cavalcante Cavalcanti
    Inferno Canto X:73-93 Farinata prophesies Dante’s long exile
    Inferno Canto X:94-136 The prophetic vision of the damned
    Inferno Canto XI:1-66 The structure of Hell: The Lower Circles
    Inferno Canto XI:67-93 The structure of Hell: The Upper Circles
    Inferno Canto XI:94-115 Virgil explains usury
    Inferno Canto XII:1-27 Above the Seventh Circle: The Minotaur
    Inferno Canto XII:28-48 The descent to the Seventh Circle
    Inferno Canto XII:49-99 The First Ring: The Centaurs: The Violent
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139 The Tyrants, Murderers and Warriors
    Inferno Canto XIII:1-30 The Second Ring: The Harpies: The Suicides
    Inferno Canto XIII:31-78 The Wood of Suicides: Pier delle Vigne
    Inferno Canto XIII:79-108 The fate of The Suicides
    Inferno Canto XIII:109-129 Lano Maconi and Jacomo da Sant’ Andrea
    Inferno Canto XIII:130-151 The unnamed Florentine
    Inferno Canto XIV:1-42 The Third Ring: The Violent against God
    Inferno Canto XIV:43-72 Capaneus
    Inferno Canto XIV:73-120 The Old Man of Crete
    Inferno Canto XIV:121-142 The Rivers Phlegethon and Lethe
    Inferno Canto XV:1-42 The Violent against Nature: Brunetto Latini
    Inferno Canto XV:43-78 Brunetto’s prophecy
    Inferno Canto XV:79-99 Dante accepts his fate
    Inferno Canto XV:100-124 Brunetto names some of his companions
    Inferno Canto XVI:1-45 Rusticucci, Guido Guerra, Aldobrandi
    Inferno Canto XVI:46-87 The condition of Florence
    Inferno Canto XVI:88-136 The monster Geryon
    Inferno Canto XVII:1-30 The poets approach Geryon
    Inferno Canto XVII:31-78 The Usurers
    Inferno Canto XVII:79-136 The poets descend on Geryon’s back
    Inferno Canto XVIII:1-21 The Eighth Circle: Malebolge: Simple Fraud
    Inferno Canto XVIII:22-39 The First Chasm: The Pimps and Seducers
    Inferno Canto XVIII:40-66 The Panders: Venedico de’ Caccianemico
    Inferno Canto XVIII:67-99 The Seducers: Jason
    Inferno Canto XVIII:100-136 The Second Chasm: The Flatterers
    Inferno Canto XIX:1-30 The Third Chasm: The Sellers of Sacred Offices
    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87 Pope Nicholas III
    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133 Dante speaks against Simony
    Inferno Canto XX:1-30 The Fourth Chasm: The Seers and Sorcerers
    Inferno Canto XX:31-51 The Seers
    Inferno Canto XX:52-99 Manto and the founding of Mantua
    Inferno Canto XX:100-130 The Soothsayers and Astrologers
    Inferno Canto XXI:1-30 The Fifth Chasm: The Sellers of Public Offices
    Inferno Canto XXI:31-58 The Barrators
    Inferno Canto XXI:59-96 Virgil challenges the Demons’ threats
    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139 The Demons escort the Poets
    Inferno Canto XXII:1-30 The Poets view more of the Fifth Chasm
    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75 Ciampolo
    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96 Ciampolo names other Barrators
    Inferno Canto XXII:97-123 Ciampolo breaks free of the Demons
    Inferno Canto XXII:124-151 The Malebranche quarrel
    Inferno Canto XXIII:1-57 The Sixth Chasm: The Hypocrites
    Inferno Canto XXIII:58-81 The Hypocrites
    Inferno Canto XXIII:82-126 The Frauti Gaudenti: Caiaphas
    Inferno Canto XXIII:127-148 The Poets leave the Sixth Chasm
    Inferno Canto XXIV:1-60 The Poets climb up: Virgil exhorts Dante
    Inferno Canto XXIV:61-96 The Seventh Chasm: The Thieves
    Inferno Canto XXIV:97-129 Vanni Fucci and the serpent
    Inferno Canto XXIV:130-151 Vanni Fucci’s prophecy
    Inferno Canto XXV:1-33 Cacus
    Inferno Canto XXV:34-78 Cianfa and Agnello
    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151 Buoso degli Abati and Francesco
    Inferno Canto XXVI:1-42 The Eighth Chasm: The Evil Counsellors
    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84 Ulysses and Diomede
    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142 Ulysses’s last voyage
    Inferno Canto XXVII:1-30 Guido Da Montefeltro
    Inferno Canto XXVII:31-57 The situation in Romagna
    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136 Guido’s history
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:1-21 The Ninth Chasm: The Sowers of Discord
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:22-54 Mahomet: the Caliph Ali
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:55-90 Pier della Medicina and others
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:91-111 Curio and Mosca
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:112-142 Bertrand de Born
    Inferno Canto XXIX:1-36 Geri del Bello
    Inferno Canto XXIX:37-72 The Tenth Chasm: The Falsifiers
    Inferno Canto XXIX:73-99 Griffolino and Capocchio
    Inferno Canto XXIX:100-120 Griffolino’s narrative
    Inferno Canto XXIX:121-139 The Spendthrift Brigade
    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48 Schicci and Myrrha
    Inferno Canto XXX:49-90 Adam of Brescia
    Inferno Canto XXX:91-129 Sinon: Potiphar’s wife
    Inferno Canto XXX:130-148 Virgil reproves Dante
    Inferno Canto XXXI:1-45 The Giants that guard the central pit
    Inferno Canto XXXI:46-81 Nimrod
    Inferno Canto XXXI:82-96 Ephialtes
    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145 Antaeus
    Inferno Canto XXXII:1-39 The Ninth Circle: The frozen River Cocytus
    Inferno Canto XXXII:40-69 The Caïna: The degli Alberti: Camicion
    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123 The Antenora: Bocca degli Abbati
    Inferno Canto XXXII:124-139 Ugolino and Ruggieri
    Inferno Canto XXXIII:1-90 Count Ugolino’s story
    Inferno Canto XXXIII:91-157 Friar Alberigo and Branca d’Oria
    Inferno Canto XXXIV:1-54 The Judecca: Satan
    Inferno Canto XXXIV:55-69 Judas: Brutus: Cassius
    Inferno Canto XXXIV:70-139 The Poets leave Hell
    Inferno Canto I:1-60 The Dark Wood and the Hill

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 1, 2

    In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself, in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost. It is a hard thing to speak of, how wild, harsh and impenetrable that wood was, so that thinking of it recreates the fear. It is scarcely less bitter than death: but, in order to tell of the good that I found there, I must tell of the other things I saw there.
    I cannot rightly say how I entered it. I was so full of sleep, at that point where I abandoned the true way. But when I reached the foot of a hill, where the valley, that had pierced my heart with fear, came to an end, I looked up and saw its shoulders brightened with the rays of that sun that leads men rightly on every road. Then the fear, that had settled in the lake of my heart, through the night that I had spent so miserably, became a little calmer. And as a man, who, with panting breath, has escaped from the deep sea to the shore, turns back towards the perilous waters and stares, so my mind, still fugitive, turned back to see that pass again, that no living person ever left.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 1, 5

    After I had rested my tired body a while, I made my way again over empty ground, always bearing upwards to the right. And, behold, almost at the start of the slope, a light swift leopard with spotted coat. It would not turn from before my face, and so obstructed my path, that I often turned, in order to return.

    The time was at the beginning of the morning, and the sun was mounting up with all those stars, that were with him when Divine Love first moved all delightful things, so that the hour of day, and the sweet season, gave me fair hopes of that creature with the bright pelt. But not so fair that I could avoid fear at the sight of a lion, that appeared, and seemed to come at me, with raised head and rabid hunger, so that it seemed the air itself was afraid; and a she-wolf that looked full of craving in its leanness, and, before now, has made many men live in sadness. She brought me such heaviness of fear, from the aspect of her face, that I lost all hope of ascending. And as one who is eager for gain, weeps, and is afflicted in his thoughts, if the moment arrives when he loses, so that creature, without rest, made me like him: and coming at me, little by little, drove me back to where the sun is silent.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 1, 7

    Inferno Canto I:61-99 Dante meets Virgil

    While I was returning to the depths, one appeared, in front of my eyes, who seemed hoarse from long silence. When I saw him, in the great emptiness, I cried out to him ‘Have pity on me, whoever you are, whether a man, in truth, or a shadow!’ He answered me: ‘Not a man: but a man I once was, and my parents were Lombards, and both of them, by their native place, Mantuans.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 1, 11

    I was born sub Julio though late, and lived in Rome, under the good Augustus, in the age of false, deceitful gods. I was a poet, and sang of Aeneas, that virtuous son of Anchises, who came from Troy when proud Ilium was burned. But you, why do you turn back towards such pain? Why do you not climb the delightful mountain, that is the origin and cause of all joy?’

    I answered him, with a humble expression: ‘Are you then that Virgil, and that fountain, that pours out so great a river of speech? O, glory and light to other poets, may that long study, and the great love, that made me scan your work, be worth something now. You are my master, and my author: you alone are the one from whom I learnt the high style that has brought me honour. See the creature that I turned back from: O, sage, famous in wisdom, save me from her, she that makes my veins and my pulse tremble.’

    When he saw me weeping, he answered: ‘You must go another road, if you wish to escape this savage place. This creature, that distresses you, allows no man to cross her path, but obstructs him, to destroy him, and she has so vicious and perverse a nature, that she never sates her greedy appetite, and after food is hungrier than before.’

    Inferno Canto I:100-111 The salvation of Italy

    ‘Many are the creatures she mates with, and there will be many more, until the Greyhound comes who will make her die in pain. He will not feed himself on land or wealth, but on wisdom, love and virtue, and his birthplace will lie between Feltro and Feltro. He will be the salvation of that lower Italy for which virgin Camilla died of wounds, and Euryalus, Turnus, and Nisus. He will chase the she-wolf through every city, until he has returned her to Hell, from which envy first loosed her.’

    Inferno Canto I:112-136 Virgil will be his guide through Hell

    ‘It is best, as I think and understand, for you to follow me, and I will be your guide, and lead you from here through an eternal space where you will hear the desparate shouts, will see the ancient spirits in pain, so that each one cries out for a second death: and then you will see others at peace in the flames, because they hope to come, whenever it may be, among the blessed. Then if you desire to climb to them, there will be a spirit, fitter than I am, to guide you, and I will leave you with her, when we part, since the Lord, who rules above, does not wish me to enter his city, because I was rebellious to his law.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 1, 15

    He is lord everywhere, but there he rules, and there is his city, and his high throne: O, happy is he, whom he chooses to go there!’

    And I to him: ‘Poet, I beg you, by the God, you did not acknowledge, lead me where you said, so that I might escape this evil or worse, and see the Gate of St. Peter, and those whom you make out to be so saddened.’

    Then he moved: and I moved on behind him.

    Inferno Canto II:1-42 Dante’s doubts as to his fitness for the journey

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 2, 17

    The day was going, and the dusky air was freeing the creatures of the earth, from their labours, and I, one, alone, prepared myself to endure the inner war, of the journey and its pity, that the mind, without error, shall recall.
    O Muses, O high invention, aid me, now! O memory, that has engraved what I saw, here your nobility will be shown.

    I began: ‘Poet, who guides me, examine my virtue, see if I am fitting, before you trust me to the steep way. You say that Aeneas, the father of Sylvius, while still corruptible flesh, went to the eternal world, and in his senses. But if God, who opposes every evil, was gracious to him, thinking of the noble consequence, of who and what should derive from him, then that does not seem unreasonable to a man of intellect, since he was chosen to be the father of benign Rome, and of her empire. Both of them were founded as a sacred place, where the successor of the great Peter is enthroned. By that journey, by which you graced him, Aeneas learned things that were the source of his victory and of the Papal Mantle. Afterwards Paul, the Chosen Vessel, went there, to bring confirmation of the faith that is the entrance to the way of salvation.

    But why should I go there? Who allows it? I am not Aeneas: I am not Paul. Neither I, nor others, think me worthy of it. So, if I resign myself to going, I fear that going there may prove foolish: you know, and understand, better than I can say.’ And I rendered myself, on that dark shore, like one who un-wishes what he wished, and changes his purpose, in new thinking, so that he leaves off what he began, completely, since in thought I consumed action, that had been so ready to begin.

    Inferno Canto II:43-93 Virgil explains his mission:Beatrice

    The ghost of the generous poet replied: ‘If I have understood your words correctly, your spirit is attacked by cowardly fear, that often weighs men down, so that it deflects them from honourable action, like a creature seeing phantoms in the dusk. That you may shake off this dread yourself, I will tell you why I came, and what I heard at the first moment when I took pity on you.
    I was among those, in Limbo, in suspense, and a lady called to me, she so beautiful, so blessed, that I begged her to command me. Her eyes shone more brightly than the stars, and she began to speak, gently, quietly, in an angelic voice, in her language: ‘O noble Mantuan spirit, whose fame still endures in the world, and will endure as long as time endures, my friend, not fortune’s friend, is so obstructed in his way, along the desert strand, that he turns back in terror, and I fear he is already so far lost, that I have started too late to his aid, from what I heard of him in heaven. Now go, and help him so, with your eloquence, and with whatever is needed for his relief, that I may be comforted. I am Beatrice, who asks you to go: I come from a place, I long to return to: love moved me that made me speak. When I am before my Lord, I will often praise you to him.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 2, 21

    Then she was silent, and I began: ‘O lady of virtue, in whom, alone, humanity exceeds all that is contained in the lunar heaven, which has the smallest sphere, your command is so pleasing to me, that, obeying, were it done already, it were done too slow: you have no need to explain your wishes further. But tell me why you do not hesitate to descend here, to this centre below, from the wide space you burn to return to.’

    She replied: ‘Since you wish to know, I will tell you this much, briefly, of why I do not fear to enter here. Those things that have the power to hurt are to be feared: not those other things that are not fearful. I am made such, by God’s grace, that your suffering does not touch me, nor does the fire of this burning scorch me.’

    Inferno Canto II:94-120 The Virgin sends Lucia to Beatrice

    ‘There is a gentle lady in heaven, who has such compassion, for this trouble I send you to relieve, that she overrules the strict laws on high. She called Lucia, to carry out her request, and said: “Now, he who is faithful to you, needs you, and I commend him to you.” Lucia, who is opposed to all cruelty, rose and came to the place where I was, where I sat with that Rachel of antiquity. Lucia said: “Beatrice, God’s true praise, why do you not help him, who loved you, so intensely, he left behind the common crowd for you? Do you not hear how pitiful his grief is? Do you not see the spiritual death that comes to meet him, on that dark river, over which the sea has no power?”
    No one on earth was ever as quick to search for their good, or run from harm, as I to descend, from my blessed place, after these words were spoken, and place my faith in your true speech, that honours you and those who hear it.’ She turned away, with tears in her bright eyes, after saying this to me, and made me, by that, come here all the quicker: and so I came to you, as she wished, and rescued you in the face of that wild creature, that denied you the shortest path to the lovely mountain.’

    Inferno Canto II:121-142 Virgil strengthens Dante’s will

    ‘What is it then? Why, do you hold back? Why? Why let such cowardly fear into your heart? Why, when three such blessed ladies, in the courts of heaven, care for you, and my words promise you so much good, are you not free and ardent?’
    As the flowers, bent down and closed, by the night’s cold, erect themselves, all open, on their stems, when the sun shines on them, so I rose from weakened courage: and so fine an ardour coursed through my heart, that I began to speak, like one who is freed: ‘O she, who pities, who helps me, and you, so gentle, who swiftly obeyed the true words she commanded, you have filled my heart with such desire, by what you have said, to go forward, that I have turned back to my first purpose.

    Go now, for the two of us have but one will, you, the guide, the lord, the master.’ So I spoke to him, and he going on, I entered on the steep, tree-shadowed, way.

    Inferno Canto III:1-21 The Gate of Hell

    THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE INFERNAL CITY:
    THROUGH ME THE WAY TO ETERNAL SADNESS:
    THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE LOST PEOPLE.

    JUSTICE MOVED MY SUPREME MAKER:
    I WAS SHAPED BY DIVINE POWER,
    BY HIGHEST WISDOM, AND BY PRIMAL LOVE.

    BEFORE ME, NOTHING WAS CREATED,
    THAT IS NOT ETERNAL: AND ETERNAL I ENDURE.
    FORSAKE ALL HOPE, ALL YOU THAT ENTER HERE.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 3, 27

    These were the words, with their dark colour, that I saw written above the gate, at which I said: ‘Master, their meaning, to me, is hard.’ And he replied to me, as one who knows: ‘Here, all uncertainty must be left behind: all cowardice must be dead. We have come to the place where I told you that you would see the sad people who have lost the good of the intellect.’ And placing his hand on mine, with a calm expression, that comforted me, he led me towards the hidden things.

    Inferno Canto III:22-69 The spiritually neutral

    Here sighs, complaints, and deep groans, sounded through the starless air, so that it made me weep at first. Many tongues, a terrible crying, words of sadness, accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse, with sounds of hands amongst them, making a turbulence that turns forever, in that air, stained, eternally, like sand spiralling in a whirlwind. And I, my head surrounded by the horror, said: ‘Master, what is this I hear, and what race are these, that seem so overcome by suffering?’
    And he to me: ‘This is the miserable mode in which those exist, who lived without praise, without blame. They are mixed in with the despised choir of angels, those not rebellious, not faithful to God, but for themselves. Heaven drove them out, to maintain its beauty, and deep Hell does not accept them, lest the evil have glory over them.’ And I: ‘Master, what is so heavy on them, that makes them moan so deeply?’ He replied: ‘I will tell you, briefly. They have no hope of death, and their darkened life is so mean that they are envious of every other fate. Earth allows no mention of them to exist: mercy and justice reject them: let us not talk of them, but look and pass.’

    And I, who looked back, saw a banner, that twirling round, moved so quickly, that it seemed to me scornful of any pause, and behind it came so long a line of people, I never would have believed that death had undone so many.

    Inferno Canto III:58-69 Their punishment

    When I had recognised some among them, I saw and knew the shade of him who from cowardice made ‘the great refusal’. Immediately I understood that this was the despicable crew, hateful to God and his enemies. These wretches, who never truly lived, were naked, and goaded viciously by hornets, and wasps, there, making their faces stream with blood, that, mixed with tears, was collected, at their feet, by loathsome worms.

    Inferno Canto III:70-99 Charon, the ferryman of the Acheron

    And then, as I looked onwards, I saw people on the bank of a great river, at which I said: ‘Master, now let me understand who these are, and what custom makes them so ready to cross over, as I can see by the dim light.’ And he to me: ‘The thing will be told you, when we halt our steps, on the sad strand of Acheron.’ Then, fearing that my words might have offended him, I stopped myself from speaking, with eyes ashamed and downcast, till we had reached the flood.
    And see, an old man, with white hoary locks, came towards us in a boat, shouting: ‘Woe to you, wicked spirits! Never hope to see heaven: I come to carry you to the other shore, into eternal darkness, into fire and ice. And you, who are there, a living spirit, depart from those who are dead.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 3, 31

    But when he saw that I did not depart, he said: ‘By other ways, by other means of passage, you will cross to the shore: a quicker boat must carry you.’ And my guide said to him: ‘Charon, do not vex yourself: it is willed there, where what is willed is done: ask no more.’ Then the bearded mouth, of the ferryman of the livid marsh, who had wheels of flame round his eyes, was stilled.

    Inferno Canto III:100-136 The souls by the shore of Acheron

    But those spirits, who were naked and weary, altered colour, and gnashed their teeth, when they heard his former, cruel words. They blasphemed against God, and their parents, the human species, the place, time, and seed of their conception, and of their birth. Then, all together, weeping bitterly, they neared the cursed shore that waits for every one who has no fear of God.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 3, 35

    Charon, the demon, with eyes of burning coal, beckoning, gathers them all: and strikes with his oar whoever lingers. As the autumn leaves fall, one after another, till the branches see all their spoilage on the ground, so, one by one, the evil seed of Adam, threw themselves down from the bank when signalled, like the falcon at its call. So they vanish on the dark water, and before they have landed over there, over here a fresh crowd collects.

    The courteous Master said: ‘My son, those who die subject to God’s anger, all gather here, from every country, and they are quick to cross the river, since divine justice goads them on, so that their fear is turned to desire. This way no good spirit ever passes, and so if Charon complains at you, you can well understand, now, the meaning of his words.

    When he had ended, the gloomy ground trembled so violently, that the memory of my terror still drenches me with sweat. The weeping earth gave vent, and flashed with crimson light, overpowering all my senses, and I fell, like a man overcome by sleep.

    Inferno Canto IV:1-63 The First Circle: Limbo:The Heathens

    A heavy thunder shattered the deep sleep in my head, so that I came to myself, like someone woken by force, and standing up, I moved my eyes, now refreshed, and looked round, steadily, to find out what place I was in. I found myself, in truth, on the brink of the valley of the sad abyss that gathers the thunder of an infinite howling. It was so dark, and deep, and clouded, that I could see nothing by staring into its depths.
    The poet, white of face, began: ‘Now, let us descend into the blind world below: I will go first, and you go second.’ And I, who saw his altered colour, said: ‘How can I go on, if you are afraid, who are my comfort when I hesitate?’ And he to me: ‘The anguish of the people, here below, brings that look of pity to my face, that you mistake for fear. Let us go, for the length of our journey demands it.’ So he entered, and so he made me enter, into the first circle that surrounds the abyss.

    Here there was no sound to be heard, except the sighing, that made the eternal air tremble, and it came from the sorrow of the vast and varied crowds of children, of women, and of men, free of torment. The good Master said to me: ‘You do not demand to know who these spirits are that you see. I want you to learn, before you go further, that they had no sin, yet, though they have worth, it is not sufficient, because they were not baptised, and baptism is the gateway to the faith that you believe in. Since they lived before Christianity, they did not worship God correctly, and I myself am one of them. For this defect, and for no other fault, we are lost, and we are only tormented, in that without hope we live in desire.’

    When I heard this, great sadness gripped my heart, because I knew of people of great value, who must be suspended in that Limbo. Wishing to be certain in that faith that overcomes every error, I began: ‘Tell me my Master, tell me, sir, did anyone ever go from here, through his own merit or because of others’ merit, who afterwards was blessed?’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 4, 39

    And he, understanding my veiled question, replied: ‘I was new to this state, when I saw a great one come here crowned with the sign of victory. He took from us the shade of Adam, our first parent, of his son Abel, and that of Noah, of Moses the lawgiver, and Abraham, the obedient Patriarch, King David, Jacob with his father Isaac, and his children, and Rachel, for whom he laboured so long, and many others, and made them blessed, and I wish you to know that no human souls were saved before these.

    Inferno Canto IV:64-105 The Great Poets

    We did not cease moving, though he was speaking, but passed the wood meanwhile, the wood, I say, of crowded spirits. We had not gone far from where I slept, when I saw a flame that overcame a hemisphere of shadows. We were still some way from it, but not so far that I failed to discern in part what noble people occupied that place.
    ‘O you, who value every science and art, who are these, who have such honour that they stand apart from all the rest?’ And he to me: ‘Their fame, that sounds out for them, honoured in that life of yours, brings them heaven’s grace that advances them.’ Meanwhile I heard a voice: ‘Honour the great poet: his departed shade returns.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 4, 43

    After the voice had paused, and was quiet, I saw four great shadows come towards us, with faces that were neither sad nor happy. The good Master began to speak: ‘Take note of him, with a sword in hand, who comes in front of the other three, as if he were their lord: that is Homer, the sovereign poet: next Horace the satirist: Ovid is the third, and last is Lucan. Because each is worthy, with me, of that name the one voice sounded, they do me honour, and, in doing so, do good.’

    So I saw gathered together the noble school, of the lord of highest song, who soars, like an eagle, above the rest. After they had talked for a while amongst themselves, they turned towards me with a sign of greeting, at which my Master smiled. And they honoured me further still, since they made me one of their company, so that I made a sixth among the wise.

    So we went onwards to the light, speaking of things about which it is best to be silent, just as it was best to speak of them, where I was.

    Inferno Canto IV:106-129 The Heroes and Heroines

    We came to the base of a noble castle; surrounded seven times by a high wall; defended by a beautiful, encircling, stream. This we crossed as if it were solid earth: I entered through seven gates, with the wise: we reached a meadow of fresh turf. The people there were of great authority in appearance, with calm, and serious looks, speaking seldom, and then with soft voices. We moved to one side, into an open space, bright and high, so that every one, of them all, could be seen. There, on the green enamel, the great spirits were pointed out to me, directly, so that I feel exalted, inside me, at having seen them.
    I saw Electra with many others, amongst whom I knew Hector, Aeneas and Caesar, armed, with his eagle eye. I saw Camilla and Penthesilea, on the other side, and the King of Latium, Latinus, with Lavinia his daughter. I saw that Brutus who expelled Tarquin, Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia, and I saw Saladin, by himself, apart.

    Inferno Canto IV:130-151 The Philosophers and other great spirits

    When I lifted my eyes a little higher, I saw the Master of those who know, Aristotle, sitting amongst the company of philosophers. All gaze at him: all show him honour. There I saw Socrates, and Plato, who stand nearest to him of all of them; Democritus, who ascribes the world to chance, Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales; Empedocles, Heraclitus, and Zeno; and I saw the good collector of the qualities of plants, I mean Dioscorides: and saw Orpheus, Cicero, Linus, and Seneca the moralist; Euclid the geometer, and Ptolemaeus; Hippocrates, Avicenna, and Galen; and Averrhoës, who wrote the vast commentary.
    I cannot speak of them all in full, because the great theme drives me on, so that the word falls, many times, short of the fact. The six companions reduce to two: the wise guide leads me, by another path, out of the quiet, into the trembling air, and I come to a region, where nothing shines.

    Inferno Canto V:1-51 The Second Circle:Minos:The Carnal Sinners

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 5, 47

    So I descended from the first circle to the second, that encloses a smaller space, and so much more pain it provokes howling. There Minos stands, grinning horribly, examines the crimes on entrance, judges, and sends the guilty down as far as is signified by his coils: I mean that when the evil-born spirit comes before him, it confesses everything, and that knower of sins decides the proper place in hell for it, and makes as many coils with his tail, as the circles he will force it to descend. A multitude always stand before him, and go in turn to be judged, speak and hear, and then are whirled downwards.
    When Minos saw me, passing by the actions of his great office, he said: ‘O you, who come to the house of pain, take care how you enter, and in whom you trust, do not let the width of the entrance deceive you.’ And my guide replied: ‘Why do you cry out? Do not obstruct his destined journey: so it is willed, where what is willed is done: demand no more.’ Now the mournful notes begin to reach me: now I come where much sorrowing hurts me.

    I came to a place devoid of light, that moans like a tempestuous sea, when it is buffeted by warring winds. The hellish storm that never ceases drives the spirits with its force, and, whirling and striking, it molests them. When they come to the ruins there are shouts, moaning and crying, where they blaspheme against divine power. I learnt that the carnal sinners are condemned to these torments, they who subject their reason to their lust.

    And, as their wings carry the starlings, in a vast, crowded flock, in the cold season, so that wind carries the wicked spirits, and leads them here and there, and up and down. No hope of rest, or even lesser torment, comforts them. And as the cranes go, making their sounds, forming a long flight, of themselves, in the air, so I saw the shadows come, moaning, carried by that war of winds, at which I said: ‘Master, who are these people, that the black air chastises so?’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 5, 51

    Inferno Canto V:52-72 Virgil names the sinners

    He replied: ‘The first, of those you wish to know of, was Empress of many languages, so corrupted by the vice of luxury, that she made licence lawful in her code, to clear away the guilt she had incurred. She is Semiramis, of whom we read, that she succeeded Ninus, and was his wife: she held the countries that the Sultan rules.
    The next is Dido who killed herself for love, and broke faith with Sichaeus’s ashes: then comes licentious Cleopatra. See Helen, for whom, so long, the mills of war revolved: and see the great Achilles, who fought in the end with love, of Polyxena. See Paris; Tristan; and he pointed out more than a thousand shadows with his finger, naming, for me, those whom love had severed from life.

    Inferno Canto V:70-142 Paolo and Francesca

    After I had heard my teacher name the ancient knights and ladies, pity overcame me, and I was as if dazed. I began: ‘Poet, I would speak, willingly, to those two who go together, and seem so light upon the wind.’ And he to me: ‘You will see, when they are nearer to us, you can beg them, then, by the love that leads them, and they will come.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 5, 53

    As soon as the wind brought them to us, I raised my voice: ‘O weary souls, come and talk with us, if no one prevents it.’ As doves, claimed by desire, fly steadily, with raised wings, through the air, to their sweet nest, carried by the will, so the spirits flew from the crowd where Dido is, coming towards us through malignant air, such was the power of my affecting call.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 5, 57

    ‘O gracious and benign living creature, that comes to visit us, through the dark air, if the universe’s king were our friend, we, who tainted the earth with blood, would beg him to give you peace, since you take pity on our sad misfortune. While the wind, as now, is silent, we will hear you and speak to you, of what you are pleased to listen to and talk of.

    The place where I was born is by the shore, where the River Po runs down to rest at peace, with his attendant streams. Love, that is quickly caught in the gentle heart, filled him with my fair form, now lost to me, and the nature of that love still afflicts me. Love, that allows no loved one to be excused from loving, seized me so fiercely with desire for him, it still will not leave me, as you can see. Love led us to one death. Caïna, in the ninth circle waits, for him who quenched our life.’

    These words carried to us, from them. After I had heard those troubled spirits, I bowed my head, and kept it bowed, until the poet said: ‘What are you thinking?’ When I replied, I began: ‘O, alas, what sweet thoughts, what longing, brought them to this sorrowful state? Then I turned to them again, and I spoke, and said: ‘Francesca, your torment makes me weep with grief and pity. But tell me, in that time of sweet sighs, how did love allow you to know these dubious desires?’

    And she to me: ‘There is no greater pain, than to remember happy times in misery, and this your teacher knows. But if you have so great a yearning to understand the first root of our love, I will be like one who weeps and tells. We read, one day, to our delight, of Lancelot and how love constrained him: we were alone and without suspicion. Often those words urged our eyes to meet, and coloured our cheeks, but it was a single moment that undid us. When we read how that lover kissed the beloved smile, he who will never be separated from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. That book was a Galeotto, a pandar, and he who wrote it: that day we read no more.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 5, 61

    While the one spirit spoke, the other wept, so that I fainted out of pity, and, as if I were dying, fell, as a dead body falls.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 5, 63

    Inferno Canto VI:1-33 The Third Circle: Cerberus: The Gluttonous

    When my senses return, that closed themselves off from pity of those two kindred, who stunned me with complete sadness, I see around me new torments, and new tormented souls, wherever I move, or turn, and wherever I gaze. I am in the third circle, of eternal, accursed, cold and heavy rain: its kind and quality is never new. Large hail, tainted water, and sleet, pour down through the shadowy air: and the earth is putrid that receives it.
    Cerberus, the fierce and strange monster, triple-throated, barks dog-like over the people submerged in it. His eyes are crimson, his beard is foul and black, his belly vast, and his limbs are clawed: he snatches the spirits, flays, and quarters them. The rain makes them howl like dogs: they protect one flank with the other: often writhing: miserable wretches.

    When Cerberus, the great worm, saw us, he opened his jaws, and showed his fangs: not a limb of his stayed still. My guide, stretching out his hands, grasped earth, and hurled it in fistfuls into his ravening mouth. Like a dog that whines for food, and grows quiet when he eats it, only fighting and struggling to devour it, so did demon Cerberus’s loathsome muzzles that bark, like thunder, at the spirits, so that they wish that they were deaf.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 6, 67

    Inferno Canto VI:34-63 Ciacco, the glutton.

    We passed over the shades, that the heavy rain subdues, and placed our feet on each empty space that seems a body. They were all lying on the ground but one, who sat up straight away when he saw us cross in front of him: He said to me: ‘O you, who are led through this Inferno, recognise me if you can: you were made before I was unmade.’ And I to him: ‘The anguish that you suffer, conceals you perhaps from my memory, so that it seems as if I never knew you. But tell me who you are, that are lodged so sadly, and undergo such punishment, that though there are others greater, none is so unpleasant.’
    And he to me: ‘Your city, Florence, that is so full of envy it overflows, held me in the clear life. You, the citizens, called me Ciacco: and for the damnable sin of gluttony, as you see, I languish beneath the rain: and I am not the only wretched spirit, since all these are punished likewise for like sin. I answered him: ‘Ciacco, your affliction weighs on me, inviting me to weep, but tell me, if you can, what the citizens of that divided city will come to; if any there are just: and the reason why such discord tears it apart.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 6, 69

    Inferno Canto VI:64-93 Ciacco’s prophecy concerning Florence

    And he to me: ‘After long struggle, they will come to blood, and, the Whites, the party of the woods, will throw out the Blacks, with great injury. Within three years, then, it must happen, that the Blacks will conquer, with the help of him, who now veers about. That party will hold its head high for a long time, weighing the Whites down, under heavy oppression, however they weep and however ashamed they are. Two men are just, but are not listened to. Pride, Envy and Avarice are the three burning coals that have set all hearts on fire.’
    Here he ended the mournful prophecy, and I said to him: I want you to instruct me still, and grant me a little more speech. Tell me where Farinata and Tegghiaio are, who were worthy enough, and Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, Mosca, and the rest who set their minds to doing good: let me know of them, for a great longing urges me to discover whether Heaven soothes them, or Hell poisons them.’

    And he to me: ‘They are among the blackest spirits, another crime weighs them to the bottom: if you descend so deep, you may see them. But when you are, again, in the sweet world, I beg you to recall me to other minds: I tell you no more, and more I will not answer.’ At that he turned his fixed gaze askance, and looked at me a while: then, bent his head, and lowered himself, and it, among his blind companions.

    Inferno Canto VI:94-115 Virgil speaks of The Day of Judgement

    And my guide said to me: ‘He will not stir further, until the angelic trumpet sounds, when the Power opposing evil will come: each will revisit his sad grave, resume his flesh and form, and hear what will resound through eternity.’ So we passed over the foul brew of rain and shadows, with slow steps, speaking a little of the future life.
    Of this I asked: ‘Master, will these torments increase, after the great judgement, or lessen, or stay as fierce?’ And he to me: ‘Remember your science, that says, that the more perfect a thing is, the more it feels pleasure and pain. Though these accursed ones will never achieve true perfection, they will be nearer to it after, than before.’

    We circled along that road, speaking of much more than I repeat: we came to the place where the descent begins, where we found Plutus, the god of wealth, the great enemy.

    Inferno Canto VII:1-39 The Fourth Circle: Plutus: The Avaricious

    ‘Pape Satan, pape Satan aleppe,’ Plutus, began to croak, and the gentle sage, who understood all things, comforted me, saying: ‘Do not let fear hurt you, since whatever power he has, he will not prevent you descending this rock.’ Then he turned to that swollen face and said: ‘Peace, evil wolf! Devour yourself inside, in your rage. Our journey to the depths is not without reason: it is willed on high, there where Michael made war on the great dragon’s adulterating pride.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 7, 75

    Like a sail, bellying in the wind, that falls, in a heap, if the mast breaks, so that cruel creature fell to earth. In that way we descended into the fourth circle, taking in a greater width of the dismal bank, that encloses every evil of the universe.

    O Divine Justice! Who can tell the many new pains and troubles, that I saw, and why our guilt so destroys us? As the wave, over Charybdis, strikes against the wave it counters, so the people here are made to dance. I found more people here than elsewhere, on the one side and on the other, rolling weights by pushing with their chests, with loud howling. They struck against each other, and then each wheeled around where they were, rolling the reverse way, shouting: ‘Why do you hold?’ and ‘Why do you throw away.’

    So they returned along the gloomy circle, from either side to the opposite point, shouting again their measure of reproach. Then each one, when he had reached it, wheeled through his half circle onto the other track. And I, who felt as if my heart were pierced, said: ‘My Master, show me now who these people are: and whether all those, with tonsures, on our left were churchmen.’

    Inferno Canto VII:40-66 The avaricious and prodigal churchmen

    And he to me: ‘They were so twisted in mind in their first life, that they made no balanced expenditure. Their voices bark this out most clearly when they come to the two ends of the circle, where opposing sins divide them.
    These were priests, that are without hair on their heads, and Popes and Cardinals, in whom avarice does its worst. And I: ‘Master, surely, amongst this crowd, I ought to recognise some of those tainted with these evils.’ And he to me: ‘You link idle thoughts: the life without knowledge, that made them ignoble, now makes them incapable of being known. They will go butting each other to eternity: and these will rise from their graves with grasping fists, and those with shorn hair.

    Useless giving, and useless keeping, has robbed them of the bright world, and set them to this struggle: what struggle it is, I do not amplify. But you, my son, can see now the vain mockery of the wealth controlled by Fortune, for which the human race fight with each other, since all the gold under the moon, that ever was, could not give peace to one of these weary souls.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 7, 79

    Inferno Canto VII:67-99 Virgil speaks about Fortune

    I said to him: ‘Master, now tell me about Fortune also, that subject you touched on, who is she, who has the wealth of the world in her arms?’ And he to me: ‘O, blind creatures, how great is the ignorance that surrounds you! I want you, now, to hear my judgement of her.
    He whose wisdom transcends all things, made the heavens, and gave them ruling powers, so that each part illuminates the others, distributing the light equally. Similarly he put in place a controller, and a guide, for earthly splendour, to alter, from time to time, idle possession, between nation and nation, and from kin to kin, beyond the schemes of human reason. So one people commands: another wanes, obeying her judgement, she who is concealed, like a snake in the grass.

    Your wisdom cannot comprehend her: she furnishes, adjudicates, and maintains her kingdom, as the other gods do theirs. Her permutations never end: necessity makes her swift: so, often, someone comes who creates change. This is she: so often reviled, even by those who ought to praise her, but, wrongly, blame her, with malicious words. Still, she is in bliss, and does not hear: she spins her globe, joyfully, among the other primal spirits, and tastes her bliss.

    Now let us descend to greater misery: already every star is declining, that was rising when I set out, and we are not allowed to stay too long.’

    Inferno Canto VII:100-130 The Styx: They view the Fifth Circle

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 7, 83

    We crossed the circle to the other bank, near a spring, that boils and pours down, through a gap that it has made. The water was darker than a dark blue-grey, and we entered the descent by a strange path, in company with the dusky waves. This woeful stream forms the marsh called Styx, when it has fallen to the foot of the grey malignant walls. And I who stood there, intent on seeing, saw muddy people in the fen, naked, and all with the look of anger. They were striking each other, not only with hands, but head, chest, and feet, mangling each other with their teeth, bite by bite.
    The kind Master said: ‘Now, son, see the souls of those overcome by anger, and also, I want you to know, in truth, there are people under the water, who sigh, and make it bubble on the surface, as your eye can see whichever way it turns. Fixed in the slime they say: “We were sullen in the sweet air, that is gladdened by the sun, bearing indolent smoke in our hearts: now we lie here, sullen, in the black mire.” This measure they gurgle in their throats, because they cannot utter it in full speech.’

    So we covered a large arc of the loathsome swamp, between the dry bank and its core, our eyes turned towards those who swallow its filth: we came at last to the base of a tower.

    Inferno Canto VIII:1-30 The Fifth Circle: Phlegyas: The Wrathful

    I say, pursuing my theme, that, long before we reached the base of the high tower, our eyes looked upwards to its summit, because we saw two beacon-flames set there, and another, from so far away that the eye could scarcely see it, gave a signal in return. And I turned to the fount of all knowledge, and asked: ‘What does it say? And what does the other light reply? And who has made the signal?’ And he to me: ‘Already you can see, what is expected, coming over the foul waters, if the marsh vapours do not hide it from you.’
    No bowstring ever shot an arrow that flew through the air so quickly, as the little boat, that I saw coming towards us, through the waves, under the control of a single steersman, who cried: ‘Are you here, now, fierce spirit?’ My Master said: ‘Phlegyas, Phlegyas, this time you cry in vain: you shall not keep us longer than it takes us to pass the marsh.’

    Phlegyas in his growing anger, was like someone who listens to some great wrong done him, and then fills with resentment. My guide climbed down into the boat, and then made me board after him, and it only sank in the water when I was in. As soon as my guide and I were in the craft, its prow went forward, ploughing deeper through the water than it does carrying others.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 8, 87

    Inferno Canto VIII:31-63 They meet Filippo Argenti

    While we were running through the dead channel, one rose up in front of me, covered with mud, and said: ‘Who are you, that come before your time?’ And I to him: ‘If I come, I do not stay here: but who are you, who are so mired?’ He answered: ‘You see that I am one who weeps.’ And I to him: ‘Cursed spirit, remain weeping and in sorrow! For I know you, muddy as you are.’
    Then he stretched both hands out to the boat, at which the cautious Master pushed him off, saying: ‘Away, there, with the other dogs!’ Then he put his arms around my neck, kissed my face, and said: ‘Blessed be she who bore you, soul, who are rightly indignant. He was an arrogant spirit in your world: there is nothing good with which to adorn his memory: so, his furious shade is here. How many up there think themselves mighty kings, that will lie here like pigs in mire, leaving behind them dire condemnation!’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 8, 89

    And I: ‘Master, I would be glad to see him doused in this swill before we quit the lake’. And he to me: ‘You will be satisfied, before the shore is visible to you: it is right that your wish should be gratified.’ Not long after this I saw the muddy people make such a rending of him, that I still give God thanks and praise for it. All shouted: ‘At Filippo Argenti!’ That fierce Florentine spirit turned his teeth in vengeance on himself.

    Inferno Canto VIII:64-81 They approach the city of Dis

    We left him there, so that I can say no more of him, but a sound of wailing assailed my ears, so that I turned my gaze in front, intently. The kind Master said: ‘Now, my son, we approach the city they call Dis, with its grave citizens, a vast crowd.’ And I: ‘Master, I can already see its towers, clearly there in the valley, glowing red, as if they issued from the fire.’ And he to me: ‘The eternal fire, that burns them from within, makes them appear reddened, as you see, in this deep Hell.’
    We now arrived in the steep ditch, that forms the moat to the joyless city: the walls seemed to me as if they were made of iron. Not until we had made a wide circuit, did we reach a place where the ferryman said to us: ‘Disembark: here is the entrance.’

    Inferno Canto VIII:82-130 The fallen Angels obstruct them

    I saw more than a thousand of those angels, that fell from Heaven like rain, above the gates, who cried angrily: ‘Who is this, that, without death goes through the kingdom of the dead?’ And my wise Master made a sign to them, of wishing to speak in private. Then they furled their great disdain, and said: ‘Come on, alone, and let him go, who enters this kingdom with such audacity. Let him return, alone, on his foolish road: see if he can: and you, remain, who have escorted him, through so dark a land.’
    Think, Reader, whether I was not disheartened at the sound of those accursed words, not believing I could ever return here. I said: ‘O my dear guide, who has ensured my safety more than the seven times, and snatched me from certain danger that faced me, do not leave me, so helpless: and if we are prevented from going on, let us quickly retrace our steps.’ And that lord, who had led me there, said to me: ‘Have no fear: since no one can deny us passage: it was given us by so great an authority. But you, wait for me, and comfort and nourish your spirit with fresh hope, for I will not abandon you in the lower world.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 8, 93

    So the gentle father goes, and leaves me there, and I am left in doubt: since ‘yes’ and ‘no’ war inside my head. I could not hear what terms he offered them, but he had not been standing there long with them, when, each vying with the other, they rushed back. Our adversaries closed the gate in my lord’s face, leaving him outside, and he turned to me again with slow steps. His eyes were on the ground, and his expression devoid of all daring, and he said, sighing: ‘Who are these who deny me entrance to the house of pain?’ And to me he said: ‘Though I am angered, do not you be dismayed: I will win the trial, whatever obstacle those inside contrive. This insolence of theirs is nothing new, for they displayed it once before, at that less secret gate we passed, that has remained unbarred. Over it you saw the fatal writing, and already on this side of its entrance, one is coming, down the steep, passing the circles unescorted, one for whom the city shall open to us.’

    Inferno Canto IX:1-33 Dante asks about precedents

    The colour that cowardice had printed on my face, seeing my guide turn back, made him repress his own heightened colour more swiftly. He stopped, attentive, like one who listens, since his eyes could not penetrate far, through the black air and the thick fog. ‘Nevertheless we must win this struggle,’ he began, ‘if not … then help such as this was offered to us. Oh, how long it seems to me, that other’s coming!’ I saw clearly, how he hid the meaning of his opening words with their sequel, words differing from his initial thought. None the less his speech made me afraid, perhaps because I took his broken phrases to hold a worse meaning than they did.
    ‘Do any of those whose only punishment is deprivation of hope, ever descend, into the depths of this sad chasm, from the first circle?’ I asked this question, and he answered me: ‘It rarely happens, that any of us make the journey that I go on. It is true that I was down here, once before, conjured to do so by that fierce sorceress Erichtho, who recalled spirits to their corpses. My flesh had only been stripped from me a while when she forced me to enter inside that wall, to bring a spirit out of the circle of Judas. That is the deepest place, and the darkest, and the furthest from that Heaven that surrounds all things: I know the way well: so be reassured. This marsh, that breathes its foul stench, circles the woeful city round about, where we also cannot enter now without anger.’

    Inferno Canto IX:34-63 The Furies (Conscience) and Medusa (Obduracy)

    And he said more that I do not remember, because my eyes had been drawn to the high tower, with the glowing crest, where, in an instant, three hellish Furies, stained with blood, had risen, that had the limbs and aspects of women, covered with a tangle of green hydras, their hideous foreheads bound with little adders, and horned vipers. And Virgil, who knew the handmaids of the queen of eternal sadness well, said to me: ‘See, the fierce Erinyes.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 9, 97

    That is Megaera on the left: the one that weeps, on the right, is Alecto: Tisiphone is in the middle.’: then he was silent. Each one was tearing at her breast with her claws, beating with her hands, and crying out so loudly, that I pressed close to the poet, out of fear. ‘Let Medusa come,’ they all said, looking down on us, ‘so that we can turn him to stone: we did not fully revenge Theseus’s attack.’

    ‘Turn your back.’ said the Master, and he himself turned me round. ‘Keep your eyes closed, since there will be no return upwards, if she were to show herself, and you were to see her.’ Not leaving it to me, he covered them, also, with his own hands.

    O you, who have clear minds, take note of the meaning that conceals itself under the veil of clouded verse!

    Inferno Canto IX:64-105 The Messenger from Heaven

    Now, over the turbid waves, there came a fearful crash of sound, at which both shores trembled; a sound like a strong wind, born of conflicting heat, that strikes the forest, remorselessly, breaks the branches, and beats them down, and carries them away, advances proudly in a cloud of dust, and makes wild creatures, and shepherds, run for safety. Virgil uncovered my eyes, and said: ‘Now direct your vision to that ancient marsh, there, where the mists are thickest.’ Like frogs, that all scatter through the water, in front of their enemy the snake, until each one squats on the bottom, so I saw more than a thousand damaged spirits scatter, in front of one who passed the Stygian ferry with dry feet. He waved that putrid air from his face, often waving his left hand before it, and only that annoyance seemed to weary him. I well knew he was a messenger from Heaven, and I turned to the Master, who made a gesture that I should stay quiet, and bow to him.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 9, 101

    How full of indignation he seemed to me! He reached the gate, and opened it with a wand: there was no resistance. On the vile threshold he began to speak: ‘O, outcasts from Heaven, why does this insolence still live in you? Why are you recalcitrant to that will, whose aims can never be frustrated, and that has often increased your torment? What use is it to butt your heads against the Fates? If you remember, your Cerberus still shows a throat and chin scarred from doing so.’

    Then he returned, over the miry pool, and spoke no word to us, but looked like one preoccupied and driven by other cares, than of those who stand before him. And we stirred our feet towards the city, in safety, after his sacred speech.

    Inferno Canto IX:106-133 The Sixth Circle: Dis: The Heretics

    We entered Dis without a conflict, and I gazed around, as soon as I was inside, eager to know what punishment the place enclosed, and saw on all sides a vast plain full of pain and vile torment.
    As at Arles, where the Rhone stagnates, or Pola, near the Gulf of Quarnaro, that confines Italy, and bathes its coast, the sepulchres make the ground uneven, so they did here, all around, only here the nature of it was more terrible.

    Flames were scattered amongst the tombs, by which they were made so red-hot all over, that no smith’s art needs hotter metal. Their lids were all lifted, and such fierce groans came from them, that, indeed, they seemed to be those of the sad and wounded.

    And I said: ‘Master, who are these people, entombed in those vaults, who make themselves known by tormented sighing?’ And he to me: ‘Here are the arch-heretics, with their followers, of every sect: and the tombs contain many more than you might think. Here like is buried with like, and the monuments differ in degrees of heat.’ Then after turning to the right, we passed between the tormented, and the steep ramparts.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 9, 105

    Inferno Canto X:1-21 Epicurus and his followers

    Now my Master goes, and I, behind him, by a secret path between the city walls and the torments. I began: ‘O, summit of virtue, who leads me round through the circles of sin, as you please, speak to me, and satisfy my longing. Can those people, who lie in the sepulchres, be seen? The lids are all raised, and no one keeps guard.’ And he to me: ‘They will all be shut, when they return here, from Jehoshaphat, with the bodies they left above. In this place Epicurus and all his followers are entombed, who say the soul dies with the body. Therefore, you will soon be satisfied, with an answer to the question that you ask me, and also the longing that you hide from me, here, inside.’ And I: ‘Kind guide, I do not keep my heart hidden from you, except by speaking too briefly, something to which you have previously inclined me.’

    Inferno Canto X:22-51 Farinata degli Uberti

    ‘O Tuscan, who goes alive through the city of fire, speaking so politely, may it please you to rest in this place. Your speech shows clearly you are a native of that noble city that I perhaps troubled too much.’ This sound came suddenly from one of the vaults, at which, in fear, I drew a little closer to my guide. And he said to me: ‘Turn round: what are you doing: look at Farinata, who has raised himself: you can see him all from the waist up.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 10, 109

    I had already fixed my gaze on him, and he rose erect in stance and aspect, as if he held the Inferno in great disdain. The spirited and eager hands of my guide pushed me through the sepulchres towards him, saying: ‘Make sure your words are measured.’ When I was at the base of the tomb, Farinata looked at me for a while, and then almost contemptuously, he demanded of me: ‘Who were your ancestors?’

    I, desiring to obey, concealed nothing, but revealed the whole to him, at which he raised his brows a little. Then he said: ‘They were fiercely opposed to me, and my ancestors and my party, so that I scattered them twice.’ I replied: ‘Though they were driven out, they returned from wherever they were, the first and the second time, but your party have not yet learnt that skill.’

    Inferno Canto X:52-72 Cavalcante Cavalcanti

    Then, a shadow rose behind him, from the unclosed space, visible down to the tip of its chin: I think it had raised itself on to its knees. It gazed around me, as if it wished to see whether anyone was with me, but when all its hopes were quenched, it said, weeping: ‘If by power of intellect, you go through this blind prison, where is my son, and why is he not with you?’ And I to him: ‘I do not come through my own initiative: he that waits there, whom your Guido disdained perhaps, leads me through this place’
    His words and the nature of his punishment had spelt his name to me, so that my answer was a full one. Suddenly raising himself erect, he cried: ‘What did you say? Disdained? Is he not still alive? Does the sweet light not strike his eyes?’ When he saw that I delayed in answering, he dropped supine again, and showed himself no more.

    Inferno Canto X:73-93 Farinata prophesies Dante’s long exile

    But the other one, at whose wish I had first stopped, generously did not alter his aspect or move his neck, or turn his side. Continuing his previous words, he said: ‘And if my party have learnt that art of return badly, it tortures me more than this bed, but the face of the moon-goddess Persephone, who rules here, will not be crescent fifty times, before you learn the difficulty of that art. And, as you wish to return to the sweet world, tell me why that people is so fierce towards my kin, in all its lawmaking?’ At which I answered him: ‘The great slaughter and havoc, that dyed the Arbia red, is the cause of those indictments against them, in our churches.’
    Then he shook his head, sighing, and said: ‘I was not alone in that matter, nor would I have joined with the others without good cause, but I was alone, there, when all agreed to raze Florence to the ground, and I openly defended her.

    Inferno Canto X:94-136 The prophetic vision of the damned

    ‘Ah, as I hope your descendants might sometime have peace,’ I begged him, ‘solve the puzzle that has entangled my mind. It seems, if I hear right, that you see beforehand what time brings, but have a different knowledge of the present.’ ‘Like one who has imperfect vision,’ he said, ‘we see things that are distant from us: so much of the light the supreme Lord still allows us. But when they approach, or come to be, our intelligence is wholly void, and we know nothing of your human state, except what others tell us. So you may understand that all our knowledge of the future will end, from the moment when the Day of Judgement closes the gate of futurity.’
    Then, as if conscious of guilt, I said: ‘Will you therefore, tell that fallen one, now, that his son is still joined to the living. And if I was silent before in reply, let him know it was because my thoughts were already entangled in that error you have resolved for me.’

    And now my Master was recalling me, at which I begged the spirit, with more haste, to tell me who was with him. He said to me: ‘I lie here with more than a thousand: here inside is Frederick the Second, and the Cardinal, Ubaldini, and of the rest I am silent.’ At that he hid himself, and I turned my steps towards the poet of antiquity, reflecting on the words that boded trouble for me.

    Virgil moved on, and then, as we were leaving, said to me: ‘Why are you so bewildered?’ And I satisfied his question. The sage exhorted me: ‘Let your mind retain what you have heard of your fate, and note this,’ and he raised his finger, ‘When you stand before the sweet rays of that lady, whose bright eyes see everything, you will learn the journey of your life through her.’

    Then he turned his feet towards the left: we abandoned the wall, and went towards the middle, by a path that makes its way into a valley, that, even up there, forced us to breathe its foulness.

    Inferno Canto XI:1-66 The structure of Hell: The Lower Circles

    On the edge of a high bank, made of great broken rocks in a circle, we came above a still more cruel crowd, and here, because of the repulsive, excessive stench that the deep abyss throws out, we approached it in the shelter of a grand monument, on which I saw an inscription that said: ‘I hold Anastasius, that Photinus drew away from the true path.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 11, 115

    The Master said: ‘We must delay our descent until our sense is somewhat used to the foul wind, and then we will not notice it.’ I said to him: ‘Find us something to compensate, so that the time is not wasted.’ And he: ‘See, I have thought of it.’ He began: ‘My son, within these walls of stone, are three graduated circles like those you are leaving. They are all filled with accursed spirits: but so that the sight of them may be enough to inform you, in future, listen how and why they are constrained.

    The outcome of all maliciousness, that Heaven hates, is harm: and every such outcome, hurts others, either by force or deceit. But because deceit is a vice peculiar to human beings, it displeases God more, and therefore the fraudulent are placed below, and more pain grieves them. The whole of the seventh circle is for the violent, but, since violence can be done to three persons, it is constructed and divided in three rings. I say violence may be done to God, or to oneself, or one’s neighbour, and their person or possessions, as you will hear, in clear discourse.

    Death or painful wounds may be inflicted on one’s neighbour; and devastation, fire, and pillage, on his substance. Therefore the first ring torments all homicides; every one who lashes out maliciously; and thieves and robbers; in their diverse groups.

    A man may do violence to himself and to his property, and so, in the second ring, all must repent, in vain, who deprive themselves of your world; or gamble away and dissipate their wealth; or weep there, when they should be happy.

    Violence may be done, against the Deity, denying him and blaspheming in the heart, and scorning Nature and her gifts, and so the smallest ring stamps with its seal both Sodom and Cahors, and those who speak scornfully of God, in their hearts.

    Human beings may practise deceit, which gnaws at every conscience, on one who trusts them, or on one who places no trust. This latter form of fraud only severs the bond of love that Nature created, and so, in the eighth circle, are nested hypocrisy; sorcery; flattery; cheating; theft and selling of holy orders; pimps; corrupters of public office; and similar filth.

    In the previous form, that love that Nature creates is forgotten, and also that which is added later, giving rise to special trust. So, in the ninth, the smallest circle, at the base of the universe, where Dis has his throne, every traitor is consumed eternally.’

    Inferno Canto XI:67-93 The structure of Hell: The Upper Circles

    And I said: ‘Master, your reasoning proceeds most clearly, and lays out excellently this gulf, and those that populate it, but tell me why those of the great marsh, those whom the wind drives, and the rain beats, and those who come together with sharp words, are not punished in the burning city, if God’s anger is directed towards them? And if not why they are in such a state?’ And he to me: ‘Why does your mind err so much more than usual, or are your thoughts somewhere else?
    Do you not remember the words with which your Aristotelian Ethics speaks of the three natures that Heaven does not will: incontinence, malice and mad brutishness, and how incontinence offends God less and incurs less blame? If you consider this doctrine correctly, and recall to mind who those are, that suffer punishment out there, above, you will see, easily, why they are separated from these destructive spirits, and why divine justice strikes them with less anger.’

    I said: ‘O Sun, that heals all troubled sight, you make me so content when you explain to me, that to question is as delightful as to know.’

    Inferno Canto XI:94-115 Virgil explains usury

    ‘Go back a moment, to where you said that usury offends divine goodness, and unravel that knot.’ He said to me: ‘To him who attends, Philosophy shows, in more than one place, how Nature takes her path from the Divine Intelligence, and its arts, and if you note your Physics well, you will find, not many pages in, that art, follows her, as well as it can, as the pupil does the master, so that your art is as it were the grandchild of God. By these two, art and nature, man must earn his bread and flourish, if you recall to mind Genesis, near its beginning.
    Because the usurer holds to another course, he denies Nature, in herself, and in that which follows her ways, putting his hopes elsewhere.

    But follow me, now, by the path I choose, for Pisces quivers on the horizon, and all Bootës covers Caurus, the north-west wind, and over there, some way, we descend the cliff.’

    Inferno Canto XII:1-27 Above the Seventh Circle: The Minotaur

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 12, 123

    The place we reached to climb down the bank was craggy, and, because of the creature there, also, a path that every eye would shun. The descent of that rocky precipice was like the landslide that struck the left bank of the Adige, this side of Trento, caused by an earthquake or a faulty buttress, since the rock is so shattered, from the summit of the mountain, where it started, to the plain, that it might form a route, for someone above: and at the top of the broken gully, the infamy of Crete, the Minotaur, conceived on Pasiphaë, in the wooden cow, lay stretched out.
    When he saw us he gnawed himself, like someone consumed by anger inside. My wise guide called to him: ‘Perhaps you think that Theseus, the Duke of Athens, is here, who brought about your death, in the world above? Leave here, monstrous creature. This man does not come here, aided by your sister, Ariadne, but passes through to see the punishments.’

    Like a bull, breaking loose, at the moment when it receives the fatal blow, that cannot go forward, but plunges here and there, so I saw the Minotaur, and my cautious guide cried: ‘Run to the passage: while he is in a fury, it is time for you to descend.’

    Inferno Canto XII:28-48 The descent to the Seventh Circle

    So we made our way, downwards, over the landslide of stones, that often shifted beneath my feet, from the unaccustomed weight. I went thoughtfully, and he said: ‘Perhaps you are contemplating this fallen mass of rock, guarded by the bestial anger that I quelled a moment ago. I would have you know that the previous time I came down here to the deep Inferno, this spill had not yet fallen. But, if I discern the truth, the deep and loathsome valley, shook, not long before He came to take the great ones of the highest circle, so that I thought the universe thrilled with love, by which as some believe, the world has often been overwhelmed by chaos. In that moment ancient rocks, here and elsewhere, tumbled.
    But fix your gaze on the valley, because we near the river of blood, in which those who injure others by violence are boiled.’

    Inferno Canto XII:49-99 The First Ring: The Centaurs: The Violent

    O blind desires, evil and foolish, which so goad us in our brief life, and then, in the eternal one, ruin us so bitterly! I saw a wide canal bent in an arc, looking as if it surrounded the whole plain, from what my guide had told me. Centaurs were racing, one behind another, between it and the foot of the bank, armed with weapons, as they were accustomed to hunt on earth.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 12, 127

    Seeing us descend they all stood still, and three, elected leaders, came from the group, armed with bows and spears. And one of them shouted from the distance: ‘What torment do you come for, you that descend the rampart? Speak from there, if not, I draw the bow.’ My Master said: ‘We will make our reply to Chiron, who is there, nearby. Sadly, your nature was always rash.’ Then he touched me, and said: ‘That is Nessus, who died because of his theft of the lovely Deianira, and, for his blood, took vengeance, through his blood.

    He, in the centre, whose head is bowed to his chest, is the great Chiron, who nursed Achilles: the other is Pholus, who was so full of rage. They race around the ditch, in thousands, piercing with arrows any spirit that climbs further from the blood than its guilt has condemned it to. We drew near the swift creatures. Chiron took an arrow, and pushed back his beard from his face with the notched flight. When he had uncovered his huge mouth, he said to his companions: ‘Have you noticed that the one behind moves whatever he touches? The feet of dead men do not usually do so.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 12, 129

    And my good guide, who was by Chiron’s front part, where the two natures join, replied: ‘He is truly alive, and, alone, I have to show him the dark valley. Necessity brings him here, and not desire. She, who gave me this new duty, came from singing Alleluiahs: he is no thief: nor am I a wicked spirit. But, by that virtue, by means of which I set my feet on so unsafe a path, lend us one of your people whom we can follow, so that he may show us where the ford is, and carry this one over on his back, since he cannot fly as a spirit through the air.’

    Chiron twisted to his right, and said to Nessus: ‘Turn, and guide them, then, and if another crew meet you, keep them off.’

    Inferno Canto XII:100-139 The Tyrants, Murderers and Warriors

    We moved onwards with our trustworthy guide, along the margin of the crimson boiling, in which the boiled were shrieking loudly. I saw people immersed as far as the eyebrows, and the great Centaur said: ‘These are tyrants who indulged in blood, and rapine. Here they lament their offences, done without mercy. Here is Alexander, and fierce Dionysius of Syracuse, who gave Sicily years of pain. That head of black hair is Azzolino, and the other, which is blonde, is Obizzo da Este, whose life was quenched, in truth, by his stepson, up in the world.’ Then I turned to the poet, and he said: ‘Let him guide you first, now, and I second.’
    A little further on, Nessus paused, next to people who seemed to be sunk in the boiling stream up to their throat. He showed us a shade, apart by itself, saying: ‘That one, Guy de Montfort, in God’s church, pierced that heart that is still venerated by the Thames.’

    Then I saw others, who held their heads and all their chests, likewise, free of the river: and I knew many of these. So the blood grew shallower and shallower, until it only cooked their feet, and here was our ford through the ditch.

    The Centaur said: ‘As you see the boiling stream continually diminishing, on this side, so, on the other, it sinks more and more, till it comes again to where tyrants are doomed to grieve. Divine Justice here torments Attila, the scourge of the earth; and Pyrrhus, and Sextus Pompeius; and for eternity milks tears, produced by the boiling, from Rinier da Corneto, and Rinier Pazzo, who made war on the highways.’ Then he turned back, and recrossed the ford.

    Inferno Canto XIII:1-30 The Second Ring: The Harpies: The Suicides

    Nessus had not yet returned to the other side, when we entered a wood, unmarked by any path. The foliage was not green, but a dusky colour: the branches were not smooth, but warped and knotted: there were no fruits there, but poisonous thorns. The wild beasts, that hate the cultivated fields, in the Tuscan Maremma, between Cecina and Corneto, have lairs less thick and tangled. Here the brutish Harpies make their nests, they who chased the Trojans from the Strophades, with dismal pronouncements of future tribulations.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 13, 135

    They have broad wings, and human necks and faces, clawed feet, and large feathered bellies, and they make mournful cries in that strange wood. The kind Master said: ‘Before you go further, be aware you are in the second ring, and will be until you come to the dreadful sands. So look carefully, and you will see things that might make you mistrust my words.’

    Already I heard sighs on every side, and saw no one to make them, at which, I stood totally bewildered. I think that he thought that I was thinking that many of those voices came from among the trees, from people who hid themselves because of us. So the Master said: ‘If you break a little twig from one of these branches, the thoughts you have will be seen to be in error.’

    Inferno Canto XIII:31-78 The Wood of Suicides: Pier delle Vigne

    Then I stretched my hand out a little, and broke a small branch from a large thorn, and its trunk cried out: ‘Why do you tear at me?’ And when it had grown dark with blood, it began to cry out again: ‘Why do you splinter me? Have you no breath of pity? We were men, and we are changed to trees: truly, your hand would be more merciful, if we were merely the souls of snakes.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 13, 137

    Just as a green branch, burning at one end, spits and hisses with escaping air at the other, so from that broken wood, blood and words came out together: at which I let the branch fall, and stood, like a man afraid. My wise sage replied: ‘Wounded spirit, if he had only believed, before, what he had read in my verse, he would not have lifted his hand to you, but the incredible nature of the thing made me urge him to do what grieves me. But tell him who you were, so that he might make you some amends, and renew your fame up in the world, to which he is allowed to return.

    And the tree replied: ‘You tempt me so, with your sweet words, that I cannot keep silent, but do not object if I am expansive in speech. I am Pier delle Vigne, who held both the keys to Frederick’s heart, and employed them, locking and unlocking, so quietly, that I kept almost everyone else from his secrets. I was so faithful to that glorious office that through it I lost my sleep and my life.

    The whore that never turned her eyes from Caesar’s household, Envy, the common disease and vice of courts, stirred all minds against me, and being stirred they stirred Augustus, so that my fine honours were changed to grievous sorrows. My spirit, in a scornful mode, thinking to escape scorn by death, made me, though I was just, unjust to myself. By the strange roots of this tree, I swear to you, I never broke faith with my lord, so worthy of honour. If either of you return to the world, raise and cherish the memory of me, that still lies low from the blow Envy gave me.’

    Inferno Canto XIII:79-108 The fate of The Suicides

    The poet listened for a while, then said to me: ‘Since he is silent, do not lose the moment, but speak, and ask him to tell you more.’ At which I said to him: ‘You ask him further, about what you think will interest me, because I could not, such pity fills my heart.’ So he continued: ‘That the man may do freely what your words request from him, imprisoned spirit, be pleased to tell us further how the spirits are caught in these knots: and tell us, if you can, whether any of them free themselves from these limbs.’
    Then the trunk blew fiercely, and the breath was turned to words like these: ‘My reply will be brief. When the savage spirit leaves the body, from which it has ripped itself, Minos sends it to the seventh gulf. It falls into this wood, and no place is set for it, but, wherever chance hurls it, there it sprouts, like a grain of German wheat, shoots up as a sapling, and then as a wild tree. The Harpies feeding then on its leaves hurt it, and give an outlet to its hurt.

    Like others we shall go to our corpses on the Day of Judgement, but not so that any of us may inhabit them again, because it would not be just to have what we took from ourselves. We shall drag them here, and our bodies will be hung through the dismal wood, each on the thorn-tree of its tormented shade.

    Inferno Canto XIII:109-129 Lano Maconi and Jacomo da Sant’ Andrea

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 13, 143

    We were still listening to the tree, thinking it might tell us more, when we were startled by a noise, like those who think the wild boar is nearing where they stand, and hear the animals and the crashing of branches. Behold, on the left, two naked, torn spirits, running so hard they broke every thicket of the wood. The leader, cried: ‘Come Death, come now!’ and the other, Jacomo, who felt himself to be too slow cried: ‘Lano, your legs were not so swift at the jousts of Toppo.’ And since perhaps his breath was failing him, he merged himself with a bush.
    The wood behind them was filled with black bitch hounds, eager and quick as greyhounds that have slipped the leash. They clamped their teeth into Lano, who squatted, and tore him bit by bit, then carried off his miserable limbs.

    Inferno Canto XIII:130-151 The unnamed Florentine

    My guide now took me by the hand, and led me to the bush, which was grieving, in vain, through its bleeding splinters, crying: ‘O Jacomo da Sant’ Andrea, what have you gained by making me your screen? What blame do I have for your sinful life? When the Master had stopped next to it, he said: ‘Who were you, that breathe out your mournful speech, with blood, through so many wounds?
    And he to us: ‘You spirits, who have come to view the dishonourable mangling that has torn my leaves from me, gather them round the foot of this sad tree. I was of Florence, that city, which changed Mars, its patron, for St John the Baptist, because of which that god, through his powers, will always make it sorrowful. Were it not that some fragments of his statue remain where Ponte Vecchio crosses the Arno, those citizens, who rebuilt it on the ashes Attila left, would have worked in vain. I made a gibbet for myself, from my own roofbeam.’

    Inferno Canto XIV:1-42 The Third Ring: The Violent against God

    As the love of my native place stirred in me, I gathered up the scattered leaves, and gave them back to him who was already hoarse. Then we came to the edge, where the second round is divided from the third, where a fearsome form of justice is seen. To make these new things clear, I say we reached a plain, where the land repels all vegetation. The mournful wood makes a circle round it, as the ditch surrounds the wood: here we stepped close to its very rim.
    The ground was dry, thick sand, no different in form than that which Cato once trod. O God’s vengeance, how what was shown to my sight should be feared, by all who read! I saw many groups of naked spirits, who were all moaning bitterly: and there seemed to be diverse rules applied to them. Some were lying face upward on the ground; some sat all crouched: and others roamed around continuously.

    Those who moved were more numerous, and those that lay in torment fewer, but uttering louder cries of pain. Dilated flakes of fire, falling slowly, like snow in the windless mountains, rained down over all the vast sands. Like the flames that Alexander saw falling, in the hot zones of India, over all his army, until they reached the ground, fires that were more easily quenched while they were separate, so that his troops took care to trample the earth – like those, fell this eternal heat, kindling the sand like tinder beneath flint and steel, doubling the pain.

    The dance of their tortured hands was never still, now here, now there, shaking off the fresh burning.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 14, 147

    Inferno Canto XIV:43-72 Capaneus

    I began: ‘Master, you who overcome everything except the obdurate demons, that came out against us at the entrance to the gate, who is that great spirit, who seems indifferent to the fire, and lies there, scornful, contorted, so that the rain does not seem to deepen his repentance?’ And he himself, noting that I asked my guide about him, cried: ‘What I was when I was living, I am now I am dead. Though Jupiter exhausts Vulcan, his blacksmith, from whom he took, in anger, the fierce lightning bolt, that I was struck down with on my last day, and though he exhausts the others, the Cyclopes, one by one, at the black forge of Aetna, shouting: ‘Help, help, good Vulcan’, just as he did at the battle of Phlegra, between the gods and giants, and hurls his bolts at me with all his strength, he shall still not enjoy a true revenge.’
    Then my guide spoke, with a force I had not heard before: ‘O Capaneus, you are punished more in that your pride is not quenched: no torment would produce pain fitting for your fury, except your own raving.’ Then he turned to me with gentler voice, saying: ‘That was one of the seven kings who laid siege to Thebes: and he held God, and seems to hold him, in disdain, and value him lightly, but as I told him, his spite is an ornament that fits his breast.’

    Inferno Canto XIV:73-120 The Old Man of Crete

    ‘Now follow me, and be careful not to place your feet yet on the burning sand, but always keep back close to the wood.’ We came, in silence, to the place, where a little stream gushes from the wood, the redness of which still makes me shudder. Like the rivulet that runs sulphur-red from the Bulicame spring, near Viterbo, that the sinful women share among themselves, so this ran down over the sand. Its bed and both its sloping banks were petrified, and its nearby margins: so that I realised our way lay there.
    ‘Among all the other things that I have shown you, since we entered though the gate, whose threshold is denied to no one, your eyes have seen nothing as noteworthy as this present stream, that quenches all the flames over it.’ These were my guide’s words, at which I begged him to grant me food, for which he had given me the appetite.

    He then said: ‘There is a deserted island in the middle of the sea, named Crete, under whose king Saturn, the world was pure. There is a mountain, there, called Ida, which was once gladdened with waters and vegetation, and now is abandoned like an ancient spoil heap. Rhea chose it, once, as the trusted cradle of her son, and the better to hide him when he wept, caused loud shouts to echo from it.

    Inside the mountain, a great Old Man, stands erect, with his shoulders turned towards Egyptian Damietta, and looks at Rome as if it were his mirror. His head is formed of pure gold, his arms and his breasts are refined silver: then he is bronze as far as the thighs. Downwards from there he is all of choice iron, except that the right foot is baked clay, and more of his weight is on that one than the other. Every part, except the gold, is cleft with a fissure that sheds tears, which collect and pierce the grotto. Their course falls from rock to rock into this valley. They form Acheron, Styx and Phlegethon, then, by this narrow channel, go down to where there is no further fall, and form Cocytus: you will see what kind of lake that is: so I will not describe it to you here.’

    Inferno Canto XIV:121-142 The Rivers Phlegethon and Lethe

    I said to him: ‘If the present stream flows down like that from our world, why does it only appear to us on this bank? And he to me: ‘You know the place is circular, and though you have come far, always to the left, descending to the depths, you have not yet turned through a complete round, so that if anything new appears to us, it should not bring an expression of wonder to your face.’
    And I again: ‘Master, where are Lethe, and Phlegethon found, since you do not speak of the former, and say that the latter is formed from these tears?’ He replied: ‘You please me, truly, with all your questions, but the boiling red water might well answer to one of those you ask about. You will see Lethe, but above this abyss, there, on the Mount, where the spirits go to purify themselves, when their guilt is absolved by penitence.’

    Then he said: ‘Now it is time to leave the wood: see that you follow me: the margins which are not burning form a path, and over them all the fire is quenched.’

    Inferno Canto XV:1-42 The Violent against Nature: Brunetto Latini

    Now one of the solid banks takes us on, and the smoke from the stream makes a shadow above, so that it shelters the water and its margins. Just as the Flemings between Bruges and Wissant make their dykes to hold back the sea, fearing the flood that beats against them; and as the Paduans do, along the Brenta, to defend their towns and castles, before Carinthia’s mountains feel the thaw; so those banks were similarly formed, though their creator, whoever it might be, made them neither as high or as deep.
    Already we were so far from the wood, that I was unable to see where it was, unless I turned back, when we met a group of spirits, coming along the bank, and each of them looked at us, as, at twilight, men look at one another, under a crescent moon, and peered towards us, as an old tailor does at the eye of his needle. Eyed so by that tribe, I was recognised, by one who took me by the skirt of my robe, and said: ‘How wonderful!’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 15, 155

    And I fixed my eyes on his baked visage, so that the scorching of his aspect did not prevent my mind from knowing him, and bending my face to his I replied: ‘Are you here Ser Brunetto?’ And he: ‘O my son, do not be displeased if Brunetto Latini turns back with you a while, and lets the crowd pass by.’ I said: ‘I ask it, with all my strength, and, if you want me to sit with you, I will, if it pleases him there, whom I go with.’

    He said: ‘O my son, whoever of the flock stops for a moment, must lie there for a hundred years after, without cooling himself when the fire beats on him. So go on, I will follow at your heels, and then I will rejoin my crew again, who go mourning their eternal loss.’

    Inferno Canto XV:43-78 Brunetto’s prophecy

    I did not dare leave the road to be level with him, but kept my head bowed like one who walks reverently. He began: ‘What fate, or chance, bring you down here, before your final hour? Who is this who shows you the way?’ I replied: ‘I lost myself, in the clear life up above, in a valley, before my years were complete. Only yesterday morning I turned my back on it: he appeared to me as I was returning to it, and guides me back again, but by this path.’
    And he to me: ‘If you follow your star, you cannot fail to reach a glorious harbour: if I judged clearly in the sweet life. If I had not died before you, I would have supported you in your work, seeing that Heaven is so kind to you. But that ungrateful, malignant people, who came down from Fiesole to Florence, in ancient times, and still have something of the mountain and the rock, will be inimical to you for the good you do, and with reason, since it is not fitting for the sweet fig tree to fruit, among the sour crab-apples.

    Past report on earth declares them blind, an envious, proud and avaricious people: make sure you purge yourself of their faults. Your fate prophesies such honour for you, that both parties will hunger for you, but the goat will be far from the grass. Let the herd from Fiesole make manure of themselves, but not touch the plant in which the sacred seed of those Romans revives, who stayed, when that nest of malice was created, if any plant still springs from their ordure.’

    Inferno Canto XV:79-99 Dante accepts his fate

    I answered him: ‘If my wishes had been completely fulfilled, you would not have been separated, yet, from human nature, since, in my memory, the dear, and kind, paternal image of you is fixed, and now goes to my heart, how, when in the world, hour by hour, you taught me the way man makes himself eternal; and it is fitting my tongue should show what gratitude I hold, while I live. What you tell me of my fate, I write, and retain it with a former text, for a lady who will know, how to comment on it, if I reach her.
    I would make this much known to you: I am ready for whatever Fortune wills, as long as conscience does not hurt me. Such prophecies are not new to my ears: so let Fortune turn her wheel as she pleases, and the peasant wield his mattock.’ At that, my Master, looked back, on his right, and gazed at me, then said: ‘He listens closely, who notes it.’

    Inferno Canto XV:100-124 Brunetto names some of his companions

    I carry on speaking, no less, with Ser Brunetto, and ask who are the most famous and noblest of his companions. And he to me: ‘It is good to know of some: of the rest it would be praiseworthy to keep silent, as the time would be too little for such a speech. In short, know that all were clerks, and great scholars, and very famous, tainted with the same sin on earth.
    Priscian goes with that miserable crowd, and Francesco d’Accorso: and if you had any desire for such scum, you might have seen Andrea di Mozzi there, who by Boniface, the Pope, servus servorum Dei, servant of servants, was translated from the Arno to Vicenza’s Bacchiglione, where he departed from his ill-strained body.

    I would say more, but my speech and my departure must not linger, since there I see new smoke, rising from the great sand. People come that I cannot be with: let my Tresoro be commended to you, in which I still live: more I ask not.’

    Then he turned back, and seemed like one who runs for the green cloth, at Verona, through the open fields: and seemed one of those who wins, not one who loses.

    Inferno Canto XVI:1-45 Rusticucci, Guido Guerra, Aldobrandi

    I was already in a place where the booming of the water, that fell, into the next circle, sounded like a beehive’s humming, when three shades together, running, left a crowd that passed under the sharp burning rain. They came towards us, and each one cried: ‘Wait, you, who seem to us, by your clothes, to be someone from our perverse city.’
    Ah me, what ancient, and recent, wounds I saw on their limbs, scorched there by the flames! It saddens me now, when I remember it. My teacher listened to their cries, turned his face towards me, and said: ‘Wait, now: courtesy is owed them, and if there were not this fire, that the place’s nature rains down, I would say that you were more hasty than them.’

    As we rested, they started their former laments again, and when they reached us, all three of them formed themselves into a circle. Wheeling round, as champion wrestlers, naked and oiled, do, looking for a hold or an advantage, before they grasp and strike one another, each directed his face at me, so that his neck was turned, all the time, in an opposite direction to his feet.

    And one of them began: ‘If the misery of this sinful place, and our scorched, stained look, renders us, and our prayers, contemptible, let our fame influence your mind to tell us who you are, that move your living feet, safely, through Hell. He, in whose footsteps you see me tread, all peeled and naked as he is, was greater in degree than you would think. His name is Guido Guerra, grandson of the good lady Gualdrada, and in his life he achieved much in council, and with his sword.

    The other, that treads the sand behind me, is Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, whose words should have been listened to in the world. And I, who am placed with them in torment, am Jacopo Rusticucci, and certainly my fierce wife injured me more than anything else.’

    Inferno Canto XVI:46-87 The condition of Florence

    If I had been sheltered from the fire, I would have dropped down among them below, and I believe my teacher would have allowed it, but as I would have been burned and baked, myself, my fear overcame the goodwill, that made me eager to embrace them.
    Then I began: ‘Your condition stirred sadness, not contempt, in me, so deeply, it will not soon be gone, when my guide spoke words to me by which I understood such men as yourselves might be approaching. I am of your city, and I have always heard, and rehearsed, your names and your deeds, with affection. I leave the gall behind, and go towards the sweet fruits promised me by my truthful guide, but first I must go downwards to the centre.’

    He replied, then: ‘That your soul may long inhabit your body, and your fame shine after you, tell us if courtesy and courage, still live in our city as they used to, or if they have quite forsaken it? Gugliemo Borsiere, who has been in pain with us, a little while, and goes along there with our companions, torments us greatly with what he says.

    ‘New men, and sudden wealth, have created pride and excess in you, Florence, so that you already weep for it.’ So I cried with lifted face, and the three, who took this for an answer, gazed at one another, as one gazes at the truth. They replied together: ‘Happy are you, if, by speaking according to your will, it costs so little for you to satisfy others! So, if you escape these gloomy spaces, and turn, and see the beauty of the stars again, when you will be glad to say: “I was”, see that you tell people of us.’

    Then they broke up their circle, and, as they ran, their swift legs seemed wings.

    Inferno Canto XVI:88-136 The monster Geryon

    An Amen could not have been said in so quick a time as their vanishing took, at which my Master was pleased to depart. I followed him. We had gone only a little way, when the sound of the water came so near us, that if we had been speaking we would hardly have heard each other.
    Like that river (the first that takes its own course to the eastern seaboard, south of Monte Veso, where the Po rises, on the left flank of the Apennines, and is called Acquacheta above, before it falls to its lower bed, and loses its name, to become the Montone, at Forlì) which, plunging through a fall, echoes from the mountain, above San Benedetto, where there should be refuge for a thousand, so, down from a steep bank, we found that tainted water re-echoing, so much so that, in a short while, it would have dazed our hearing.

    I had a cord tied round me, and with it I had once thought to catch the leopard with the spotted skin. After I had completely unwound it from myself, as my guide commanded, I held it out to him, gathered up and coiled. Then he turned towards the right, and threw the end of it, away from the edge a little, down into the steep gulf. I said to myself: ‘Surely something strange will follow this new sign of our intentions, that my master tracks with his eyes, as it falls.’

    Ah, how careful men should be with those who do not only see our actions but, with their understanding, see into our thoughts! He said to me: ‘That which I expect will soon ascend, and, what your thoughts speculate about, will soon be apparent to your sight.’

    A man should always shut his lips, as far as he can, to truth that seems like falsehood, since he incurs reproach, though he is blameless, but I cannot be silent here: and Reader, I swear to you, by the words of this Commedia, that they may not be free of lasting favour, that I saw a shape, marvellous, to every unshaken heart, come swimming upwards through the dense, dark air, as a man rises, who has gone down, sometime, to loose an anchor, caught on a rock or something else, hidden in the water, who spreads his arms out, and draws up his feet.

    Inferno Canto XVII:1-30 The poets approach Geryon

    ‘See the savage beast, with the pointed tail, that crosses mountains, and pierces walls and armour: see him, who pollutes the whole world.’ So my guide began to speak to me, and beckoned to him to land near the end of our rocky path, and that vile image of Fraud came on, and grounded his head and chest, but did not lift his tail onto the cliff.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 17, 167

    His face was the face of an honest man, it had so benign an outward aspect: all the rest was a serpent’s body. Both arms were covered with hair to the armpits; the back and chest and both flanks were adorned with knots and circles. Tartars or Turks never made cloths with more colour, background and embroidery: nor did Arachne spread such webs on her loom. As the boats rest on the shore, part in water and part on land, and as the beaver, among the guzzling Germans, readies himself for a fight, so that worst of savage creatures lay on the cliff that surrounds the great sand with stone.

    The whole of his tail glanced into space, twisting the venomous fork upwards, that armed the tip, like a scorpion. My guide said: ‘Now we must direct our path, somewhat, towards the malevolent beast that rests there.’

    Inferno Canto XVII:31-78 The Usurers

    Then we went down, on the right, and took ten steps towards the edge, so that we could fully avoid the sand and flame, and when we reached him, I saw people sitting near the empty space, a little further away, on the ground.
    Here my Master said: ‘Go and see the state of them, so that you may take away a complete knowledge of this round. Talk briefly with them: I will speak with this creature, until you return, so that he might carry us on his strong shoulders.’ So, still on the extreme edge of the seventh circle, I went, all alone, to where the sad crew were seated.

    Their grief was gushing from their eyes: they kept flicking away the flames and sometimes the burning dust, on this side, or on that, with their hands, no differently than dogs do in summer, now with their muzzle, now with their paws, when they are bitten by fleas, or gnats, or horse-flies. When I set my eyes on the faces of several of them, on whom the grievous fire falls, I did not recognise any, but I saw that a pouch hung from the neck of each, that had a certain colour, and a certain seal, and it seemed their eye was feeding on it. And as I came among them, looking, I saw, on a golden-yellow purse, an azure seal that had the look and attitude of a lion.

    Then my gaze continuing on its track, I saw another, red as blood, showing a goose whiter than butter. And one who had his white purse stamped with an azure, pregnant sow, said to me: ‘What are you doing in this pit? Now go away, and since you are still alive, know that my neighbour, Vitaliano, will come to sit here on my left. I, a Paduan, am with these Florentines. Many a time they deafen my hearing, shouting: ‘Let the noble knight come, who will carry the purse with three eagles’ beaks!’

    Then he distorted his mouth, and thrust his tongue out, like an ox licking its nose, and I, dreading lest a longer stay might anger him, who had warned me to make a brief stay, turned back from those weary spirits.

    Inferno Canto XVII:79-136 The poets descend on Geryon’s back

    I found my guide, who had already mounted the flank of the savage creature, and he said to me: ‘Be firm and brave. Now we must descend by means of these stairs: you climb in front: I wish to be in the centre, so that the tail may not harm you.’
    Like a man whose fit of the quartan fever is so near, that his nails are already pallid, and he shakes all over, by keeping in the shade, so I became when these words were said: but his reproof roused shame in me, that makes the servant brave in the presence of a worthy master. I set myself on those vast shoulders. I wished to say: ‘See that you clasp me tight.’ but my voice did not come out as I intended. He, who helped me in other difficulties, at other times, embraced me, as soon as I mounted, and held me upright. Then he said: ‘Now move, Geryon! Make large circles, and let your descent be gentle: think of the strange burden that you carry.’

    As a little boat goes backwards, backwards, from its mooring, so the monster left the cliff, and when he felt himself quite free, he turned his tail around, to where his chest had been, and stretching, flicked it like an eel, and gathered the air towards him with his paws. I do not believe the fear was greater when Phaëthon let slip the reins, and the sky was scorched, as it still appears to be; or when poor Icarus felt the feathers melt from his arms, as the wax was heated, and his father Daedalus cried: ‘You are going the wrong way!’ as mine was when I saw myself surrounded by the air, on all sides, and saw everything vanish, except the savage beast.

    He goes down, swimming slowly, slowly: wheels and falls: but I do not see it except by the wind, on my face, and from below. Already I heard the cataract, on the right, make a terrible roaring underneath us, at which I stretched my neck out, with my gaze downwards. Then I was more afraid to dismount, because I saw fires, and heard moaning, so that I cowered, trembling all over. And then I saw what I had not seen before, our sinking and circling through the great evils that drew close on every side.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 17, 171

    As the falcon, that has been long on the wing, descends wearily, without seeing bird or lure, making the falconer cry: ‘Ah, you stoop!’ and settles far from his master disdainful and sullen, so Geryon set us down, at the base, close to the foot of the fractured rock, and relieved of our weight, shot off, like an arrow from the bow.

    Inferno Canto XVIII:1-21 The Eighth Circle: Malebolge: Simple Fraud

    There is a place in Hell called Malebolge, all of stone, and coloured like iron, as is the cliff that surrounds it. Right in the centre of the malignant space, a well yawns, very wide and deep, whose structure I will speak of in due place.
    The margin that remains, between the base of the high rocky bank and the well, is circular, and its floor is divided into ten moats. Like the form the ground reveals, where successive ditches circle a castle, to defend the walls, such was the layout displayed here. And as there are bridges to the outer banks from the thresholds of the fortress, so, from the base of the cliff, causeways ran, crossing the successive banks and ditches, down to the well that terminates and links them.

    We found ourselves there, shaken from Geryon’s back, and the Poet kept to the left, and I went on, behind him.

    Inferno Canto XVIII:22-39 The First Chasm: The Pimps and Seducers

    On the right I saw new pain and torment, and new tormentors, with which the first chasm was filled. In its depths the sinners were naked: on our inner side of its central round they came towards us, on the outer side, with us, but with larger steps. So the people of Rome, in that year, at the Jubilee, because of the great crowds, initiated this means to pass the people over the bridge: those on the one side all had their faces towards Castello Sant’ Angelo, and went to St Peter’s: those on the other towards Monte Giordano.
    On this side and on that, along the fearful rock, I saw horned demons with large whips, who struck them fiercely, from behind. Ah, how it made them quicken their steps at the first stroke! Truly none waited for the second or third.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 18, 177

    Inferno Canto XVIII:40-66 The Panders: Venedico de’ Caccianemico

    As I went on, my eyes encountered one of them, and instantly I said: This shade I have seen before.’ So I stopped to scrutinise him, and the kind guide stood still with me, and allowed me to return a little. And that scourged spirit thought to hide himself, lowering his face, but it did not help, since I said: ‘You, who cast your eyes on the ground, if the features you display are not an illusion, you are Venedico Caccianimico: but what led you into such a biting pickle?’
    And he to me: ‘I tell it unwillingly, but your clear speech that makes me remember the former world, compels me. It was I who induced the fair Ghisola to do the Marquis of Este’s will, however unpleasant the story sounds. And I am not the only Bolognese that weeps here: this place is so filled with us, that as many tongues are no longer taught to say sipa for sì, between the Savena’s stream that is west, and the Reno’s, that is east of Bologna. If you want assurance and testimony of it, recall to mind our avaricious hearts.’ And as he spoke, a demon struck him with his whip, and said: ‘Away, pander, there are no women here to sell.’

    Inferno Canto XVIII:67-99 The Seducers: Jason

    I rejoined my guide: then in a few steps we came to where a causeway ran from the cliff. This we climbed very easily, and, turning to the right on its jagged ridge, we moved away from that eternal round. When we reached the arch where it yawns below to leave a path for the scourged, my guide said: ‘Wait, and let the aspect of those other ill-born spirits strike you, whose faces you have not yet seen, since they have been going in our direction.’
    We viewed their company from the ancient bridge, travelling towards us on the other side, chased likewise by the whip. Without my asking, the kind Master said to me: ‘Look at that great soul who comes, and seems not to shed tears of pain: what a royal aspect he still retains! That is Jason, who, by wisdom and courage, robbed the Colchians of the Golden Fleece.

    He sailed by the Isle of Lemnos, after the bold merciless women there had put all their males to death. There with gifts and sweet words he deceived the young Hypsipyle, who had saved her father by deceiving all the rest. He left her there, pregnant and lonely: such guilt condemns him to such torment: and revenge is also taken for his abandoning Medea. With him go all who practise like deceit, and let this be enough for knowledge of the first chasm, and those whom it swallows.’

    Inferno Canto XVIII:100-136 The Second Chasm: The Flatterers

    We had already come to where the narrow causeway crosses the second bank, and forms a buttress to a second arch. Here we heard people whining in the next chasm, and blowing with their muzzles, and striking themselves with their palms.
    The banks were crusted, with a mould from the fumes below that condenses on them, and attacks the eyes and nose. The floor is so deep, that we could not see any part of it, except by climbing to the ridge of the arch, where the rock is highest. We came there, and from it, in the ditch below, I saw people immersed in excrement, that looked as if it flowed from human privies. And while I was searching it, down there, with my eyes, I saw one with a head so smeared with ordure, that it was not clear if he was clerk or layman.

    He shouted at me: ‘Why are you so keen to gaze at me more than the other mired ones?’ And I to him: ‘Because, if I remember rightly, I have seen you before with dry head, and you are Alessio Interminei of Lucca: so I eye you more than all the others.’ And he then, beating his forehead: ‘The flatteries, of which my tongue never wearied, have brought me down to this!’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 18, 181

    At which my guide said to me: ‘Advance your head a little, so that your eyes can clearly see, over there, the face of that filthy and dishevelled piece, who scratches herself, with her soiled nails, now crouching down, now rising to her feet. It is Thais, the whore, who answered her lover’s message, in which he asked: “Do you really return me great thanks?” with “No, wondrous thanks.” And let our looking be sated with this.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 18, 183

    Inferno Canto XIX:1-30 The Third Chasm: The Sellers of Sacred Offices

    O Simon Magus! O you, his rapacious, wretched followers, who prostitute, for gold and silver, the things of God that should be wedded to virtue! Now the trumpets must sound for you, since you are in the third chasm.
    Already we had climbed to the next arch, onto that part of the causeway that hangs right over the centre of the ditch. O Supreme Wisdom, how great the art is, that you display, in the heavens, on earth, and in the underworld, and how justly your virtue acts. On the sides and floor of the fosse, I saw the livid stone full of holes, all of one width, and each one rounded. They seemed no narrower or larger, than those in my beautiful Baptistery of St John, made as places to protect those baptising, one of which I broke, not many years ago, to aid a child inside: and let this be a sign of the truth to end all speculation.

    From the mouth of each hole, a sinner’s feet and legs emerged, up to the calf, and the rest remained inside. The soles were all on fire, so that the joints quivered so strongly, that they would have snapped grass ropes and willow branches. As the flame of burning oily liquids moves only on the surface, so it was in their case, from the heels to the legs.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 19, 187

    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87 Pope Nicholas III

    I said: ‘Master, who is that, who twists himself about, writhing more than all his companions, and licked by redder flames?’ And he to me: ‘If you will let me carry you down there by the lower bank, you will learn from him about his sins and himself.’ And I: ‘Whatever pleases you is good for me: you are my lord, and know that I do not deviate from your will, also you know what is not spoken.’
    Then we came onto the fourth buttress: we turned and descended, on the left, down into the narrow and perforated depths. The kind master did not let me leave his side until he took me to the hole occupied by the one who so agonised with his feet.

    I began to speak: ‘O, unhappy spirit, whoever you are, who have your upper parts below, planted like a stake, form words if you can.’ I stood like the friar who gives confession to a treacherous assassin, who, after being fixed in the ground, calls the confessor back, and so delays his burial. And he cried: ‘Are you standing there already, Boniface, are you standing there already? The book of the future has deceived me by several years. Are you sated, so swiftly, with that wealth, for which you did not hesitate to seize the Church, our lovely lady, and then destroy her?’

    I became like those who stand, not knowing what has been said to them, and unable to reply, exposed to scorn. Then Virgil said: ‘Quickly, say to him, “I am not him, I am not whom you think.” ’ And I replied as I was instructed. At which the spirit’s legs writhed fiercely: then, sighing, in a tearful voice, he said to me: ‘Then what do you want of me? If it concerns you so much to know who I am, that you have left the ridge, know that I wore the Great Mantle, and truly I was son of the Orsini she-bear, so eager to advance her cubs, that I pursed up wealth, above, and here myself.

    The other simonists, who came before me, are drawn down below my head, cowering inside the cracks in the stone. I too will drop down there, when Boniface comes, the one I mistook you for when I put my startled question. But the extent of time, in which I have baked my feet, and stood like this, reversed, is already longer than the time he shall stand planted in turn with glowing feet, since, after him, will come Clement, the lawless shepherd, of uglier actions, fit indeed to cap Boniface and me.

    He will be a new Jason, the high priest, whom we read about in Maccabees: and as his king Antiochus was compliant, so will Philip be, who governs France.’

    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133 Dante speaks against Simony

    I do not know if I was too foolhardy then, but I answered him in this way: ‘Ah, now tell me, how much wealth the Lord demanded of Peter, before he gave the keys of the Church into his keeping? Surely he demanded nothing, saying only: ‘Follow me.’ Nor did Peter or the other Apostles, ask gold or silver of Matthias, when he was chosen to fill the place that Judas, the guilty soul, had forfeited. So, remain here, since you are justly punished, and keep well the ill-gotten money, that made you so bold against Charles of Anjou.
    And were it not that I am still restrained by reverence for the great keys that you held in your hand in the joyful life, I would use even more forceful words, since your avarice grieves the world, trampling the good, and raising the wicked. John the Evangelist spoke of shepherds such as you, when he saw ‘the great whore that sitteth upon many waters, with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication’, she that was born with seven heads and, as long as virtue pleased her spouse, had justification.

    You have made a god for yourselves of gold and silver, and how do you differ from the idolaters, except that he worships one image and you a hundred? Ah, Constantine, how much evil you gave birth to, not in your conversion, but in that Donation that the first wealthy Pope, Sylvester, received from you!’

    And while I sung these notes to him, he thrashed violently with both his feet, either rage or conscience gnawing him. I think it pleased my guide, greatly, he had so satisfied an expression, listening to the sound of the true words I spoke. So he lifted me with both his arms, and when he had me quite upon his breast, climbed back up the path he had descended, and did not tire of carrying me clasped to him, till he had borne me to the summit of the arch, that crosses from the fourth to the fifth rampart.

    Here he set his burden down, lightly: light for him, on the rough steep cliff, that would be a difficult path for a goat. From there another valley was visible to me.

    Inferno Canto XX:1-30 The Fourth Chasm: The Seers and Sorcerers

    I must make verses of new torments, and give matter for this twentieth Canto, of the Inferno that treats of the damned.
    I was now quite ready to look into the ditch, bathed with tears of anguish, which was revealed to me: I saw people coming, silent and weeping, through the circling valley, at a pace which processions, that chant Litanies, take through the world. When my eyes looked further down on them, each of them appeared strangely distorted, between the chin and the start of the chest, since the head was reversed towards the body, and they had to move backwards, since they were not allowed to look forwards. Perhaps one might be so distorted by palsy, but I have not seen it, and do not credit it.

    Reader, as God may grant that you profit from your reading, think now yourself how I could keep from weeping, when I saw our image so contorted, nearby, that the tears from their eyes bathed their hind parts at the cleft. Truly, I wept, leaning against one of the rocks of the solid cliff, so that my guide said to me: ‘Are you like other fools, as well? Pity is alive here, where it is best forgotten. Who is more impious than one who bears compassion for God’s judgement?’

    Inferno Canto XX:31-51 The Seers

    ‘Lift your head, lift it and see him for whom earth opened, under the eyes of the Thebans, at which they all shouted: “Where are you rushing, Amphiaräus? Why do you quit the battle?” And he did not stop his downward rush until he reached Minos, who grasps every sinner. Note how he has made a chest of his shoulders: because he willed to see too far beyond him, he now looks behind and goes backwards.
    See Tiresias, who changed his form, when he was made a woman, all his limbs altering: and later he had to strike the two entwined snakes with his staff, a second time, before he could resume a male aspect.

    That one is Aruns, who has his back to Tiresias’s belly, he who in the mountains of Tuscan Luni, where the Carrarese hoe, who live beneath them, had a cave to live in, among the white marble, from which he could gaze at the stars and the sea, with nothing to spoil his view.’

    Inferno Canto XX:52-99 Manto and the founding of Mantua

    ‘And she that hides her breasts, that you cannot see, with her flowing tresses, and has all hairy skin on the other side, was Manto, who searched through many lands, then settled where I was born, about which it pleases me to have you listen to me speak a while.
    After her father departed from life, and Thebes, the city of Bacchus, came to be enslaved, she roamed the world a long time. A lake, Lake Garda, lies at the foot of the Alps, up in beautiful Italy, where Germany is closed off beyond the Tyrol. Mount Apennino, between the town of Garda and Val Camonica, is bathed by the water that settles in the lake. In the middle there is a place where the Bishops of Trent, Brescia, and Verona might equally give the blessing if they went that way. A strong and beautiful fortress stands, where the shoreline is lowest, to challenge the Brescians and Bergamese.

    There, all the water that cannot remain in the breast of Lake Garda, has to descend through the green fields, and form a river. As soon as the water has its head, it is no longer Garda, but Mincio, down to Governolo where it joins the Po. It has not flowed far before it finds the level, on which it spreads and makes a marsh there, and in summer tends to be unwholesome. Manto, the wild virgin, passing that way, saw untilled land, naked of inhabitants, among the fens. There, to avoid all human contact, she stayed, with her followers, to practise her arts, and lived there, and left her empty body.

    Then the people who were scattered round gathered together in that place, which was well defended by the marshes on every side. They built the city over those dead bones, and without other augury, called it Mantua, after her who first chose the place. Once there were more inhabitants, before Casalodi, was foolishly deceived by Pinamonte. So, I charge you, if you ever hear another story of the origin of my city, do not let falsehoods destroy the truth.’

    Inferno Canto XX:100-130 The Soothsayers and Astrologers

    And I said: ‘Master, your speeches are so sound to me, and so hold my belief, that any others are like spent ashes. But tell me about the people who are passing, if you see any of them worth noting, since my mind returns to that alone.’
    Then he said to me: ‘That one, whose beard stretches down from his cheeks, over his dusky shoulders, was an augur, when Greece was so emptied of males, for the expedition against Troy, that there were scarcely any left, even in their cradles. Like Calchas at Aulis, he set the moment for cutting loose the first cable. Eurypylus is his name, and my high Poem sings of it in a certain place: you know it well, who know the whole thing.

    The other, so thin about the flanks, is Michael Scott, who truly understood the fraudulent game of magic. See Guido Bonatti, see Asdente, who wishes now he had attended more to his shoemaker’s leather and cord, but repents too late. See the miserable women who abandoned needle, shuttle and spindle, and became prophetesses: they made witchcraft, using herbs and images.

    But come, now, for Cain with his bundle of thorns, that Man in the Moon, reaches the western confines of both hemispheres, and touches the waves south of Seville, and already, last night, the Moon was full: you must remember it clearly, since she did not serve you badly in the deep wood.’ So he spoke to me, and meanwhile we moved on.

    Inferno Canto XXI:1-30 The Fifth Chasm: The Sellers of Public Offices

    So from bridge to bridge we went, with other conversation which my Commedía does not choose to recall, and were at the summit arch when we stopped to see the next cleft of Malebolge, and more vain grieving, and I found it marvellously dark.
    As, in the Venetian Arsenal, the glutinous pitch boils in winter, that they use to caulk the leaking boats they cannot sail; and so, instead one man builds a new boat, another plugs the seams of his, that has made many voyages, one hammers at the prow, another at the stern, some make oars, and some twist rope, one mends a jib, the other a mainsail; so, a dense pitch boiled down there, not melted by fire, but by divine skill, and glued the banks over, on every side.

    I saw it, but nothing in it, except the bubbles that the boiling caused, and the heaving of it all, and the cooling part’s submergence. While I was gazing fixedly at it, my guide said: ‘Take care. Take care!’ and drew me towards him, from where I stood. Then I turned round, like one who has to see what he must run from, and who is attacked by sudden fear, so that he dare not stop to look: and behind us I saw a black Demon come running up the cliff.

    Inferno Canto XXI:31-58 The Barrators

    Ah, how fierce his aspect was! And how cruel he seemed in action, with his outspread wings, and nimble legs! His high pointed shoulders, carried a sinner’s two haunches, and he held the sinews of each foot tight.
    He cried: ‘You, Malebranche, the Evil-clawed, see here is one of Lucca’s elders, that city whose patron is Santa Zita: push him under while I go back for the rest, back to that city which is well provided with them: every one there is a barrator, except Bonturo; there they make ‘Yes’ of ‘No’ for money.

    He threw him down, then wheeled back along the stony cliff, and never was a mastiff loosed so readily to catch a thief. The sinner plunged in, and rose again writhing, but the demons under cover of the bridge, shouted: ‘Here the face of Christ, carved in your cathedral, is of no avail: here you swim differently than in the Serchio: so, unless you want to try our grapples, do not emerge above the pitch.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 21, 201

    Then they struck at him with more than a hundred prongs, and said: ‘Here you must dance, concealed, so that you steal in private, if you can.’ No different is it, when the cooks make their underlings push the meat down into the depths of the cauldrons with their hooks, to stop it floating.

    Inferno Canto XXI:59-96 Virgil challenges the Demons’ threats

    The good master said to me: ‘Cower down behind a rock, so that you have a screen to protect yourself, and so that it is not obvious that you are here, and whatever insult is offered to me, have no fear, since I know these matters, having been in a similar danger before.’ Then he passed beyond the bridgehead, and when he arrived on the sixth bank, it was necessary for him to present a bold front.
    The demons rushed from below the bridge, and turned their weapons against him, with the storm and fury with which a dog rushes at a poor beggar, who suddenly seeks alms when he stops. But Virgil cried: ‘None, of you, commit an outrage. Before you touch me with your forks, one of you come over here, to listen, and then discuss whether you will grapple me.’ They all cried: ‘You go, Malacoda’ at which one moved while the others stood still, and came towards Virgil, saying: ‘What good will it do him?’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 21, 205

    My Master said: ‘Malacoda, do you think I have come here without the Divine Will, and propitious fate, safe from all your obstructions? Let me go by, since it is willed, in Heaven, that I show another this wild road.’ Then the demon’s pride was so down, that he let the hook drop at his feet, and said to the others: ‘Now, do not hurt him!’ And my guide to me: ‘O you, who are sitting, crouching, crouching amongst the bridge’s crags, return to me safely, now!’ At which I moved, and came to him quickly, and the devils all pressed forward so that I was afraid they would not hold to their orders. So I once saw the infantry, marching out, under treaty of surrender, from Caprona, afraid at finding themselves surrounded by so many enemies.

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139 The Demons escort the Poets

    I pressed my whole body close to my guide, and did not take my eyes away from their aspect, which was hostile. They lowered their hooks, and kept saying, to one another: ‘Shall I touch him on the backside?’ and answering, ‘Yes, see that you give him a nick.’
    But that demon who was talking to my guide, turned round quickly, and said: ‘Be quiet, be quiet, Scarmiglione.’ Then he said to us: ‘It will not be possible to go any further along this causeway, since the sixth arch is lying broken at the base, and if you desire still to go forward, go along this ridge, and nearby is another cliff that forms a causeway. Yesterday, five hours later than this hour, twelve hundred and sixty-six years were completed, since this path here was destroyed.

    I am sending some of my company here to see if anyone is out for an airing: go with them, they will not commit treachery.’ Then he began speaking: ‘Advance, Alichino and Calcabrina, and you, Cagnazzo: let Barbariccia lead the ten. Let Libicocco come as well, and Draghignazzo, tusked Ciriatto, Grafficane, Farfarello, and Rubicante the mad one. Search round the boiling glue: see these two safe, as far as the other cliff that crosses the chasms, completely, without a break.’

    I said: ‘O me! Master, what do I see? Oh, let us go alone, without an escort, if you know the way: as for me, I would prefer not. If you are as cautious as usual, do you not see how they grind their teeth, and darken their brows, threatening us with mischief? And he to me: ‘I do not want you to be afraid: let them grin away at their will: since they do it for the boiled wretches.’

    They turned by the left bank: but first, each of them had stuck his tongue out, between his teeth, towards their leader, as a signal, and he had made a trumpet of his arse.

    Inferno Canto XXII:1-30 The Poets view more of the Fifth Chasm

    I have seen cavalry moving camp, before now, starting a foray, holding muster, and now and then retiring to escape; I have seen war-horses on your territory, O Aretines, and seen the foraging parties, the clash of tournaments, and repeated jousts; now with trumpets, now with bells, with drums and rampart signals, with native and foreign devices, but I never yet saw infantry or cavalry, or ship at sight of shore or star, move to such an obscene trumpet.
    We went with the ten demons: ah, savage company! But, they say: ‘In church with the saints, and in the inn with the drunkards.’ But my mind was on the boiling pitch, to see each feature of the chasm, and the people who were burning in it. Like dolphins, arching their backs, telling the sailors to get ready to save their ship, so, now and then, to ease the punishment, some sinner showed his back, and hid as quick as lightning.

    And as frogs squat, at the edge of the ditchwater, with only mouths showing, so that their feet and the rest of them are hidden, so the sinners stood on every side: but they instantly shot beneath the seething, as Barbariccia approached.

    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75 Ciampolo

    I saw, and my heart still shudders at it, one linger, just as one frog remains when the others scatter: and Graffiacane, who was nearest him, hooked his pitchy hair, and hauled him up, looking, to me, like an otter. I already knew the names of every demon, so I noted them well as they were called, and when they shouted to each other, listened out.
    ‘O Rubicante, see you get your clutches in him, and flay him,’ all the accursed tribe cried together. And I: ‘Master, make out if you can, who that wretch is, who has fallen into the hands of his enemies.’ My guide drew close to him, and asked him where he came from, and he answered: ‘I was born in the kingdom of Navarre. My mother placed me as a servant to a lord, since she had borne me to a scurrilous waster of himself and his possessions. Then I was of the household of good King Thibaut, and there I took to selling offices, for which I serve my sentence in this heat.’

    And Ciriatto, from whose mouth a tusk, like a boar’s, projected on each side, made him feel how one of them could rip. The mouse had come among the evil cats: but Barbariccia caught him in his arms, and said: ‘Stand back, while I fork him!’ And, turning to my Master, he said: ‘Ask away, if you want to learn more from him, before someone else gets at him.’

    So my guide said: ‘Now say, do you know any of the other sinners under the boiling pitch that is a Latian?’ And Ciampolo replied: ‘I separated, just now, from one who was a neighbour of theirs over there, and I wish I were still beneath him, since I should not then fear claw or hook!’ And Libicocco cried: ‘We have endured this too long!’ and grappled Ciampolo’s arm with the prong, and, mangling it, carried away a chunk. Draghignazzo, too, wanted a swipe at the legs, below: at which their leader twisted round and round on them with an evil frown.

    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96 Ciampolo names other Barrators

    When they had settled a little, without waiting, my guide asked Ciampolo, who was still gazing at his wound: ‘Who was he, from whom you say you unluckily separated, to come on land?’ He replied: ‘It was Friar Gomita, he of Gallura, in Sardinia, the vessel of every fraud, who held his master’s prisoners in his hands, and treated them so that they all praise him for it, taking money for himself, and letting them go, quietly: and in his other roles, he was a high, and not a low, barrator.
    With him, Don Michel Zanche of Logodoro, keeps company, and their tongues never tire of speaking of Sardinia. O me! See that other demon grinning: I would speak more, but I fear he is getting ready to claw my skin.’ And their great captain, turning to Farfarello, who was rolling his eyes to strike, said: ‘Away with you, cursed bird.’

    Inferno Canto XXII:97-123 Ciampolo breaks free of the Demons

    The scared sinner then resumed: ‘If you want to see or hear Tuscans or Lombards, I will make them come, but let the Malebranche hold back a little, so that the others may not feel their vengeance, and sitting here, I, who am one, will make seven appear, by whistling, as we do, when any of us gets out.’ Cagnazzo raised his snout, at these words, and, shaking his head, said: ‘Hear the wicked scheme he has contrived to plunge back down.’ At which Ciampolo, who had a great store of tricks, replied: ‘I would be malicious indeed, if I contrived greater sorrow for my companions.’
    Alichino, could contain himself no longer, and contrary to the others said to him: ‘If you run, I will not charge after you, but beat my wings above the boiling pitch: forget the cliff, and let the bank be a course, and see if you alone can beat us.’ O you that read this, hear of this new sport! They all glanced towards the cliff side, he above all who had been most unwilling for this. The Navarrese picked his moment well, planted his feet on the ground, and in an instant plunged, and freed himself from their intention.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 22, 213

    Inferno Canto XXII:124-151 The Malebranche quarrel

    Each of the demons was stung with guilt, but Alichino most who had caused the error: so he started up and shouted: ‘You are caught!’ But it helped him little, since wings could not outrun terror: the sinner dived down: and Alichino, flying, lifted his breast. The duck dives like that when the falcon nears, and the hawk flies back up, angry and thwarted.
    Calcabrina, furious at the trick, flew on after him, wanting the sinner to escape, in order to quarrel. And when the barrator had vanished, he turned his claws on his friend, and grappled with him above the ditch. But the other was sparrow hawk enough to claw him thoroughly, and both dropped down, into the centre of the boiling pond.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 22, 215

    The heat, instantly, separated them, but they could not rise, their wings were so glued up. Barbariccia, lamenting with the rest, made four fly over to the other bank, with all their grappling irons, and they dropped rapidly on both sides to the shore. They stretched their hooks out to the trapped pair, who were already scaled by the crust, and we left them, like that, embroiled.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 23, 219

    Inferno Canto XXIII:1-57 The Sixth Chasm: The Hypocrites

    Silent, alone, and free of company, we went on, one in front, and the other after, like minor friars journeying on their way. My thoughts were turned, by the recent quarrel, to Aesop’s fable of the frog and mouse, since ‘Si’ and ‘Yes’ are not better matched, than the one case with the other, if the thoughtful mind couples the beginning and end.
    And as one thought springs from another, so another sprang from that, redoubling my fear. I thought of this: ‘Through us, these are mocked, and with a kind of hurt and ridicule, that I guess must annoy them. If anger is added to their malice, they will chase after us, fiercer than snapping dogs that chase a leveret.’ I felt my hair already lifting in fright, and was looking back intently, as I said: ‘Master, if you do not hide us both, quickly, I am afraid of the Malebranche: they are already behind us: I imagine I can hear them now.’

    And he: ‘If I were made of silvered glass, I could not take up your image from outside more rapidly than I fix that image from within. Even now your thoughts were entering mine, with similar form and action, so that, from both, I have made one decision. If the right bank slopes enough, that we can drop down, into the next chasm, we will escape this imaginary pursuit.’ he had not finished stating this resolve, when I saw them, not far off, coming with extended wings, with desire to seize us.

    My guide suddenly took me up like a mother, wakened by a noise, seeing flames burning in front of her eyes, who takes her child and runs, and caring more about him than herself, does not even wait to look around her. Down from the ridge of the solid bank, he threw himself forward on to the hanging cliff that dams up the side of the next chasm. Water never ran as fast through the conduit, turning a mill-wheel on land, when it reaches the paddles, as my Master, down that bank, carrying me, against his breast, like a son, and not a companion.

    His feet had hardly touched the floor, of the depth below, before the demons were on the heights above us, but it gave him no fear, since the high Providence, that willed them to be the guardians of the fifth moat, takes, from all of them, the power to leave it.

    Inferno Canto XXIII:58-81 The Hypocrites

    Down below we found a metal-coated tribe, weeping, circling with very slow steps, and weary and defeated in their aspect. They had cloaks, with deep hoods over the eyes, in the shape they make for the monks of Cologne. On the outside they are gilded so it dazzles, but inside all leaden, and so heavy, that compared to them Frederick’s were made of straw.
    O weary mantle for eternity! We turned to the left again, beside them, who were intent on their sad weeping, but those people, tired by their burden, came on so slowly that our companions were new at every step. At which, I said to my guide: ‘Make a search for someone known to us, by name or action, and gaze around as we move by.’ And one of them, who understood the Tuscan language, called after us: ‘Rest your feet, you who speed so fast through the dark air, maybe you will get from me what you request.’ At which my guide turned round and said: ‘Wait, and then go on, at his pace.’

    Inferno Canto XXIII:82-126 The Frauti Gaudenti: Caiaphas

    I stood still, and saw two spirits, who were eager in mind to join me, but their burden and the narrow path delayed them. When they arrived, they eyed me askance, for a long time, without speaking a word, then they turned to one another and said: ‘This one seems alive, by the movement of his throat, and if they are dead, by what grace are they moving, free of the heavy cloaks?’
    Then they said to me: ‘O Tuscan, you have come to the college of sad hypocrites: do not scorn to tell us who you are.’ And I to them: ‘I was born, and I grew up, by Arno’s lovely river, in the great city: and I am in the body I have always worn. But you, who are you, from whom such sadness is distilled, that I see, coursing down your cheeks? And what punishment is this, that glitters so?’ And one of them replied: ‘Our orange mantles are of such dense lead, that weights made of it cause the scales to creak.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 23, 223

    We were Fraudi Gaudenti, of that Bolognese order called the ‘Jovial Friars’: I am Catalano, and he is Loderingo, chosen by your city, as usually only one is chosen, to keep the peace: and we wrought such as still appears round your district of Gardingo. ‘O Friars, your evil….’ I began, but said no more, because one came in sight, crucified, on the ground, with three stakes. When he saw me he writhed all over, puffing into his beard, and sighing, and Friar Catalano, who saw this, said to me: ‘That one you look at, who is transfixed, is Caiaphas, the high priest, who counselled the Pharisees, that it was right to martyr one man for the sake of the people. Crosswise and naked he lies in the road, as you see, and feels the weight of everyone who passes: and his father-in-law Annas is racked, in this chasm, and the others of that Council, that was a source of evil to the Jews.’

    Then I saw Virgil wonder at him, stretched out on the cross, so vilely, in eternal exile.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 23, 225

    Inferno Canto XXIII:127-148 The Poets leave the Sixth Chasm

    He addressed these words to the Friars, afterwards: ‘If it is lawful for you, may it not displease you, to tell us if there is any gap on the right, by which we might leave here, without forcing any of the black angels to come and extricate us from this deep.’ He replied: ‘There is a causeway that runs from the great circular wall and crosses all the cruel valleys, nearer at hand than you think, except that it is broken here and does not cover this one: you will be able to climb up among its ruins, that slope down the side, and form a mound at the base.’
    Virgil stood, for a while, with bowed head, then said: ‘Malacoda, who grapples sinners over there, told us the way wrongly.’ And the Friar said: ‘I once heard the Devil’s vices related at Bologna, amongst which I heard that he is a liar, and the father of lies.’ Then my guide went striding on, his face somewhat disturbed by anger, at which I parted from the burdened souls, following the prints of his beloved feet.

    Inferno Canto XXIV:1-60 The Poets climb up: Virgil exhorts Dante

    In that part of the new year, when the sun cools his rays under Aquarius, and the nights already shorten towards the equinox; when the hoar-frost copies its white sister the snow’s, image on the ground, but the hardness of its tracery lasts only a little time; the peasant, whose fodder is exhausted, rises and looks out, and sees the fields all white, at which he strikes his thigh, goes back into the house, and wanders to and fro, lamenting, like a wretch who does not know what to do; then comes out again, and regains hope, seeing how the world has changed its aspect, in a moment; and takes his crook, and chases his lambs out to feed; so the Master made me disheartened, when I saw his forehead so troubled: but the plaster arrived quickly for the wound.
    For, when we reached the shattered arch, my guide turned to me with that sweet aspect, that I first saw at the base of the mountain. He opened his arms, after having made some plan in his mind, first looking carefully at the ruin, and took hold of me. And like one who prepares and calculates, always seeming to provide in advance, so he, lifting me up towards the summit of one big block, searched for another fragment, saying: ‘Now clamber over that, but check first if it will carry you.’

    It was no route for one clothed in a cloak of lead, since we could hardly climb from rock to rock, he weighing little, and I pushed from behind. And if the ascent were not shorter on that side than on the other, I would truly have been defeated, I do not know about him. But as Malebolge all drops towards the entrance to the lowest well, the position of every valley implies that the one side rises, and the other falls: at last, we came, however, to the point at which the last boulder ends.

    The breath was so driven from my lungs, when I was up, that I could go no further: in fact, I sat down when I arrived. The Master said: ‘Now, you must free yourself from sloth: men do not achieve fame, sitting on down, or under coverlets; fame, without which whoever consumes his life leaves only such trace of himself, on earth, as smoke does in the air, or foam on water: so rise, and overcome weariness with spirit, that wins every battle, if it does not lie down with the gross body. A longer ladder must be climbed: to have left these behind is not enough: if you understand me, act now so it may profit you.’

    I rose then, showing myself to be better filled with breath than I thought, and said: ‘Go on, I am strong again and ardent.’

    Inferno Canto XXIV:61-96 The Seventh Chasm: The Thieves

    We made our way along the causeway, which was rugged, narrow, difficult, and much steeper than before. I went, speaking, so that I might not seem weak, at which a voice came from the next moat, inadequate for forming words. I do not know what it said, though I was already on the summit of the bridge that crosses there, but he who spoke seemed full of anger. I had turned to look downwards, but my living eyes could not see the floor, for the darkness, so that I said: ‘Master, make sure you get to the other side, and let us climb down the wall, since as I hear sounds from below, but do not understand them, so I see down there, and make out nothing.’ He said: ‘I make you no answer, but by action, since a fair request should be followed, in silence, by the work.’
    We went down the bridge, at the head of it, where it meets the eighth bank, and then the seventh chasm was open to me. I saw a fearful mass of snakes inside, and of such strange appearance, that even now the memory freezes my blood. Let Libya no longer vaunt its sands: though it engenders chelydri, and jaculi; pareae; and cenchres with amphisbaena; it never showed pests so numerous or dreadful, nor did Ethiopia, nor Arabia, the land that lies along the Red Sea. Amongst this cruel and mournful swarm, people were running, naked and terrified, without hope of concealment, or of that stone, the heliotrope, that renders the wearer invisible.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 24, 233

    They had their hands tied behind them, with serpents, that fixed their head and tail between the loins, and were coiled in knots in front.

    Inferno Canto XXIV:97-129 Vanni Fucci and the serpent

    And see, a serpent struck at one who was near our bank, and transfixed him, there, where the neck is joined to the shoulders. Neither ‘o’ nor ‘i’ was ever written as swiftly as he took fire, and burned, and dropped down, transformed to ashes: and after he was heaped on the ground, the powder gathered itself together, and immediately returned to its previous shape. So, great sages say, the phoenix dies, and then renews, when it nears its five-hundredth year. In its life it does not eat grass or grain, but only tears of incense, and amomum: and its last shroud is nard and myrrh.
    The sinner when he rose was like one who falls, and does not know how, through the power of a demon that drags him down to the ground, or through some other affliction that binds men, and, when he rises, gazes round himself, all dazed by the great anguish he has suffered, and as he gazes, sighs. O how heavy the power of God, that showers down such blows in vengeance!

    The guide then asked him who he was, at which he answered: ‘I rained down from Tuscany into this gully, a short while back. Brutish, not human, life pleased me, mule that I was: I am Vanni Fucci, the wild beast, and Pistoia was a fitting den for me.’ And I to the guide: ‘Tell him not to move: and ask what crime sank him down here, since I knew him as a man of blood and anger.

    Inferno Canto XXIV:130-151 Vanni Fucci’s prophecy

    And the sinner, who heard me, did not pretend, but turned his face and mind on me, and gave a look of saddened shame. Then he said: ‘It hurts me more for you to catch me, trapped, in the misery you see me in, than the moment of my being snatched from the other life. I cannot deny you what you ask. I am placed so deep down because I robbed the sacristy of its fine treasures, and it was once wrongly attributed to others. But, so that you might not take joy from this sight if you ever escape the gloomy regions, open your ears, and hear what I declare:
    Pistoia first is thinned of Blacks: then Florence changes her people and her laws. Mars brings a vapour, from Valdimagra cloaked in turbid cloud, and a battle will be fought on the field of Piceno, in an angry and eager tempest, that will suddenly tear the mist open, so that every White is wounded by it. And I have said this to give you pain.’

    Inferno Canto XXV:1-33 Cacus

    At the end of his speech, the thief raised his hands, both making the fig, the obscene gesture, with thumb between fingers, shouting: ‘Take this, God, I aim it at you.’ From that moment the snakes were my friends, since one of them coiled itself round his neck, as if hissing: ‘You will not be able to speak again.’ Another, round his arms, tied him again, knotting itself so firmly in front, that he could not even shake them.
    Ah, Pistoia, Pistoia, why do you not order yourself to be turned to ash, so that you may remain no longer, since you outdo your seed in evil-doing? I saw no spirit so arrogant towards God, through all the dark circles of the Inferno, not even, Capaneus, he who fell from the wall at Thebes. Vanni Fucci fled, saying not another word, and I saw a Centaur, full of rage, come, shouting: ‘Where is he, where is the bitter one?’

    I do not believe Maremma has as many snakes, as he had on his haunches, there, where the human part begins. Over his shoulders, behind the head, lay a dragon with outstretched wings, and it scorches every one he meets. My Master said: ‘That is Cacus, who often made a lake of blood, below the rocks of Mount Aventine. He does not go with his brothers on the same road, above, because of his cunning theft from the great herd of oxen, pastured near him: for which his thieving actions ended, under the club of Hercules, who gave him a hundred blows perhaps with it, and he did not feel a tenth.

    Inferno Canto XXV:34-78 Cianfa and Agnello

    While he said this, the Centaur ran past, and three spirits came by, also, beneath us, whom neither I, nor my guide, saw, until they cried: ‘Who are you?’ Our words ceased, then, and we gave our attention to them, alone.
    I did not know them, but it happened, as it usually does for some reason, that one had to call the other, saying: ‘Where has Cianfa gone?’ At which I placed my finger over my mouth, in order to make my guide stop and wait.

    Reader, if you are slow to credit, now, what I have to tell, it will be no wonder, since I who saw it, scarcely credit it myself. While I kept looking at them, a six-footed serpent darted in front of one of them, and fastened itself on him, completely. It clasped his belly with it middle feet, seized his arms with the front ones, and then fixed its teeth in both his cheeks. The rear feet it stretched along his thighs, and put its tail between them, and curled it upwards round his loins, behind.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 25, 239

    Ivy was never rooted to a tree, as the foul monster twined its limbs around the other. Then they clung together, as if they were melted wax, and mixed their colours: neither the one nor the other seemed what it had at first: just as in front of the flame on burning paper, a brown colour appears, not yet black, and the white is consumed.

    The other two looked on, and each cried: ‘Ah me, Agnello, how you change! See, you are already not two, not one!’ The two heads had now become one, where two forms seemed to us merged in one face, and both were lost. Two limbs were made of the four forearms, the thighs, legs, belly and chest became such members as were never seen before. The former shape was all extinguished in them: the perverse image seemed both, and neither, and like that it moved away with slow steps.

    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151 Buoso degli Abati and Francesco

    As the lizard, in the great heat of the Dog days, appears like a flash of lightning, scurrying from hedge to hedge, if it crosses the track, so a little reptile came towards the bellies of the other two, burning with rage, black and livid as peppercorn. And it pierced that part, in one of them, where we first receive our nourishment from our mothers: then fell down, stretched out in front of him. The thief, transfixed, gazed at it but said nothing, but with motionless feet, only yawned, as if sleep or fever had overcome him. He looked at the snake: it looked at him: the one gave out smoke, violently, from his wound, the other from its mouth, and the smoke met.
    Let Lucan now be silent, about Sabellus and Nasidius, and wait to hear that which I now tell. Let Ovid be silent about Cadmus and Arethusa: if he in poetry changes one into a snake, and the other into a fountain, I do not envy him, since he never transmuted two natures, face to face, so that both forms were eager to exchange their substance.

    They merged together in such a way, that the serpent split its tail into a fork, and the wounded spirit brought his feet together. Along with them, the legs and thighs, so stuck to one another, that soon the join left no visible mark. The cleft tail took on the form lost in the other, and its skin grew soft, the other’s hard. I saw the arms enter the armpits: and the two feet of the beast that were short, lengthened themselves by as much as the arms were shortened. Then the two hind feet twisted together, and became the organ that a man conceals, and the wretch, from his, had two pushed out.

    While the smoke covers them both with a new colour, and generates hair on one part, and strips it from another, the one rose up, erect, and the other fell, prostrate: not by that shifting their impious gaze, beneath which they mutually exchanged features. The erect one drew his face towards the temples, and from the excess of matter that swelled there, ears came, out of the smooth cheeks. That which did not slip back, but remained, formed a nose from the superfluous flesh, and enlarged the lips to their right size. He that lay prone, thrust his sharpened visage forward, and drew his ears back into his head, as the snail does its horns into its shell, and his tongue, which was solid before, and fit for speech, splits itself. In the other the forked tongue melds, and the smoke is still.

    The soul that had become a beast, sped, hissing, along the valley, leaving the other, speaking and spluttering, behind him. Then the second turned his new-won shoulders towards him, and called to the other: ‘Buoso shall crawl, as I did, along this road.’ So I saw the seventh chasm’s bodies mutate and transmutate: and let the novelty of it be the excuse, if my pen has gone astray.

    Though my sight was somewhat confused, and my mind dismayed, they could not flee so secretly, but that I clearly saw Puccio Sciancato: and it was he, alone, of the three companions, who had first arrived, who was not changed. One of the others, Francesco, was he who caused you, the people of Gaville, to weep.

    Inferno Canto XXVI:1-42 The Eighth Chasm: The Evil Counsellors

    Rejoice, Florence, that, since you are so mighty, you beat your wings over land and sea, and your name spreads through Hell itself. So, among the thieves, I found five of your citizens: at which I am ashamed, and you do not rise to great honour by it either. But if the truth is dreamed, as morning comes, you will soon feel what Prato, and others, wish on you. And, if it were come already, it would not be too soon: would it were so, now, as indeed it must come, since it will trouble me more, the older I am.
    We left there, and my guide remounted by the stairs that the stones had made for us to descend, and drew me up: and, following our solitary way, among the crags and splinters of the cliff, the foot made no progress without the hand.

    I was saddened then, and sadden now, again, when I direct my mind to what I saw, and rein in my intellect more than I am used, so that it does not run where virtue would not guide it, and so that, if a good star, or some truer power, has granted me the talent, I may not abuse the gift.

    The eighth chasm was gleaming with flames, as numerous as the fireflies the peasant sees, as he rests on the hill, when the sun, who lights the world, hides his face least from us, and the fly gives way to the gnat down there, along the valley, where he gathers grapes, perhaps, and ploughs.

    As soon as I came to where the floor showed itself, I saw them, and, as Elisha, the mockery of whom by children was avenged by bears, saw Elijah’s chariot departing, when the horses rose straight to Heaven, and could not follow it with his eyes, except by the flame alone, like a little cloud, ascending, so each of those flames moved, along the throat of the ditch, for none of them show the theft, but every flame steals a sinner.

    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84 Ulysses and Diomede

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 26, 245

    I stood on the bridge, having so risen to look, that if I had not caught hold of a rock I should have fallen in without being pushed. And the guide, who saw me so intent, said: ‘The spirits are inside those fires: each veils himself in that which burns him.’ I replied: ‘Master, I feel more assured from hearing you, but had already seen that it was so, and already wished to say to you, who is in that fire, that moves, divided at the summit, as if it rose from the pyre where Eteocles was cremated with his brother, Polynices?’
    He answered me: ‘In there, Ulysses and Diomede are tormented, and so they go, together in punishment, as formerly in war: and, in their fire, they groan at the ambush of the Trojan horse, that made a doorway, by which Aeneas, the noble seed of the Romans issued out. In there they lament the trick, by which Deidamia, in death, still weeps for Achilles: and there, for the Palladium, they endure punishment.’

    I said: ‘Master, I beg you greatly, and beg again so that my prayers may be a thousand, if those inside the fires can speak, do not refuse my waiting until the horned flame comes here: you see how I lean towards it with desire.’ And he to me: ‘Your request is worth much praise, and so I accept it, but restrain your tongue. Let me speak: since I conceive what you wish, and because they were Greeks they might disdain your Trojan words.’

    When the flame had come, where the time and place seemed fitting, to my guide, I heard him speak, so: ‘O you, who are two in one fire, if I was worthy of you when I lived, if I was worthy of you, greatly or a little, when on earth I wrote the high verses, do not go, but let one of you tell where he, being lost through his own actions, went to die.’

    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142 Ulysses’s last voyage

    The greater horn of the ancient flame started to shake itself, murmuring, like a flame struggling in the wind. Then moving the tip, as if it were a tongue speaking, gave out a voice, and said: ‘When I left Circe, who held me for more than a year, near to Gaeta, before Aeneas named it, not even my fondness for my son, Telemachus, my reverence for my aged father, Laërtes, nor the debt of love that should have made Penelope happy, could restrain in me the desire I had, to gain experience of the world, and of human vice and worth.
    I set out on the wide, deep ocean, with only one ship, and that little company, that had not abandoned me. I saw both shores, as far as Spain, as far as Morocco, and the isle of Sardinia, and the other islands that sea washes. I, and my companions, were old, and slow, when we came to that narrow strait, where Hercules set up his pillars, to warn men from going further. I left Seville to starboard: already Ceuta was left behind on the other side.

    I said: ‘O my brothers, who have reached the west, through a thousand dangers, do not deny the brief vigil, your senses have left to them, experience of the unpopulated world beyond the Sun. Consider your origin: you were not made to live like brutes, but to follow virtue and knowledge.’ With this brief speech I made my companions so eager for the voyage, that I could hardly have restrained them, and turning the prow towards morning, we made wings of our oars for that foolish flight, always turning south.

    Night already saw the southern pole, with all its stars, and our northern pole was so low, it did not rise from the ocean bed. Five times the light beneath the moon had been quenched and relit, since we had entered on the deep pathways, when a mountain appeared to us, dim with distance, and it seemed to me the highest I had ever seen. We rejoiced, but soon our joy was turned to grief, when a tempest rose from the new land, and struck the prow of our ship. Three times it whirled her round, with all the ocean: at the fourth, it made the stern rise, and the prow sink, as it pleased another, till the sea closed over us.’

    Inferno Canto XXVII:1-30 Guido Da Montefeltro

    The flame was now erect and quiet, no longer speaking, and was going away from us, with the permission of the sweet poet, when another, that came behind forced us to turn our eyes towards its summit, since a confused sound escaped there.
    As the Sicilian bull, that first bellowed with the groans of Perillus, who had smoothed it with his file (and that was right) bellowed with the sufferer’s voice, so that, although it was bronze, it seemed pierced with agony, so here, the dismal words, having, at their source, no exit from the fire, were changed into its language. But when they had found a path out through the tip, giving it the movement that the tongue had given in making them, we heard it say: ‘O you, at whom I direct my voice, and who, but now, was speaking Lombard, saying: “Now go: no more, I beg you”, let it not annoy you to stop and speak with me, though perhaps I have came a little late: you see it does not annoy me, and I burn.

    If you are only now fallen into this blind world, from that sweet Latian land, from which I bring all my guilt, tell me if Romagna has peace or war, for I was of the mountains there, between Urbino and Monte Coronaro, the source from which the Tiber springs.’

    Inferno Canto XXVII:31-57 The situation in Romagna

    I was still leaning downwards eagerly, when my leader touched me on the side, saying: ‘Speak, this is a Latian.’ And I who had my answer ready, began to speak then without delay: ‘O spirit, hidden there below, your Romagna is not, and never has been, without war in the hearts of her tyrants: but I left no open war there now.
    Ravenna stands, as it has stood for many years: Guido Vecchio da Polenta’s eagle broods over it, so that it covers Cervia with its claws. That city, Forlì, that withstood so long a siege, and made a bloody pile of Frenchmen, finds itself again under the paws of Ordelaffi’s green lion.

    Malatesta, the old mastiff of Verruchio, and the young one, Malatestino, who made bad jailors for Montagna, sharpen their teeth, where they used to do. Faenza, on the Lamone, and Imola on the Santerno, those cities lead out Pagano, the lion of the white lair, who changes sides when he goes from south to north, and Cesena, that city whose walls the Savio bathes, where it lies between the mountain and the plain, likewise lives between freedom and tyranny.

    Now I beg you, tell us who you are: do not be harder than others have been to you, so that your name may keep its lustre on earth.’

    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136 Guido’s history

    When the flame had roared for a while as usual, it flickered the sharp point to and fro, and then gave out this breath: ‘If I thought my answer was given to one who could ever return to the world, this flame would flicker no more, but since, if what I hear is true, no one ever returned, alive, from this deep, I reply, without fear of defamation.
    I, Guido da Montefeltro, was a man of arms: and then became a Cordelier of Saint Francis, hoping to make amends, so habited: and indeed my hopes would have been realised in full, but for the Great Priest, Boniface, evil to him, who drew me back to my first sins: and how and why, I want you to hear from me.

    While I was in the form of bones and pulp, that my mother gave me, my actions were not those of the lion, but of the fox. I knew all the tricks and coverts, and employed the art of them so well, that the noise went out to the ends of the earth. When I found myself arrived at that point of life, when everyone should furl their sails, and gather in the ropes, what had pleased me before, now grieved me, and with repentance and confession, I turned monk. Ah misery! Alas, it would have served me well.

    But the Prince of the Pharisees; that Pope waging war near the Lateran, and not with Saracens or Jews, since all his enemies were Christians, and none had been to conquer Acre, or been a merchant in the Sultan’s land; had no regard for the highest office, nor holy orders, nor my habit of Saint Francis, that used to make those who wore it leaner; but as the Emperor Constantine sought out Saint Sylvester, on Mount Soracte, to cure his leprosy, so this man called me, as a doctor to cure his feverish pride. He demanded counsel of me, and I kept silent, since his speech seemed drunken.

    Then he said to me: ‘Do not be doubtful, I absolve you beforehand: and, you, teach me how to act, so that I may raze the fortress of Palestrina to the ground. I can open and close Heaven as you know, with the two keys, that my predecessor, Celestine, did not prize.’ Then the weighty arguments forced me to consider silence worse, and I said: ‘Father, since you absolve me of that sin, into which I must now fall, large promises to your enemies, with little delivery of them, will give you victory, from your high throne.’

    Afterwards, when I was dead, Saint Francis came for me: but one of the Black Cherubim said to him: ‘Do not take him: do not wrong me. He must descend among my servants, because he gave a counsel of deceit, since when I have kept him fast by the hair: he who does not repent, cannot be absolved: nor can one repent a thing, and at the same time will it, since the contradiction is not allowed.’ O miserable self! How I started, when he seized me, saying to me: ‘Perhaps you did not think I was a logician.’

    He carried me to Minos, who coiled his tail eight times round his fearful back, and then, biting it in great rage, said: ‘This sinner is for the thievish fire’, and so I am lost here, as you see, and clothed like this, go inwardly grieving.’

    When he had ended his speech, so, the flame went sorrowing, writhing and flickering its sharp horn. We passed on, my guide and I, along the cliff, up to the other arch, that covers the next ditch, in which the reward is paid to those who collect guilt by sowing discord.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:1-21 The Ninth Chasm: The Sowers of Discord

    Who could ever fully tell, even with repeated unimprisoned words, the blood and wounds I saw now? Every tongue would certainly fail, since our speech and memory have too small a capacity to comprehend so much. If all the people, too, were gathered, who once grieved for their blood, in the fateful land of Apulia, by reason of the Samnite War of the Romans, of Trojan seed; and those, from that long Punic War, that, as Livy writes, who does not err, yielded so great a wealth of rings, from Cannae’s battlefield; and those who felt the pain of blows by withstanding Robert Guiscard; and the rest, whose bones are still heaped at Ceperano, where all the Apulians turned traitor, for Charles of Anjou; and there, at Tagliacozzo where old Alardo’s advice to Charles conquered without weapons: and some were to show pierced limbs, and others severed stumps; it would be nothing to equal the hideous state of the ninth chasm.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:22-54 Mahomet: the Caliph Ali

    Even a wine-cask, that has lost a stave in the middle or the end, does not yawn as widely, as a spirit I saw, cleft from the chin down to the part that gives out the foulest sound: the entrails hung between his legs: the organs appeared, and the miserable gut that makes excrement of what is swallowed.
    While I stood looking wholly at him, he gazed at me, and opened his chest with his hands, saying: ‘See how I tear myself: see how Mahomet is ripped! In front of me, Ali goes, weeping, his face split from chin to scalp, and all the others you see here, were sowers of scandal and schism in their lifetimes: so they are cleft like this. There is a devil behind who tears us cruelly like this, reapplying his sword blade to each of this crowd, when they have wandered round the sad road, since the wounds heal before any reach him again.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 28, 259

    But who are you, who muse there on the cliff, maybe to delay your path to punishment, in sentence for your crimes?’

    My Master replied: ‘Death has not come to him yet, nor does guilt lead him to torment, but it is incumbent on me, who am dead, to grant him full experience, and lead him, through the Inferno, down here, from circle to circle, and this is truth, that I tell you.’ When they heard him, more than a hundred spirits, in the ditch, halted, to look at me, forgetting their agony, in their wonder.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:55-90 Pier della Medicina and others

    After lifting up one foot, to leave, Mahomet said to me: ‘Well now, you who will soon see the sun, perhaps, tell Fra Dolcino of the Apostolic Brothers, if he does not wish to follow me, quickly, down here, to furnish himself with supplies, so that the snow-falls may not bring a victory for the Novarese, that otherwise would be difficult to achieve.’ Then, he strode forward to depart.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 28, 261

    Another, who had his throat slit, and nose cut off to the eyebrows, and had only a single ear, standing to gaze in wonder with the rest, opened his wind-pipe, that was red outside, all over, and said: ‘You, that no guilt condemns, and whom I have seen above on Latian ground, unless resemblance deceives me, remember Pier della Medicina, if you ever return to see the gentle plain, that slopes down from Vercelli to Marcabò. And make known to the worthiest two men in Fano, Messer Guido, and Angiolello, also, that unless our prophetic powers here are in vain, they will be cast out of their boat, and drowned near Cattolica, by treachery. Neptune never saw a greater crime, between the isles of Cyprus and Majorca, not even among those carried out by pirates, or by Greeks. Malatestino, the treacherous one, who only sees with one eye, and holds the land, that one, who is here with me, wishes he had never seen, will make them come to parley with him, then act so that they will have no need of vow or prayer to counter Focara’s winds.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:91-111 Curio and Mosca

    And I said to him: ‘If you would have me carry news of you, above, show me and explain who he is that rues the sight of it.’ Then he placed his hand on the jaw of one of his companions, and opened the mouth, saying: ‘ This is he: and he does not speak. This outcast quelled Caesar’s doubts at the Rubicon, saying that delay always harms men who are ready.’ O how dejected, Curio seemed to me, with his tongue slit in his palate, who was so bold in speech!
    And one who had both hands severed, lifting the stumps through the dark air, so that their blood stained his face, said: ‘You will remember Mosca too, who said, alas, “A thing done, has an end” which was seed of evil to the Tuscan race.’ ‘And death to your people,’ I added, at which he, accumulating pain on pain, went away like one sad and mad.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:112-142 Bertrand de Born

    But I remained behind to view the crowd, and saw a thing, which, without more proof, I would be afraid to even tell, except that conscience reassures me, the good companion, that strengthens a man, under the armour of his self-respect.
    I saw it clearly, and still seem to see, a headless trunk, that goes on before, like the others, in that miserable crew, and holds its severed head, by the hair, swinging, like a lantern, in its hand. It looked at us, and said: ‘Ah me!’. It made a lamp of itself, to light itself, and there were two in one, and one in two: how that can be he knows, who made it so.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 28, 265

    When it was right at the foot of our bridge, it lifted its arm high, complete with the head, to bring its words near to us, which were: ‘Now you see the grievous punishment, you, who go, alive and breathing, to see the dead: look if any are as great as this. And so that you may carry news of me, know that I am Bertrand de Born, he who gave evil counsel to the Young King. I made the father and the son rebel against each other: Ahithophel did no more for Absalom and David, by his malicious stirrings.

    Because I parted those who were once joined, I carry my intellect, alas, split from its origin in this body. So, in me, is seen just retribution.

    Inferno Canto XXIX:1-36 Geri del Bello

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 29, 269

    The multitude of people, and the many wounds, had made my eyes so tear-filled, that they longed to stop and weep, but Virgil said to me: ‘Why are you still gazing? Why does your sight still rest, down there, on the sad, mutilated shadows? You did not do so at the other chasms. Think, if you wish to number them, that the valley circles twenty-two miles, and the moon is already underneath our feet. The time is short now, that is given us, and there are other things to view, than those you see.’
    I replied, then: ‘Had you noticed the reason why I looked, perhaps you might still have allowed me to stay.’ Meanwhile, the guide was moving on, and I went behind him, making my reply, and adding, now: ‘In the hollow where I held my gaze, I believe a spirit, of my own blood, laments the guilt that costs so greatly here.’ Then the Master said: ‘Do not let your thoughts be distracted by him: attend to something else: let him stay there. I saw him point to you, at the foot of the little bridge, and threaten, angrily, with his finger: and I heard them call him Geri del Bello. You were so entangled, then, with him who once held Altaforte, that you did not look that way, so he departed.’

    I said: ‘Oh, my guide, his violent murder made him indignant, not yet avenged on his behalf, by any that shares his shame: therefore, I guess, he went away, without speaking to me: and, by that, has made me pity him the more.’

    Inferno Canto XXIX:37-72 The Tenth Chasm: The Falsifiers

    So we talked, as far as the first place on the causeway that would have revealed the next valley, right to its floor, if it had been lighter. When we were above the last cloister of Malebolge, so that its lay brothers could be seen, many groans pierced me, whose arrows were barbed with pity, at which I covered my ears with my hands. Such pain there was, as there would be, if the diseases in the hospitals of Valdichiana, Maremma and Sardinia, between July and September, were all rife in one ditch: a stench arose from it, such as issues from putrid limbs.
    We descended on the last bank of the long causeway, again on the left, and then my sight was clearer, down to the depths, where infallible Justice, the minister of the Lord on high, punishes the falsifiers that it accounts for here. I do not think it would have been a greater sadness to see the people of plague-ridden Aegina, when the air was so malignant, that every animal, even the smallest worm, was killed, and afterwards, as Poets say, for certain, the ancient race was restored from the seed of ants, than it was to see the spirits languishing in scattered heaps through that dim valley. This one lay on its belly, that, on the shoulders of the other, and some were crawling along the wretched path.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 29, 273

    Step by step we went, without a word, gazing at, and listening to, the sick who could not lift their bodies.

    Inferno Canto XXIX:73-99 Griffolino and Capocchio

    I saw two sitting, leaning on each other, as one pan is leant to warm against another: they were marked with scabs from head to foot, and I never saw a stable lad his master waits for, or one who stays awake unwillingly, use a currycomb as fiercely, as each of these two clawed himself with his nails, because of the intensity of their itching, that has no other relief.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 29, 275

    And so the nails dragged the scurf off, as a knife does the scales from bream, or other fish with larger scales. My Guide began to speak: ‘O you, who strip your chain-mail with your fingers, and often make pincers of them, tell us if there is any Latian among those here, inside: and may your nails be enough for that task for eternity.’ One of them replied, weeping: ‘We are both Latians, whom you see so mutilated here, but who are you who enquire of us? And the guide said: ‘I am one, who with this living man, descends from steep to steep, and mean to show him Hell.’

    Then the mutual prop broke, and each one turned, trembling, towards me, along with others that heard him, by the echo.

    Inferno Canto XXIX:100-120 Griffolino’s narrative

    The good Master addressed me directly, saying: ‘Tell them what you wish,’ and I began as he desired: ‘So that your memory will not fade, from human minds, in the first world, but will live for many suns, tell us who you are, and of what race. Do not let your ugly and revolting punishment make you afraid to reveal yourselves to me.’
    The one replied: ‘I was Griffolino of Arezzo, and Albero of Siena had me burned: but what I died for did not send me here. It is true I said to him, jesting, “I could lift myself into the air in flight,” and he who had great desire and little brain, wished me to show him that art: and only because I could not make him Daedalus, he caused me to be burned, by one who looked on him as a son.

    But to the last chasm of the ten, Minos, who cannot err, condemned me, for the alchemy I practised in the world.’

    Inferno Canto XXIX:121-139 The Spendthrift Brigade

    And I said to the poet: ‘Now was there ever a people as vain as the Sienese? Certainly not the French, by far.’ At which the other leper, hearing me, replied to my words: ‘What of Stricca, who contrived to spend so little: and Niccolo who first discovered the costly use of cloves, in that garden, Siena, where such seed takes root: and that company in which Caccia of Aciano threw away his vineyard, and his vast forest, and the Abbagliato showed his wit.
    But so that you may know who seconds you like this against the Sienese, sharpen your eye on me, so that my face may reply to you: so you will see I am Capocchio’s shadow, who made false metals, by alchemy, and you must remember, if I know you rightly, how well I aped nature.’

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48 Schicci and Myrrha

    At the time when Juno was angry, as she had shown more than once, with the Theban race, because of Jupiter’s affair with Semele, she so maddened King Athamas, that, seeing his wife, Ino, go by, carrying her two sons in her arms, he cried: ‘Spread the hunting nets, so that I can take the lioness and her cubs, at the pass,’ and then stretched out his pitiless talons, snatching the one, named Learchus, and, whirling him round, dashed him against the rock: and Ino drowned herself, and her other burden, Melicertes. And after fortune had brought down the high Trojan pride, that dared all, so that Priam the king, and his kingdom were destroyed, Queen Hecuba, a sad, wretched captive, having witnessed the sacrifice of Polyxena, alone, on the sea-shore, when she recognised the body of her Polydorus, barked like a dog, driven out of her senses, so greatly had her sorrow racked her mind.
    But neither Theban nor Trojan Furies were ever seen embodied so cruelly, in stinging creatures, or even less in human limbs, as I saw displayed in two shades, pallid and naked, that ran, biting, as a hungry pig does, when he is driven out of his sty. The one came to Capocchio, and fixed his tusks in his neck, so that dragging him along, it made the solid floor rasp his belly. And the Aretine, Griffolino, who was left, said to me, trembling: ‘That goblin is Gianni Schicci, and he goes, rabidly, mangling others like that.’ I replied: ‘Oh, be pleased to tell us who the other is, before it snatches itself away, and may it not plant its teeth in you.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 30, 281

    And he to me: ‘That is the ancient spirit of incestuous Myrrha, who loved her father, Cinyras, with more than lawful love. She came to him, and sinned, under cover of another’s name, just as the one who is vanishing there, undertook to disguise himself as Buoso Donati, so as to gain the mare, called the Lady of the Herd, by forging a will, and giving it legal form.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 30, 283

    When the furious pair, on whom I had kept my eye, were gone, I turned to look at the other spirits, born to evil.

    Inferno Canto XXX:49-90 Adam of Brescia

    I saw one, who would have been shaped like a lute, if he had only had his groin cut short, at the place where a man is forked. The heavy dropsy, that swells the limbs, with its badly transformed humours, so that the face does not match the belly, made him hold his lips apart, as the fevered patient does who, through thirst, curls one lip towards the chin, and the other upwards.
    He said to us: ‘O you, who are exempt from punishment in this grim world (and why, I do not know), look and attend to the misery of Master Adam. I had enough of what I wished, when I was alive, and now, alas, I crave a drop of water. The little streams that fall, from the green hills of Casentino, down to the Arno, making cool, moist channels, are constantly in my mind, and not in vain, since the image of them parches me, far more than the disease, that wears the flesh from my face.

    The rigid justice, that examines me, takes its opportunity from the place where I sinned, to give my sighs more rapid flight. That is Romena, where I counterfeited the coin of Florence, stamped with the Baptist’s image: for that, on earth, I left my body, burned. But if I could see the wretched soul of Guido here, or Alessandro, or Aghinolfo, their brother, I would not exchange that sight for Branda’s fountain. Guido is down here already, if the crazed spirits going round speak truly, but what use is it to me, whose limbs are tied?

    If I were only light enough to move, even an inch, every hundred years, I would already have started on the road, to find him among this disfigured people, though it winds around eleven miles, and is no less than half a mile across. Because of them I am with such a crew: they induced me to stamp those florins that were adulterated, with three carats alloy.’

    Inferno Canto XXX:91-129 Sinon: Potiphar’s wife

    I said to him: ‘Who are those abject two, lying close to your right edge, and giving off smoke, like a hand, bathed, in winter? He replied: ‘I found them here, when I rained down into this pound, and they have not turned since then, and may never turn I believe.
    One is the false wife who accused Joseph. The other is lying Sinon, the Greek from Troy. A burning fever makes them stink so strongly.’ And Sinon, who perhaps took offence at being named so blackly, struck Adamo’s rigid belly with his fist, so that it resounded, like a drum: and Master Adam struck him in the face with his arm, that seemed no softer, saying to him: ‘I have an arm free for such a situation, though I am kept from moving by my heavy limbs.’ At which Sinon answered: ‘You were not so ready with it, going to the fire, but as ready, and readier, when you were coining.’ And he of the dropsy: ‘You speak truth in that, but you were not so truthful a witness, there, when you were questioned about the truth at Troy.’

    ‘If I spoke falsely, you falsified the coin,’ Sinon said, ‘and I am here for the one crime, but you for more than any other devil.’ He who had the swollen belly answered: ‘Think of the Wooden Horse, you liar, and let it be a torment to you that all the world knows of it.’ The Greek replied: ‘Let the thirst that cracks the tongue be your torture, and the foul water make your stomach a barrier in front of your eyes.’ Then the coiner: ‘Your mouth gapes wide as usual, to speak ill. If I have a thirst, and moisture swells me, you have the burning, and a head that hurts you: and you would not need many words of invitation, to lap at the mirror of Narcissus.’

    Inferno Canto XXX:130-148 Virgil reproves Dante

    I was standing, all intent on hearing them, when the Master said to me: ‘Now, keep gazing much longer, and I will quarrel with you!’ When I heard him speak to me in anger, I turned towards him, with such a feeling of shame that it comes over me again, as I only think of it. And like someone who dreams of something harmful to them, and dreaming, wishes it were a dream, so that they long for what is, as if it were not; that I became, who, lacking power to speak, wished to make an excuse, and all the while did so, not thinking I was doing it.
    My Master said: ‘Less shamefacedness would wash away a greater fault than yours, so unburden yourself of sorrow, and know that I am always with you, should it happen that fate takes you, where people are in similar conflict: since the desire to hear it, is a vulgar desire.’

    Inferno Canto XXXI:1-45 The Giants that guard the central pit

    One and the same tongue at first wounded me, so that it painted both my cheeks with blushes, and then gave out the ointment for the wound. So I have heard the spear of Achilles, and his father Peleus, was the cause first of sadness, and then of a healing gift.
    We turned our back on the wretched valley, crossing without a word, up by the bank that circles round it. Here was less darkness than night and less light than day, so that my vision showed only a little in front: but I heard a high-pitched horn sound, so loudly, that it would have made thunder seem quiet: it directed my eyes, that followed its passage back, straight to a single point. Roland did not sound his horn so fiercely, after the sad rout, when Charlemagne had lost the holy war, at Roncesvalles.

    I had kept my head turned for a while in that direction, when I seemed to make out many high towers, at which I said: ‘Master, tell me what city this is?’ And he to me: ‘Because your eyes traverse the darkness from too far away, it follows that you imagine wrongly. You will see, quite plainly, when you reach there, how much the sense is deceived by distance, so press on more strongly.’ Then he took me, lovingly, by the hand, and said: ‘Before we go further, so that the reality might seem less strange to you, know that they are Giants, not towers, and are in the pit, from the navel downwards, all of them, around its bank.’

    As the eye, when a mist is disappearing, gradually recreates what was hidden by the vapour thickening the air, so, while approaching closer and closer to the brink, piercing through that gross, dark atmosphere, error left me, and my fear increased. As Montereggione crowns its round wall with towers, so the terrible giants, whom Jupiter still threatens from the heavens, when he thunders, turreted with half their bodies the bank that circles the well.

    Inferno Canto XXXI:46-81 Nimrod

    And I already saw the face of one, the shoulders, chest, the greater part of the belly, and the arms down both sides. When nature abandoned the art of making creatures like these, she certainly did well by removing such killers from warfare, and if she does not repent of making elephants and whales, whoever looks at the issue subtly, considers her more prudent and more right in that, since where the instrument of mind is joined to ill will and power, men have no defence against it.
    His face seemed to me as long and large as the bronze pine-cone, in front of St Peter’s in Rome, and his other features were in proportion, so that the bank that covered him from the middle onwards, revealed so much of him above that three Frieslanders would have boasted in vain of reaching his hair, since I saw thirty large hand-spans of him down from the place where a man pins his cloak.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 31, 291

    The savage mouth, for which no sweeter hymns were fit, began to rave: ‘Rafel mai amech sabi almi.’ And my guide turning to him, said: ‘Foolish spirit, stick to your hunting-horn, and vent your breath through that, when rage or some other passion stirs you. Search round your neck, O confused soul, and you will find the belt where it is slung, and see that which arcs across your huge chest.’ Then he said to me: ‘He declares himself. This is Nimrod, through whose evil thought, one language is not still used, throughout the whole world. Let us leave him standing here, and not speak to him in vain: since every language, to him, is like his to others, that no one understands.’

    Inferno Canto XXXI:82-96 Ephialtes

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 31, 293

    So we went on, turning to the left, and, a crossbow-shot away, we found the next one, far larger and fiercer. Who and what the power might be that bound him, I cannot say, but he had his right arm pinioned behind, and the other in front, by a chain that held him tight, from the neck down, and, on the visible part of him, reached its fifth turn.
    My guide said: ‘This proud spirit had the will to try his strength against high Jupiter, and so has this reward. Ephialtes is his name, and he made the great attempt, when the Giants made the gods fear, and the arms he shook then, now, he never moves.’

    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145 Antaeus

    And I said to him: ‘If it were possible, I would wish my eyes to light on vast Briareus.’ To which he replied: ‘You will see Antaeus, nearby, who speaks and is unchained, and will set us down in the deepest abyss of guilt. He whom you wish to see is far beyond, and is formed and bound like this one, except he seems more savage in his features.’ No huge earthquake ever shook a tower, as violently as Ephialtes promptly shook himself. Then I feared death more than ever, and the fear alone would have been enough to cause it, had I not seen his chains.
    We then went further on, and reached Antaeus, who projected twenty feet from the pit, not including his head. The Master spoke: ‘O you, who, of old, took a thousand lions for your prey, in the fateful valley, near Zama, that made Scipio heir to glory, when Hannibal retreated with his army; you, through whom, it might still be believed, the Giant sons of Earth would have overcome the gods, if you had been at the great war with your brothers; set us down, and do not be shy to do it, where the cold imprisons the River Cocytus, in the Ninth Circle.

    Do not make us ask Tityos or Typhon. Bend, and do not curl your lips in scorn: this man can give that which is longed for, here: he can refresh your fame on earth, since he is alive, and still expects long life, if grace does not call him to her before his time.’ So the Master spoke, and Antaeus quickly stretched out both hands, from which Hercules of old once felt the power, and seized my guide. Virgil when he felt his grasp, said to me: ‘Come here, so that I may carry you.’ Then he made one bundle of himself and me.

    To me, who stood watching to see Antaeus stoop, he seemed as the leaning tower at Bologna, the Carisenda, appears to the view, under the leaning side, when a cloud is passing over it, and it hangs in the opposite direction. It was such a terrible moment I would have wished to have gone by another route, but he set us down gently in the deep, that swallowed Lucifer and Judas, and did not linger there, bent, but straightened himself, like a mast raised in a boat.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 31, 297

    Inferno Canto XXXII:1-39 The Ninth Circle: The frozen River Cocytus

    If I had words, rough and hoarse enough, to fit the dismal chasm, on which all the other rocky cliffs weigh, and converge, I would squeeze out the juice of my imagination more completely: but since I have not, I bring myself, not without fear, to describe the place: to tell of the pit of the Universe is not a task to be taken up in play, nor in a language that has words like ‘mother’ and ‘father’. But may the Muses, those Ladies, who helped Amphion shut Thebes behind its walls, aid my speech, so that my words may not vary from the truth.
    O you people, created evil beyond all others, in this place that is hard to speak of, it were better if you had been sheep or goats here on earth! When we were down, inside the dark well, beneath the Giants’ feet, and much lower, and I was still staring at the steep cliff, I heard a voice say to me: ‘Take care as you pass, so that you do not tread, with your feet, on the heads of the wretched, weary brothers.’ At which I turned, and saw a lake, in front of me and underneath my feet, that, because of the cold, appeared like glass not water.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 32, 301

    The Danube, in Austria, never formed so thick a veil for its winter course, nor the Don, far off under the frozen sky, as was here: if Mount Tambernic in the east, or Mount Pietrapana, had fallen on it, it would not have even creaked at the margin. And as frogs sit croaking with their muzzles above water, at the time when peasant women often dream of gleaning, so the sad shadows sat, in the ice, livid to where the blush of shame appears, chattering with their teeth, like storks.

    Each one held his face turned down: the cold is witnessed, amongst them, by their mouths: and their sad hearts, by their eyes.

    Inferno Canto XXXII:40-69 The Caïna: The degli Alberti: Camicion

    When I had a looked around awhile, turning to my feet, I saw two, so compressed together, that the hair of their heads was intermingled. I said: ‘Tell me, you, who press your bodies together so: who are you?’ And they twisted their necks up, and when they had lifted their faces towards me, their eyes, which were only moist, inwardly, before, gushed at the lids, and the frost iced fast the tears, between them, and sealed them up again. No vice ever clamped wood to wood as firmly: so that they butted one another like two he-goats, overcome by such rage.
    And one, who had lost both ears to the cold, with his face still turned down, said: ‘Why are you staring at us, so fiercely? If you want to know who these two are, they are the degli Alberti, Allesandro and Napoleone: the valley where the Bisenzio runs down, was theirs and their father Alberto’s. They issued from one body, and you can search the whole Caïna, and will not find shades more worthy of being set in ice: not even Mordred, whose chest and shadow, were pierced, at one blow, by his father’s, King Arthur’s, lance: nor Focaccia: nor this one, who obstructs my face with his head, so that I cannot see further, who was named Sassol Mascheroni. If you are a Tuscan, now, you know truly what he was.

    And so that you do not put me to more speech, know that I am Camicion de’ Pazzi, and am waiting for Carlino, my kinsman, to outdo me.’

    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123 The Antenora: Bocca degli Abbati

    Afterwards I saw a thousand faces, made doglike by the cold, at which a trembling overcomes me, and always will, when I think of the frozen fords. And, whether it was will, or fate or chance, I do not know: but walking, among the heads, I struck my foot violently against one face. Weeping it cried out to me: ‘Why do you trample on me? If you do not come to increase the revenge for Montaperti, why do you trouble me?’
    And I: ‘My Master, wait here for me, now, so that I can rid me of a doubt concerning him, then you can make as much haste as you please.’ The Master stood, and I said to that shade which still reviled me bitterly: ‘Who are you, who reproach others in this way?’ ‘No, who are you,’ he answered, ‘who go through the Antenora striking the faces of others, in such a way, that if you were alive, it would be an insult?’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 32, 305

    I replied: ‘I am alive, and if you long for fame, it might be a precious thing to you, if I put your name among the others.’ And he to me: ‘I long for the opposite: take yourself off, and annoy me no more: since you little know how to flatter on this icy slope.’ Then I seized him by the back of the scalp, and said: ‘You need to name yourself, before there is not a hair left on your head!’ At which he said to me: ‘Even if you pluck me, I will not tell you who I am, nor demonstrate it to you, though you tear at my head, a thousand times.’

    I already had his hair coiled in my hand, and had pulled away more than one tuft of it, while he barked, and kept his eyes down, when another spirit cried: ‘What is wrong with you, Bocca, is it not enough that you chatter with your jaws, but you have to bark too? What devil is at you?’ I said: ‘Now, accursed traitor, I do not want you to speak: since I will carry true news of you, to your shame.’ He answered: ‘Go, and say what you please, but, if you get out from here, do not be silent about him, who had his tongue so ready just now. Here he regrets taking French silver. You can say, “I saw Buoso de Duera, there, where the sinners stand caught in the ice.”

    If you are asked who else was there, you have Tesauro de’ Beccheria, whose throat was slit by Florence. Gianni de’ Soldanier is further on, with Ganelon, and Tribaldello, who unbarred the gate of Faenza while it slept.’

    Inferno Canto XXXII:124-139 Ugolino and Ruggieri

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 32, 309

    We had already left him, when I saw two spirits frozen in a hole, so close together that the one head capped the other, and the uppermost set his teeth into the other, as bread is chewed, out of hunger, there where the back of the head joins the nape. Tydeus gnawed the head of Menalippus, no differently, out of rage, than this one the skull and other parts.
    I said: ‘O you, who, in such a brutal way, inflict the mark of your hatred, on him, whom you devour, tell me why: on condition that, if you complain of him with reason, I, knowing who you are, and his offence, may repay you still in the world above, if the tongue I speak with is not withered.’

    Inferno Canto XXXIII:1-90 Count Ugolino’s story

    That sinner raised his mouth from the savage feast, wiping it on the hair, of the head he had stripped behind. Then he began: ‘You wish me to renew desperate grief, that wrings my heart at the very thought, before I even tell of it. But if my words are to be the seed, that bears fruit, in the infamy, of the traitor whom I gnaw, you will see me speak and weep together. I do not know who you are, nor by what means you have come down here, but when I hear you, you seem to me, in truth, a Florentine.
    You must know that I am Count Ugolino, and this is the Archbishop Ruggieri. Now I will tell you why I am a neighbour such as this to him. It is not necessary to say that, confiding in him, I was taken, through the effects of his evil schemes, and afterwards killed. But what you cannot have learnt, how cruel my death was, you will hear: and know if he has injured me.

    A narrow hole inside that tower, which is called Famine, from my death, and in which others must yet be imprisoned, had already shown me several moons through its opening, when I slept an evil sleep that tore the curtain of the future for me. This man seemed to me the lord, and master, chasing the wolf and its whelps, on Monte di San Guiliano, that blocks the view of Lucca from the Pisans. He had the Gualandi, Sismondi and Lanfranchi running with him, with hounds, slender, keen, and agile.

    After a short chase the father and his sons seemed weary to me, and I thought I saw their flanks torn by sharp teeth. When I woke, before dawn, I heard my sons, who were with me, crying in their sleep, and asking for food. You are truly cruel if you do not sorrow already at the thought of what my heart presaged: and if you do not weep, what do you weep at?

    They were awake now, and the hour nearing, at which our food used to be brought to us, and each of us was anxious from dreaming, when below I heard the door of the terrible tower locked up: at which I gazed into the faces of my sons, without saying a word. I did not weep: I grew like stone inside: they wept: and my little Anselm said to me: ‘Father you stare so, what is wrong?’ But I shed no tears, and did not answer, all that day, or the next night, till another sun rose over the world. When a little ray of light was sent into the mournful gaol, and I saw in their four faces, the aspect of my own, I bit my hands from grief. And they, thinking that I did it from hunger, suddenly stood, and said: ‘Father, it will give us less pain, if you gnaw at us: you put this miserable flesh on us, now strip it off, again.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 33, 313

    Then I calmed myself, in order not to make them more unhappy: that day and the next we all were silent. Ah, solid earth, why did you not open? When we had come to the fourth day, Gaddo threw himself down at my feet, saying: ‘My father, why do you not help me?’ There he died, and even as you see me, I saw the three others fall one by one, between the fifth and sixth days: at which, already blind, I took to groping over each of them, and called out to them for three days, when they were dead: then fasting, at last, had power to overcome grief.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 33, 315

    When he had spoken this, he seized the wretched skull again with his teeth, which were as strong as a dog’s on the bone, his eyes distorted. Ah Pisa, shame among the people, of the lovely land where ‘si’ is heard, let the isles of Caprara and Gorgona shift and block the Arno at its mouth, since your neighbours are so slow to punish you, so that it may drown every living soul. Since if Count Ugolino had the infamy of having betrayed your castles, you ought not to have put his sons to the torture. Their youth made Uguccione and Brigata, and the other two my words above have named, innocents, you modern Thebes.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 33, 317

    Inferno Canto XXXIII:91-157 Friar Alberigo and Branca d’Oria

    We went further on, where the rugged frost encases another people, not bent down but reversed completely. The very weeping there prevents them weeping: and the grief that makes an impediment to their sight, turns inward to increase their agony: since the first tears form a knot, and like a crystal visor, fill the cavities below their eyebrows. And though all feeling had left my face, through the cold, as though from a callus, it seemed to me now as if I felt a breeze, at which I said: ‘Master, what causes this? Is the heat not all quenched here below?’ At which he said to me: ‘Soon you will be where your own eyes, will answer that, seeing the source that generates the air.’
    And one of the sad shadows, in the icy crust, cried out to us: ‘O spirits, so cruel that the last place of all is reserved for you, remove the solid veils from my face, that I might vent the grief a little that chokes my heart, before the tears freezes again.’ At which I said to him: ‘If you would have my help, tell me who you are: and if I do not disburden you, may I have to journey to the depths of the ice.’

    He replied to that: ‘I am Friar Alberigo, I am he of the fruits of the evil garden, who here receive dates made of ice, to match my figs.’ I said to him: ‘O, are you dead already?’ And he to me: ‘How my body stands in the world above, I do not know, such is the power of this Ptolomaea, that the soul often falls down here, before Atropos cuts the thread. And so that you may more willingly clear the frozen tears from your face, know that when the soul betrays, as mine did, her body is taken from her by a demon, there and then, who rules it after that, till its time is complete. She falls, plunging down to this well: and perhaps the body of this other shade, that winters here, behind me, is still visible in the world above.

    You must know it, if you have only now come down here: it is Ser Branca d’Oria, and many years have passed since he was imprisoned here.’ I said to him: ‘I believe you are lying to me: Branca d’Oria is not dead, and eats and drinks, and sleeps, and puts on his clothes.’ He said: ‘Michel Zanche had not yet arrived, in the ditch of the Malebranche above, there where the tenacious pitch boils, when this man left a devil in his place in his own body, and one in the body of his kinsman who did the treachery with him. But reach your hand here: open my eyes.’ And I did not open them for him: and it was a courtesy to be rude to him.

    Ah, Genoese, men divorced from all morality, and filled with every corruption, why are you not dispersed from off the earth? I found the worst spirit of Romagna was one of you, who for his actions even now bathes, as a soul, in Cocytus, and still seems alive on earth, in his own body.

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:1-54 The Judecca: Satan

    ‘Vexilla Regis prodeunt inferni, the banners of the King of Hell advance towards us: so look in front of you to see if you discern him,’ said my Master. I seemed to see a tall structure, as a mill, that the wind turns, seems from a distance, when a dense mist breathes, or when night falls in our hemisphere, and I shrank back behind my guide, because of the wind, since there was no other shelter.
    I had already come, and with fear I put it into words, where the souls were completely enclosed, and shone through like straw in glass. Some are lying down, some stand upright, one on its head, another on the soles of its feet, another bent head to foot, like a bow.

    When we had gone on far enough, that my guide was able to show me Lucifer, the monster who was once so fair, he removed himself from me, and made me stop, saying: ‘Behold Dis, and behold the place where you must arm yourself with courage.’ Reader, do not ask how chilled and hoarse I became, then, since I do not write it, since all words would fail to tell it. I did not die, yet I was not alive. Think, yourself, now, if you have any grain of imagination, what I became, deprived of either state.

    The emperor of the sorrowful kingdom stood, waist upwards, from the ice, and I am nearer to a giant in size than the giants are to one of his arms: think how great the whole is that corresponds to such a part. If he was once as fair, as he is now ugly, and lifted up his forehead against his Maker, well may all evil flow from him. O how great a wonder it seemed to me, when I saw three faces on his head! The one in front was fiery red: the other two were joined to it, above the centre of each shoulder, and linked at the top, and the right hand one seemed whitish-yellow: the left was black to look at, like those who come from where the Nile rises. Under each face sprang two vast wings, of a size fit for such a bird: I never saw ship’s sails as wide. They had no feathers, but were like a bat’s in form and texture, and he was flapping them, so that three winds blew out away from him, by which all Cocytus was frozen. He wept from six eyes, and tears and bloody spume gushed down three chins.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 34, 323

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:55-69 Judas: Brutus: Cassius

    He chewed a sinner between his teeth, with every mouth, like a grinder, so, in that way, he kept three of them in torment. To the one in front, the biting was nothing compared to the tearing, since, at times, his back was left completely stripped of skin.
    The Master said: ‘That soul up there that suffers the greatest punishment, he who has his head inside, and flails his legs outside, is Judas Iscariot. Of the other two who have their heads hanging downwards, the one who hangs from the face that is black is Brutus: see how he writhes and does not utter a word: and the other is Cassius, who seems so long in limb. But night is ascending, and now we must go, since we have seen it all.’

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:70-139 The Poets leave Hell

    I clasped his neck, as he wished, and he seized the time and place, and when the wings were wide open, grasped Satan’s shaggy sides, and then from tuft to tuft, climbed down, between the matted hair and frozen crust.

    When we had come to where the thigh joint turns, just at the swelling of the haunch, my guide, with effort and difficulty, reversed his head to where his feet had been, and grabbed the hair like a climber, so that I thought we were dropping back to Hell. ‘Hold tight,’ said my guide, panting like a man exhausted, ‘since by these stairs, we must depart from all this evil.’ Then he clambered into an opening in the rock, and set me down to sit on its edge, then turned his cautious step towards me.

    I raised my eyes, thinking to see Lucifer as I had left him, but saw him with his legs projecting upwards, and let those denser people, who do not see what point I had passed, judge if I was confused then, or not.

    My Master said: ‘Get up, on your feet: the way is long, and difficult the road, and the sun already returns to mid-tierce.’ Where we stood was no palace hall, but a natural cell with a rough floor, and short of light. When I had risen, I said: ‘My Master, before I leave the abyss, speak to me a while, and lead me out of error. Where is the ice? And why is this monster fixed upside down? And how has the sun moved from evening to dawn in so short a time?’

    And he to me: ‘You imagine you are still on the other side of the earth’s centre, where I caught hold of the Evil Worm’s hair, he who pierces the world. You were on that side of it, as long as I climbed down, but when I reversed myself, you passed the point to which weight is drawn, from everywhere: and are now below the hemisphere opposite that which covers the wide dry land, and opposite that under whose zenith the Man was crucified, who was born, and lived, without sin. You have your feet on a little sphere that forms the other side of the Judecca.

    Here it is morning, when it is evening there: and he who made a ladder for us of his hair is still as he was before. He fell from Heaven on this side of the earth, and the land that projected here before, veiled itself with the ocean for fear of him, and entered our hemisphere: and that which now projects on this side, left an empty space here, and shot outwards, maybe in order to escape from him.’

    Down there, is a space, as far from Beelzebub as his cave extends, not known by sight, but by the sound of a stream falling through it, along the bed of rock it has hollowed out, into a winding course, and a slow incline. The guide and I entered by that hidden path, to return to the clear world: and, not caring to rest, we climbed up, he first, and I second, until, through a round opening, I saw the beautiful things that the sky holds: and we issued out, from there, to see, again, the stars.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 34, 329

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Inferno Canto 34, 331

    The Purgatorio

    Contents

    Purgatorio Canto I:1-27 Dante’s Invocation and the dawn sky
    Purgatorio Canto I:28-84 The Poets meet Cato
    Purgatorio Canto I:85-111 Cato tells Virgil to bathe Dante’s eyes
    Purgatorio Canto I:112-136 Virgil obeys
    Purgatorio Canto II:1-45 The Angel of God
    Purgatorio Canto II:46-79 The Crowd of Souls
    Purgatorio Canto II:79-114 Casella, the musician
    Purgatorio Canto II:115-133 Cato exhorts the spirits to go on
    Purgatorio Canto III:1-45 Virgil stresses the limitations of knowledge
    Purgatorio Canto III:46-72 The Excommunicated
    Purgatorio Canto III:73-102 They are troubled by Dante’s shadow
    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145 Manfred
    Purgatorio Canto IV:1-18 The unity of the soul
    Purgatorio Canto IV:19-51 The narrow path.
    Purgatorio Canto IV:52-87 The sun’s arc south of the equator
    Purgatorio Canto IV:88-139 Belacqua
    Purgatorio Canto V:1-63 The Late-Repentant
    Purgatorio Canto V:64-84 Jacopo del Cassero
    Purgatorio Canto V:85-129 Buonconte da Montefeltro
    Purgatorio Canto V:130-136 Pia da Tolomei
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24 The spirits crowd round
    Purgatorio Canto VI 25-48 Virgil on the efficacy of prayer
    Purgatorio Canto VI:49-75 Sordello
    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151 Dante’s speech on the sad state of Italy
    Purgatorio Canto VII:1-39 Virgil declares himself to Sordello
    Purgatorio Canto VII:40-63 Sordello explains the rules for ascent
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136 The Valley of the Negligent Rulers
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:1-45 The Two Angels descend
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:46-84 Nino de’ Visconti
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:85-108 The Serpent
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:109-139 Conrad Malaspina
    Purgatorio Canto IX:1-33 Dante dreams he is clasped by an Eagle
    Purgatorio Canto IX:34-63 Virgil explains
    Purgatorio Canto IX:64-105 The Angel at the Gate of Purgatory
    Purgatorio Canto IX:106-145 The Angel opens the Gate
    Purgatorio Canto X:1-45 The First Terrace: The Frieze: The Annunciation
    Purgatorio Canto X:46-72 King David dancing before the Ark
    Purgatorio Canto X:73-96 The Emperor Trajan
    Purgatorio Canto X:97-139 The Proud and their Punishment
    Purgatorio Canto XI:1-36 The Proud paraphrase the Lord’s Prayer
    Purgatorio Canto XI:37-72 Omberto Aldobrandeschi
    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117 Oderisi of Gubbio: The Vanity of Fame
    Purgatorio Canto XI:118-142 Provenzan Salvani
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63 Many examples of Pride
    Purgatorio Canto XII:64-99 The Angel of Humility
    Purgatorio Canto XII:100-136 The first letter P is now erased
    Purgatorio Canto XIII:1-45 The Second Terrace: The voices in the air
    Purgatorio Canto XIII:46-84 The Envious and their Punishment
    Purgatorio Canto XIII:85-154 Sapia de’ Saracini
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:1-27 Guido del Duca and Rinieri da Calboli
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:28-66 The Valley of the Arno
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123 Guido’s diatribe against Romagna
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:124-151 Examples of Envy
    Purgatorio Canto XV:1-36 The Angel of Fraternal Love
    Purgatorio Canto XV:37-81 The Second Beatitude: Dante’s doubts
    Purgatorio Canto XV:82-145 The Third Terrace: Examples of Gentleness
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:1-24 The Wrathful and their Punishment
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:25-96 Marco Lombardo: Free Will
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:97-145 The Error of the Church’s temporal power
    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39 Examples of Anger
    Purgatorio Canto XVII:40-69 The Angel of Meekness: Third Beatitude
    Purgatorio Canto XVII:70-139 Virgil explains the structure of Purgatory
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:1-48 Virgil on the Nature of Love
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:49-75 Virgil on Freewill
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:76-111 The Slothful and their Punishment
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:112-145 The Slothful: Examples of Sloth
    Purgatorio Canto XIX:1-36 Dante’s Second Dream: The Siren
    Purgatorio Canto XIX:37-69 The Angel of Zeal: The Fourth Beatitude
    Purgatorio Canto XIX:70-114 The Avaricious: Pope Adrian V
    Purgatorio Canto XIX:115-145 The Avaricious: Their Punishment
    Purgatorio Canto XX:1-42 Examples of Poverty and Liberality
    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96 Hugh Capet and the Capetian Dynasty
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151 Examples of Avarice: The Earthquake
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33 The Poets meet Statius
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:34-75 The Cause of the Earthquake
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:76-136 Statius and Virgil
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:1-24 The Angel of Liberality: The Fifth Beatitude
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:25-54 Statius’s error was Prodigality not Avarice
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93 Statius’s Conversion to Christianity
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114 The Pagans in Limbo
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:115-154 Examples of Temperance
    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:1-36 The Gluttonous and their Punishment
    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:37-90 Forese Donati
    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:91-133 The Immodesty of the Florentine Women
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:1-33 The Gluttonous
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:34-99 Bonagiunta
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:100-154 Examples of Gluttony: The Angel
    Purgatorio Canto XXV:1-79 Human Embryology and Consciousness
    Purgatorio Canto XXV:80-108 The Soul after death: The Shadows
    Purgatorio Canto XXV:109-139 The Lustful and their Punishment
    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:1-66 The Lustful
    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:67-111 Guido Guinicelli, the poet
    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:112-148 Arnaut Daniel, the poet
    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:1-45 The Angel of Chastity
    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:46-93 The Passage through the Fire
    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:94-114 Dante’s third dream
    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:115-142 Virgil’s last words to Dante
    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:1-51 Matilda gathering flowers
    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:52-138 The Garden’s winds, plants and waters
    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:139-148 The Golden Age
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:1-36 The Divine Pageant
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:37-61 The Seven Branched Candlesticks
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:61-81 The Seven Banners
    Purgatorio CantoXXIX:82-105 The Elders: The Four Beasts
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:106-132 The Chariot: The Grifon: The Virtues
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154 Luke, Paul and others
    Purgatorio Canto XXX:1-48 Beatrice
    Purgatorio Canto XXX:49-81 Virgil has left: Dante is filled with Shame
    Purgatorio Canto XXX:82-145 Her Mission to help him
    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:1-42 Dante confesses his guilt
    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:43-69 Beatrice rebukes him
    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:70-90 Dante’s remorse
    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:91-145 Lethe: Beatrice unveiled
    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:1-36 The Pageant moves eastward
    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:37-63 The Mystic Tree
    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99 Dante sleeps: Beatrice guards the chariot
    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:100-160 The Church’s Past, Present and Future
    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57 Beatrice’s prophetic words
    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:58-102 The Tree of Empire
    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:103-145 Dante and Statius drink from Eunoë
    Purgatorio Canto I:1-27 Dante’s Invocation and the dawn sky

    The little boat of my intellect now sets sail, to course through gentler waters, leaving behind her a sea so cruel. And I will speak of that second region, where the human spirit is purged, and becomes fit to climb to Heaven. But, since I am yours, O sacred Muses, here let dead Poetry rise again, and here let Calliope sound, a moment, accompanying my words with that mode, of which the Pierides felt the power, so that they despaired of pardon.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 1, 19

    The sweet colour of eastern sapphire, that gathered on the skies clear forehead, pure as far as the first sphere, restored delight to my eyes, as soon as I had issued from the dead air, which constrained my eyes and heart. The lovely planet that encourages us to love, was making the whole east smile, veiling the Fishes that escorted her. I turned to the right, and fixed my mind on the southern pole, and saw four stars, never seen, until now, except by the first peoples.

    The sky seemed to be joyful at their fires. O widowed northern region, denied the sight of them!

    Purgatorio Canto I:28-84 The Poets meet Cato

    When I had left gazing at them, and turned a little towards the other pole, there, where Bootës had already vanished, I saw a solitary old man, with a face worthy of such great reverence, that no son owes his father more. He wore his beard long, flecked with white, like his hair, of which a double strand fell to his chest. The rays, of the four sacred stars, filled his face, with such brightness, that I saw him as if the sun were in front of him.
    Stirring that noble plumage, he said: ‘Who are you, who have fled the eternal prison, against the dark stream? Who has led you, or who was a light to you, issuing out of that profound night, that always blackens the infernal valley? Are the laws of the abyss shattered, or is there some new counsel taken in Heaven that you come to my mountain, being damned?’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 1, 49

    Then, my leader took hold of me, and made me do reverence with my knees and forehead, using his words and hand. Then he replied: ‘I did not come of my own will. A Lady came down from Heaven, and, because of her prayers, I helped this man, with my companionship. But since it is your wish that more be told about our true state, it cannot be my wish to deny you. He has never witnessed the last hour, but, because of his folly, was so near it, that there was little time left for him to alter. As I said, I was sent to rescue him, and there was no other path but this, along which I have come.

    I have shown him all the sinful people, and now intend to show him those spirits that purge themselves, in your care. It would be a long tale to tell, how I have brought him here: virtue descends from above, that helps me to guide him, to see and to hear you. Now, let it please you to grace his coming here: he seeks freedom, which is so dear to us, as he knows, who gives his life for it. You know: since death was not bitter to you in Utica for its sake, where you left the body that will shine so bright, at the great day.

    The eternal law is not violated by us, since he lives, and Minos does not bind me: but I am of the circle where the chaste eyes of your Marcia are, who in her aspect begs you, O sacred one, to hold her as your own: lean towards us, for love of her. Allow us to go through your seven regions: I will report, to her, our gratitude to you, if you deign to be mentioned there below.’

    Purgatorio Canto I:85-111 Cato tells Virgil to bathe Dante’s eyes

    He replied, then: ‘Marcia was so pleasing to my eyes while I was over there, that I performed every grace she asked of me. Now that she is beyond the evil stream, she can move me no longer, by the law that was made when I issued out. But there is no need for flattery, if a heavenly lady moves and directs you: let it be sufficient that you ask me in her name.
    Go, and see that you tie a smooth rush round this man, and bathe his face, so that all foulness is wiped away, since it is not right to go in front of the first minister of those who are in Paradise, with eyes darkened by any mist.

    This little island nurtures rushes, in the soft mud, all round it, from deep to deep, where the wave beats on it. No other plant that puts out leaves, or stiffens, can live there, because it would not give way to the buffeting. Then, do not return this way: the sun, that is now rising, will show you where to climb the mountain, in an easier ascent.’

    So he left: and I rose without speaking, and drew back towards my leader, and fixed my eyes on him.

    Purgatorio Canto I:112-136 Virgil obeys

    He began: ‘Son, follow my steps: let us turn back, since the plain slopes down, this way, to its low shore.’ The dawn was vanquishing the breath of morning, which fled before her, so that, from afar, I recognised the tremor of the sea.
    We walked along the solitary plain, like those, who turn again towards a lost road, and seem to go in vain, until they reach it. When we came where the dew fights with the sunlight, being in a place where it disperses slowly in the cool air, my Master gently placed both hands, outspread, on the sweet grass: at which, I who understood his intention, raised my tear-stained face towards him: there he made my true colour visible, that Hell had hidden.

    Then we came onto the deserted shore that never saw a man sail its waters, who, could, afterwards, experience his return. There he tied the rush around me, as the other wished: O marvellous: as he pulled out the humble plant, so it was suddenly replaced, where he tore it.

    Purgatorio Canto II:1-45 The Angel of God

    The sun, had already reached the horizon, whose meridian circle, at the zenith, covers Jerusalem: and night, that circles opposite him, was rising, out of Ganges, with the Scales, Libra, that fall from night’s hand, when the days shorten: so that, where I was, the pale and rosy cheeks of beautiful Aurora, through age, were turned deep orange.
    We were still near the ocean, like people who think about their journey, who go on in spirit, but remain in body; and behold, as Mars reddens through the heavy vapours, low in the west, over the waves, at the coming of dawn, so a light appeared, and may I see it yet, coming over the sea, so quickly, that no flight equals its movement, and when I had taken my eyes from it for a moment to question my guide, I saw it, once more, grown bigger and brighter. Then something white appeared on each side of it, and, little by little, another whiteness emerged from underneath it.

    My Master still did not speak a word, until the first whitenesses were seen to be wings: then, when he recognised the pilot clearly, he cried: ‘Kneel, bend your knees: behold the Angel of God: clasp your hands: from now on you will see such ministers. See how he disdains all human mechanism, not needing oars, or any sails but his wings, between such far shores. See how he has them turned towards the sky, beating the air, with eternal plumage, that does not moult like mortal feathers.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 2, 27

    Then as the divine bird approached, nearer and nearer, to us, it appeared much brighter, so that my eyes could not sustain its closeness: but I looked down, and it came towards the shore, in a vessel so quick and light that it skimmed the waves. At the stern stood the celestial steersman, so that blessedness seemed written in his features, and more than a hundred souls sat inside.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 2, 42

    Purgatorio Canto II:46-79 The Crowd of Souls

    They all sang, together, with one voice: ‘In exitu Israel de Aegypto: When Israel went out of Egypt,’ and the rest of the psalm that comes after. Then he made the sign of the sacred cross towards them, at which they all flung themselves on shore, and, as quickly as he came, he departed.
    The crowd that were left seemed unfamiliar with the place, looking round like those who experience something new. The sun, who had chased Capricorn from the height of heaven with his bright arrows, was shooting out the light on every side, when the new people raised their faces towards us, saying: ‘If you know it, show us the way to reach the Mount.’ And Virgil answered: ‘You think, perhaps, we have knowledge of this place, but we are strangers, as you are. We came, just now, a little while before you, by another route so difficult and rough, that the climbing now will seem like play to us.’

    The spirits, who had noticed I was still alive, by my breathing, wondering, grew pale, and as the crowd draws near the messenger, who carries the olive-branch, and no one is wary of trampling on others, so those spirits, each one fortunate, fixed their gaze on my face, almost forgetting to go and make themselves blessed.

    I saw one of them move forward to embrace me, with such great affection, that he stirred me to do the same.

    Purgatorio Canto II:79-114 Casella, the musician

    O vain shades, empty except in aspect! My hands met three times behind him, and returned, as often, empty, to my breast. I paled, with wonder, I believe, at which the shade smiled, and drew back, and I hurried forward, following. It asked me, gently, to pause: then I knew who it was: and begged him to stop a while, and speak to me. He replied: ‘Just as I loved you in the mortal body, so I love you, freed: so I stay: but you, where are you going?’
    I said: ‘My Casella, I make this journey, in order to return here again, where I am, but how have so many hours been stolen from you?’ And he to me: ‘If he who carries whom he pleases, when he pleases, has denied me this crossing many times, no wrong is done to me, since his will is full of justice. In truth, for three months past, since the beginning of the Jubilee, he has taken, in all peace, those who wish to enter. So I, who was on the shore where Tiber’s stream becomes saltwater, was accepted by him, in kindness. He has set his winged course to that river-mouth now, because those who do not sink to Acheron, are always gathering there.’

    And I: ‘If some new law has not taken your memory, or your skill in that song of love, that used to calm all my desires, may it please you to console my spirit a while, with it, my spirit, that, coming here in its own person, suffers so.’ He then began to sing: ‘Amor che nella mente mi ragiona: Love that, in my mind, discourses with me,’ so sweetly, that the sweetness of it sounds, in me, yet.

    Purgatorio Canto II:115-133 Cato exhorts the spirits to go on

    My Master and I, and the people who were with him, seemed so delighted, that they thought of nothing else. We were all focused and intent on his notes: when, behold, the venerable old man, cried: ‘What is this, tardy spirits? What negligence, what idling is this? Run to the mountain, and strip the scales from your eyes, that prevent God being revealed to you.’
    As doves, gathering corn or seeds, collected at their meal, quietly, and without their usual pride, stop pecking, straight away, if anything appears they are afraid of, since they are troubled by a more important concern, so I saw that new crowd leave the singing, and move towards the hillside, like those who go, but do not know where they will emerge: nor was our departure slower.

    Purgatorio Canto III:1-45 Virgil stresses the limitations of knowledge

    Although their sudden flight was scattering them over the plain, I drew close to my faithful companion, turning to the mountain, where reason examines us: and how would I have fared without him? Who would have brought me to the Mount?
    He seemed to me to be gnawed by self-reproach. O clear and noble conscience, how sharply a little fault stings you! When his feet had slowed from that pace that spoils the dignity of every action, my mind, which was inwardly focused before, widened its intent, as if in search, and I set my face towards the hillside that rises highest towards heaven from the water.

    The sunlight, that flamed red behind us, was broken, in front of me, in that shape in which I blocked its rays. I turned aside from fear of being abandoned, seeing the earth darkened, only in front of me. But my comforter began speaking to me, turning straight round: ‘Why so mistrustful? Do you think you are not with me, or that I do not guide you?

    It is already evening, there, where the body with which I cast a shadow, lies buried: Naples has it, and it was taken from Brindisi. Now, if no shadow goes before me, do not wonder at that, any more than at the heavenly spheres, where one does not hide the light of any other. That power, that does not will that its workings should be revealed to us, disposes bodies such as these to suffer torments, fire and ice. He is foolish who hopes that our reason may journey on the infinite road, that one substance in three persons owns. Stay, content, human race, with the ‘what’: since if you had been able to understand it all, there would have been no need for Mary to give birth: and you have seen the fruitless desire, granted to them as an eternal sorrow, of those whose desire would have been quenched, I mean Aristotle, Plato, and many more.’ And here he bent his head, and said nothing more: remaining troubled.

    Purgatorio Canto III:46-72 The Excommunicated

    Meanwhile we reached the mountain’s foot: there we found the cliff was so steep that even nimble feet would be useless. The most desolate, and the most solitary track, between Lerici and Turbia, in Liguria, is a free and easy stair compared to that. My Master, halting his feet, said: ‘Now, who knows which way the cliff slopes, so that he who goes without wings, may climb?’ And while he kept his eyes downwards, searching out the way in his mind, and while I was gazing up, across the rocks, a crowd of spirits, appeared to me, on the left, who moved their feet towards us, but did not seem to, they came so slowly.
    I said: ‘Master, raise your eyes, behold one there who will give us advice, if you cannot give it yourself.’ He looked at them, and with a joyful face, answered: ‘Let us go there, since they come slowly, and confirm your hopes, kind son.’ That crowd were still as far off, after a thousand paces of ours I mean, as a good thrower would reach, with a stone, from the hand, when they all pressed close to the solid rock of the high cliff, and stood, motionless together, as people stop to look around, who travel in fear.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 3, 50

    Purgatorio Canto III:73-102 They are troubled by Dante’s shadow

    Virgil began: ‘O spirits, who ended well, already chosen: by the same peace that, I believe, is awaited by you all, tell us where the mountain slopes allow us to go upwards, since lost time troubles those most, who know most.’ As sheep come out of their pen, in ones, twos, and threes, and others stand timidly, with eyes and nose towards the ground, and what the first does, the others also do, huddling to her if she stands still, foolish and quiet, and not knowing why, so I saw, then, the head of that fortunate flock, of modest aspect, and dignified movement, make a move to come forward.
    When those in front saw the light on the hillside, broken, on my right, by my shadow, falling from me as far as the rock, they stopped, and drew back, a little: and all the others that came after them, did the same, not understanding why. My Master said: ‘Without your asking, I admit, to you, that this is a human body that you see, by which the sunlight is broken on the ground. Do not wonder, but believe, that he does not try to climb this wall, without the help of power that comes from Heaven.’ And the worthy people said: ‘Turn, then, and go in front of us,’ making a gesture with the backs of their hands.

    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145 Manfred

    And one of them began to speak: ‘You, whoever you are, turn your face, as we go, and think if you ever saw me over there.’ I turned towards him, and looked hard: he was blond and handsome, and of noble aspect, but a blow had split one of his eyebrows.
    When I had denied, humbly, ever seeing him, he said: ‘Now look’, and he showed me a wound at the top of his chest. Then, smiling, he said: ‘I am Manfred, grandson of the Empress Constance: and I beg you, when you return, go to my lovely daughter, Costanza, mother of James and Frederick, Sicily’s and Aragon’s pride, and tell her this truth, if things are said differently there. After my body had been pierced, by two mortal wounds, I rendered my spirit to him, who pardons, willingly. My sins were terrible, but infinite goodness has such a wide embrace it accepts all those who turn to it. If the Bishop of Cozenza, who was set on by Clement to hound me, had read that page of God’s rightly, the bones of my corpse would still be at the bridgehead, by Benevento, under the guardianship of the heavy cairn.

    Now, the rain bathes them, and the wind moves them, beyond the kingdom, along the River Verde, where he carried them, a lume spento, with quenched tapers. But no one is so lost by the malediction, of that excommunication, that eternal love may not turn back to him, as long as hope is green. It is true that those who die, disobedient to the Holy Church, even though they repent at the end, must remain outside this bank for thirty times the duration of their life of insolence, unless such decree is shortened by the prayers of the good.

    See now, if you can give me delight, by telling my good Costanza how you saw me, and also of my ban, since much benefit arises, here, through the prayers of those who are still over there.’

    Purgatorio Canto IV:1-18 The unity of the soul

    When the soul is wholly centred, on one of our senses, because of some pleasure or pain, that it comprehends, it seems that it pays no attention to its other powers, and this contradicts Plato’s error, that has it, that one soul is kindled on another, inside us. So, when something is seen or heard, that holds the soul’s attention strongly fixed, time vanishes and man is unaware of it, since one power is that which notices time, and another that which occupies the entire soul: the former is as if constrained, the latter free.
    I had a genuine experience of this, while listening to that spirit and marvelling, since the sun had climbed fully fifty degrees, and I had not noticed it, when we came to where those souls, with a single voice, cried out to us: ‘Here is what you wanted.’

    Purgatorio Canto IV:19-51 The narrow path.

    When the grape is ripening, the peasant often hedges up a larger opening, with a little forkful of thorns, than the gap through which my leader climbed, and I behind him, two alone, after the group had parted from us. You can walk at Sanleo, near Urbino, and descend to Noli, near Savone: you can climb Mount Bismantova, south of Reggio, up to the summit, on foot: but here a man had to fly: I mean with the feathers and swift wings of great desire, behind that leader, who gave me hope, and made himself a light.
    We were climbing inside a rock gully, and the cliff pressed against us on either side, and the ground under us needed hands as well as feet. Once we were on the upper edge of the high wall, out on the open hillside, I said: ‘My Master, which way should we go?’ And he to me: ‘Do not let your steps drift downward, always win your way, up the mountain, behind me, until some wise escort appears to us.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 4, 31

    The summit was so high it was beyond my sight, and the slope far steeper than the forty-five degrees a line from mid-quadrant makes with the circle’s radius. I felt weary, and began to say: ‘O sweet father, turn and see how I am left behind if you do not stop.’ He said: ‘My son, make yourself reach there,’ showing me a terrace, a little higher up, that goes round the whole mountain, on that side. His words spurred me on, greatly, and I forced myself on, so far, creeping after him, that the ledge was beneath my feet.

    Purgatorio Canto IV:52-87 The sun’s arc south of the equator

    There we both sat down, turning towards the east, from which we had climbed: since it often cheers men to look back. I first fixed my eyes on the shore below, then raised them to the sun, and wondered at the fact that it struck us on the left side. The poet saw clearly that I was totally amazed at that chariot of light, rising between us, and the north. At which he said to me: ‘If that mirror, the sun, that reflects the light, from above, downwards, were in Castor and Pollux, the Gemini, you would see the Zodiac, glowing round him, circle still closer to the Bears, unless it wandered from its ancient track.
    If you wish the power to see that, for yourself, imagine Mount Zion, at Jerusalem, and this Mountain, placed on the globe so that both have the same horizon, but are in opposite hemispheres: by which you can see, if your intellect understands quite clearly, that the sun’s path, that Phaëthon, sadly, did not know how to follow, has to pass to the north here, when it passes Zion on the south.’

    I said: ‘Certainly, Master, I never saw as clearly as I now discern, there, where my mind seemed at fault, that the median circle of the heavenly motion, that is called the Equator in one of the sciences, and always lies between the summer and the winter solstice, is as far north here, for the reason you say, as the Hebrews saw it, towards the hot countries.

    But if it please you, I would like to know, willingly, how far we have to go, since the hillside rises higher than my eyes can reach.’

    Purgatorio Canto IV:88-139 Belacqua

    And he to me: ‘This mountain is such, that it is always troublesome at the start, below, but the more one climbs up, the less it wearies. So, you will feel at the end of this track, when it will seem so pleasant to you, that the ascent is as easy as going downstream, in a boat. Hope to rest your weariness there. I answer you no more, and this I know is true.’
    And when he had his say, a voice sounded nearby: ‘Perhaps, before then, you may have need to sit.’ At the sound of it, we each turned round, and saw a great mass of rock on the left, that neither he nor I had noticed before. We drew near it: and there were people lounging in the shade, behind the crag, just as one settles oneself to rest, out of laziness. And one of them, who seemed weary to me, was sitting and clasping his knees, holding his head down low, between them.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 4, 31

    I said: ‘O my sweet sire, set your eyes on that one, who appears lazier than if Sloth were his sister.’ Then he turned to us, and listened, only lifting his face above his thigh, and said: ‘Now go on up, you who are so steadfast.’ Then I knew who he was, and that effort, which still constrained my breath a little, did not prevent me going up to him, and, when I had reached him, he hardly lifted his head, to say: ‘Have you truly understood why the sun drives his chariot to the left?’ His indolent actions and the brief words, moved me to smile a little: then I began: ‘Belacqua, I do not grieve for you now: but tell me why you are sitting here? Are you waiting for a guide, or have you merely resumed your former habit?’

    And he: ‘Brother, what use is it to climb? God’s winged Angel, who sits at the gate, will not let me pass through to the torments. First the sky must revolve, round me, outside, for as long a time as it did in my life: because I delayed my sighs of healing repentance to the end: unless, before then, some prayer aids me, that might rise from a heart that lives in grace: what is the rest worth, that is not heard in Heaven?’

    And the poet was already climbing, in front of me, saying: ‘Come on, now, you see the sun touches the zenith, and night’s feet have already run from the banks of the Ganges to Morocco.’

    Purgatorio Canto V:1-63 The Late-Repentant

    I had already parted from those shadows, and was following my leader’s footsteps, when someone, behind me, pointing his finger, called out: ‘See, the light does not seem to shine, on the left of him, below, and he seems to carry himself like a living man.’ I turned my eyes, at the sound of these words, and saw them all gazing in wonder, at me alone, at me alone and at the broken sunlight.
    My Master said: ‘Why is your mind so ensnared that you slacken pace? What does it matter to you what they whisper here? Follow me close behind, and let the people talk: stand like a steady tower, that never shakes at the top, in the blasts of wind: since the man, in whom thought rises on thought, sets himself back, because the force of the one weakens the other.’ What could I answer, except: ‘I come?’ This I said, blushing a little, with that colour that often makes someone worthy of being pardoned.

    And, across the mountain slope, meanwhile, a crowd, in front of us, a little, came, chanting the Miserere, alternately, verse by verse. When they saw I allowed no passage to the sun’s rays because of my body, they changed their chant to a long, hoarse ‘Oh!’: and two of them ran to meet us as messengers and demanded: ‘Make us wise to your state.’ And my Master said: ‘You can go back, and tell those who sent you, that this man’s body is truly flesh. If they stopped at seeing his shadow, as I think, that answer is enough: let them honour him, and he may be precious to them.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 5, 42

    I never saw burning mists at fall of night, or August clouds at sunset split the bright sky, so quickly, but they in less time, returned, up the slope, and arrived there while the others wheeled round us, like a troop of cavalry riding with loosened reins. The poet said: ‘This crowd that presses us is large, and they come to beg you, but go straight on, and listen while you go.’

    They came, crying: ‘O spirit, who goes to joy, with the limbs you were born with, pause your steps a while. Look and see if you ever knew one of us, so that you can bear news of him, over there: oh, why are you leaving?: oh, why do you not stay? We were all killed by violence, and were sinners till the last hour: then light from Heaven warned us, so that, repenting and forgiving, we left life reconciled with God, who fills us with desire to see him.’

    And I: ‘However much I gaze at your faces, I recognise no one: but if I can do anything to please you, spirits born for happiness, speak, and I will do it, for the sake of that peace, which makes me chase after it, from world to world, following the steps of such a guide.’

    Purgatorio Canto V:64-84 Jacopo del Cassero

    And one began to speak: ‘Each of us trusts in your good offices, without your oath, if only lack of power does not thwart your will. So, I, who merely speak before others do, beg you to be gracious to me, in your prayers, at Fano, if ever you see that country again, that lies between Romagna, and Charles the Second’s Naples, so that the good may be adored through me, and I can purge myself of grave offence. I sprang from there, but the deep wounds from which the blood flowed, that bathed my life, were dealt me in the embrace of Paduans, those Antenori, there, where I thought that I was safest. Azzo of Este had it done, he who held a greater anger against me, than justice merited.
    Though, if I had fled towards La Mira, when I was surprised at Oriaco, I would still be over there, where men breathe. I ran to the marshes, and the reeds, and mire, swamped me so that I fell, and there I saw a pool grow on the ground, from my veins.’

    Purgatorio Canto V:85-129 Buonconte da Montefeltro

    Then another said: Oh, so the desire might be satisfied, that draws you up the high mountain, aid mine with kind pity. I was of Montefeltro, I am Buonconte: Giovanna has no care for me, nor the others, so I go among these, with bowed head.’ And I to him: ‘What violence or mischance made you wander so far from Campaldino, that your place of burial was never known?’ He replied: ‘Oh, at the foot of Casentino, a stream crosses it, called the Archiano, that rises in the Apennines, above the Monastery of Camoldoli. There, at Bibbiena, where its name is lost in the Arno, I arrived, pierced in the throat, fleeing on foot, and bloodying the plain.
    There I lost vision, and ended my words on Mary’s name, and there I fell, and only my flesh was left. I will speak truly, and do you repeat it among the living: the Angel of God took me and one from Hell cried: “O you from Heaven, why do you rob me? You may carry off the eternal part of this man from here, because of one little teardrop of repentance, that snatches him from me, but I will deal differently with the other part.”

    You well know how damp vapour collects in the air, which turns to water again, when it rises where the cold condenses it. He joined that evil will, which only seeks evil, with intelligence, and stirred the wind, and fog, by the power his nature gives him. Then, when day was done, he covered the valley, from Pratomagno to the great Apennine chain, with mist, and made the sky above it so heavy, that the saturated air turned to water: rain fell, and what the earth did not absorb, came to the fosses: and, as it merged into vast streams, it ran with such speed, towards the royal river, that nothing held it back.

    The raging Archiano found my body, near its mouth, and swept it into the Arno, and loosed the cross that my arms made on my chest, when pain overcame me. It rolled me along its banks and through the depths, then covered me, and closed me in its spoil.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 5, 123

    Purgatorio Canto V:130-136 Pia da Tolomei

    A third spirit, followed on the second: ‘Ah, when you return to the world, and are rested after your long journey, remember me who am La Pia: Siena made me: Maremma undid me: he knows, who having first pledged himself to me, wed me with his ring.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 5, 130

    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24 The spirits crowd round

    When the gambling game breaks up, the one who loses stays there grieving, repeating the throws, saddened by experience: the crowd all follow the winner: some go in front, some snatch at him from behind, or, at his side, recall themselves to his mind. He does not stop, and attends to this one and that one. Those, to whom he stretches out his hand, cease pressing on him: and so he saves himself from the crush. Such was I in that dense throng, turning my face towards them, now here, now there, and freeing myself from them by promises.
    There was Benincasa, the Aretine, who met his death by Ghin di Tacco’s ruthless weapons, and the other Aretine, Guccio de’ Tarlati, who was drowned as he ran in pursuit at Campaldino. Federigo Novello was there, praying with outstretched hands, and Farinata Scornigiani, he of Pisa, whose father Marzucco showed such fortitude on his behalf.

    I saw Count Orso: and the spirit severed from its body through envy and hatred, and not for any sin committed, or so it said, Pierre de la Brosse, I mean. And here let Lady Mary of Brabant take note, while she is still on earth, so that she does not end with the viler crowd, for it.

    Purgatorio Canto VI 25-48 Virgil on the efficacy of prayer

    When I was free of all those shades, whose only prayer was that others might pray, so that their path to blessedness might be quickened, I began: ‘O, you who are a light to me, it seems that you deny, in a certain passage of your Aeneid, that prayer can alter Heaven’s decree: and yet these people pray only for this. Can it be they hope in vain? Or is your meaning not clear to me?’
    And he to me: ‘My writing is clear, and, if you think about it rationally, their hopes are not deceptive, since the nobility of justice is not lessened because a moment of love’s fire discharges the debt each one here owes, and in my text, where I affirmed otherwise, faults could not be rectified by prayer, because prayer, then, was divorced from God.

    Truly, you must not suffer such deep anxiety, unless she tells you otherwise, she, who will be the light, linking truth to intellect. I am not sure you understand: I speak of Beatrice. You will see her, above, on this mountain’s summit, smiling, blessed.

    Purgatorio Canto VI:49-75 Sordello

    And I said: ‘My lord, let us go with greater speed, since I am already less weary than before, and look the hillside casts a shadow now.’ He replied: ‘We will go forward with this day, as far as we still can: but the facts are other than you think. Before you are on the summit, you will see the sun return, that is hidden now by the slope such that you do not break his light.
    But, there, see, a soul, set solitary, alone, gazes at us: it will show us the quickest way.’ We reached him. O Lombard spirit, how haughty and scornful, you were, how majestic and considered in your manner! He said nothing to us, but allowed us to go by, only watching, like a couchant lion. But Virgil drew towards him, begging him to show us the best ascent: though the spirit did not answer his request, but asked us about our country and our life.

    And the gentle guide began: ‘Mantua,’… and the spirit all pre-occupied with self, surged towards him from the place where it first was, saying: ‘O Mantuan, I am Sordello, of your city.’ And the one embraced the other.

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151 Dante’s speech on the sad state of Italy

    O Italy, you slave, you inn of grief, ship without helmsman in a mighty tempest, mistress, not of provinces, but of a brothel! That gentle spirit was quick, then, to greet his fellow-citizen, at the mere mention of the sweet name of his city, yet, now, the living do not live there without conflict, and, of those, that one wall and one moat shuts in, one rends the other.
    Wretched country, search the shores of your coastline, and then gaze into your heart, to see if any part of you is at peace. What use is it for Justinian to have renewed, the law, the bridle, if the saddle is empty? The shame would be less if it were not for that. Ah, race, that should be obedient, and let Caesar occupy the saddle, if only you understood what God has told you! See how vicious this creature has become, through not being corrected by his spurs, since he has set his hand to the bridle. O Albert of Germany, you abandon her, she, who has become wild and wanton, you, who should straddle her saddle-bow: may just judgement fall on your blood, from the stars, and let it be strange and obvious, so that your successor may learn to fear it, since you and your father, held back by greed, over there, have allowed the garden of the Empire to become a wasteland.

    Careless man, come and look at the Montagues and Capulets, the Monaldi and Filippeschi: those who are already saddened, and those who fear to be. Come, cruel one, come and see the oppression of your nobles, and tend their sores, and you will see how secure Santafiora of the Aldobrandeschi is. Come and see your Rome, who mourns, widowed and alone, crying night and day: ‘My Caesar, why do you not keep me company?’ Come and see how your people love each other: and if pity for us does not stir you, come, and be ashamed, for the sake of your fame.

    And, if it is allowed for me to say, O highest Jupiter, who was crucified on earth for us, are your just eyes turned elsewhere, or are you preparing some new good, that is completely hidden from our sight? For the cities of Italy are full of tyrants, and every peasant, that comes to take sides, becomes a Marcellus, against the Empire.

    My Florence, you may well rejoice at this digression, which does not affect you, thanks to your populace that reasons so clearly. Many people have justice in their hearts, but they let it fly slowly, since it does not come to the bow without much counsel: yet your people have it always at their lips. Many people refuse public office: but your people answer eagerly without being called, and cry: ‘I bend to the task.’

    Now be glad, since you have good reason for it: you who are rich, at peace, full of wisdom. If I speak truly, the fact will not belie it. Athens and Sparta that framed the ancient laws, and were so rich in civic arts, gave a mere hint of how to live well, compared to you, who makes such subtle provision that what you spin in October does not last till mid-November. How often in the time you remember, you have altered laws, money, offices and customs, and renewed your limbs! And if you consider carefully, and see clearly, you will see yourself like the sick patient, who finds no rest on the bed of down, but by twisting about, escapes her pain.

    Purgatorio Canto VII:1-39 Virgil declares himself to Sordello

    After the noble and joyful greetings had been exchanged three or four times, Sordello drew himself back and said: ‘Who are you?’ My leader answered, then: ‘Before those spirits worthy to climb to God were turned towards this Mount, my bones had been buried by Octavian. I am Virgil, and I lost Heaven for no other sin than for not having faith.’
    Sordello seemed like someone who suddenly sees something, in front of him, that he marvels at, and believes, and does not believe, saying: ‘It is, is not,’ and he bent his forehead, and turned back, humbly, towards my guide, and embraced him as the inferior person does. He said: ‘O Glory of Latin, through whom our language showed its power, O eternal praise of the place from which I sprang, what merit or favour will you show me? If I am worthy to hear your words, tell me if you come from Hell, and from what circle.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 7, 21

    He answered him: ‘I came here, through all the circles of the mournful kingdom. Virtue from Heaven moved me, and with that I come. Not for the done, but for the undone, I lost the vision of the high Sun, you seek, and who was known too late by me. Down there, there is a place not saddened by torment, but only darkness, where the grief does not sound as moaning, only sighs. There, I am, with the innocent babes, who were bitten by the teeth of death, before they were baptised and exempt from human sin. There I am, with those who did not clothe themselves with the three holy virtues, Faith, Hope and Charity, but without sin, knew the others and followed them all.

    But if you know, and can, give us some indication of how we might come most quickly to the place where Purgatory has its true beginning.’

    Purgatorio Canto VII:40-63 Sordello explains the rules for ascent

    He answered: ‘No fixed place is set for us: I am allowed to go up and round: I act as guide, beside you, as far as I may go. But see now how the day is declining, and we cannot climb by night, therefore it would be well to think of a good place to rest. Here are some spirits, on the right, apart: if you allow me I will take you to them, and they will be known to you, not without joy.’
    Virgil replied: ‘How is that? Would he who wished to climb by night be prevented by others, or would he not climb because he could not?’ And the good Sordello drew his finger along the ground, saying: ‘See, you could not even cross this line after sunset, not because anything other than the darkness of night hinders you from going upwards, which obstructs the will through the will’s powerlessness. Truly, you could return downwards at night, and walk, straying, along the mountainside while the horizon shuts up the day.’

    Then my lord, as if wondering, said: ‘Take us, then, where you say we might have joy in resting.’

    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136 The Valley of the Negligent Rulers

    We had gone a short distance, when I saw that the mountain was scooped out, in the way that valleys are hollowed out here. The shade said: ‘We will go there, where the mountainside makes a cradle of itself, and wait for the new day. The winding track, that led us to the side of the hollow, there where the valley’s rim more than half-fades out, was neither steep nor flat. Gold and fine silver; crimson and white cloth; bright, clear Indian wood; freshly mined emerald at the moment it is split; would all be surpassed in colour by the grass and flowers, set inside that fold of ground, as the lesser is surpassed, by the greater.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 7, 82

    Not only had Nature painted there, but had made there, one unknown and indefinable perfume, from the sweetness of a thousand scents. There I saw souls, sitting among the grass and flowers, singing Salve Regina, who could not be seen from outside, because of the valley’s depth.

    The Mantuan, who had led us aside, began to speak: ‘Do not wish me to lead you among them, before the little sun sinks to its nest. You will see the faces and actions of them better from this terrace, than if received among them down in the valley.

    He who sits highest, and has the aspect of having left undone what he should have done, and does not move his lips to the others’ singing, was the Emperor Rudolph, who might have healed the wounds that meant Italy’s death, so that she is helped, too late, by another. The next, who seems to be comforting him, ruled Bohemia, the land where the water rises that the Moldau carries down to the Elbe, and the Elbe to the sea. He was named Ottocar, and, even in his swaddling clothes, was far better than bearded Wenceslas his son, whom lust and sloth consume, .

    And that snub-nosed one, Philip the Third, who seems so deep in counsel with, Henry of Navarre, who has so kindly a manner, died fleeing, and withering the lily: look at how he strikes his chest. See, the other, sighing, has made a rest for his cheek with the palm of his hand. They are the father and the father-in-law of Philip the Fair, the plague of France: they know his wicked and sordid life, and from that the grief comes that so pierces them.

    He who seems so stout of limb, Peter of Aragon, who blends his singing with Charles of Anjou, him of the prominent nose, was cinctured with the cord of every virtue. And if the young man, who sits behind him, had remained king after him, the worth would have flowed from vessel to vessel: which may not be said of his other heirs. James and Frederick have the kingdoms: but no one has the better heritage. Human worth rarely increases through its branches: and this He wills who creates it, so that it may be asked for of him.

    My words apply to Charles, the large-nosed one, as well, no less than to Peter the other, who sings with him: because of his son Apulia and Provence now groan. So is that plant more degenerate in its seed, by as much as Constance, Peter’s wife, still boasts of her husband, more than Beatrice or Margaret do of the other.

    See the king of the simple life, sitting there alone, Henry the Third of England: he had a better increase in his branches. That one, looking up, who humbles himself lower among them, is William the Marquis of Montferrat, because of whom the town of Alessandria, in Piedmont, and its war, made Montferrat, and Canavese, weep.

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:1-45 The Two Angels descend

    It was now that hour which makes the thoughts, of those who voyage, turn back, and melts their hearts, on the day when they have said goodbye to their sweet friends; and which pierces the new pilgrim with love, when he hears the distant chimes, that seem to mourn the dying day; when I began to neglect my sense of hearing, and to gaze, at one of the spirits, who rose, and begged a hearing with his hand.
    He joined his palms, and raised them, fixing his eyes on the east, as though saying, to God: ‘I care for nothing else.’ ‘Te lucis ante,’ issued so devotedly from his mouth, and with such sweet notes, that it rapt me from my thoughts. And then the others accompanied him through the whole hymn, sweetly and devoutly, with their eyes locked on the eternal spheres.

    Reader, focus your eyes here on the truth, since the veil is now so thin, that surely to pass within is easy. I saw that noble troop gaze upwards after that, silently, pale and humble, as if in hope: and I saw two Angels come out from the heights, and descend with two burning swords, that were cut short, and blunted. Their clothes were green as tender newborn leaves, trailing behind, stirred and fanned, by their green wings.

    One came to rest a little way above us, and the other descended on the opposite bank, so that the people were between them. I saw their blonde hair, clearly: but the eye was dazzled, by their faces, like a sense confounded by excess. Sordello said: ‘Both come from Mary’s breast, to guard the valley, because of the serpent that will now come.’ At which I, who did not know which way it would come, turned, and, icy cold, placed myself beside the trusted shoulders. And Sordello again said: ‘Now we go into the valley, among the great souls, and we will talk with them: it will be a great joy to them to see you.

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:46-84 Nino de’ Visconti

    I only think I went down three paces, and was down, and saw one who gazed at me, solely, as though he wished to know who I was. It was now the time when the air was darkening, but not so dark that was what hidden from both our eyes before, now grew clear. He approached me, and I said to him: ‘Noble Judge Nino, how it pleased me when I knew you, and knew that you were not among the damned!
    No kind greeting was left unsaid between us: then he asked: ‘How long is it since you came, over the distant waters, to the foot of the Mount? I said: ‘O, I came from the depths of the sad regions this morning, and I am in my first life, though by this journey I hope to gain the other.’

    And when they heard my answer, Sordello and he shrank back, like people who are suddenly bewildered. One turned to Virgil, and the other to someone seated there, saying: ‘Conrad, rise: come and see what God, in his grace, has willed.’ Then, turning to me: ‘By that singular grace, you owe to him who hides his first cause so deep, there is no path to it, tell my Giovanna, when you are over the wide waters, to pray for me, there, where the innocent are heard. I do not think her mother, Beatrice, still loves me, since she has changed her widow’s weeds, which, unhappily, she will long for once again. In her, is easily known, how long the fire of love endures, in woman, if sight and touch do not relight it, often. The viper that Galeazzo, the Milanese, emblazons on his shield, will not gain her as fair a tomb, as my Pisan cockerel would have done.’ So he spoke, his face stamped with the mark of that righteous fervour, that with due reason, burns in the breast.

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:85-108 The Serpent

    My eager eyes were turned towards Heaven again, there, where the stars are slowest, like a wheel close to the axle, and my leader said: ‘Son, what do you stare at, up there?’ And I to him: ‘At those three flames that the whole pole here is burning with.’ And he to me: ‘The four bright stars, you saw this morning, are low, on the other side, and these have risen where they were.’
    As he was speaking, Sordello drew him towards himself, saying: ‘Look, there is our enemy,’ and pointed his finger, so that he would look in that direction. There was a snake, on that side, where the little valley has no barrier, perhaps such a one as gave Eve the bitter fruit. The evil reptile slid through the grass and flowers, now and again, twisting its head towards its tail, licking, like a beast grooming itself.

    I did not see, and so I cannot tell, how the celestial falcons rose: but I saw both, clearly, in flight. Hearing the green wings cutting the air, the serpent fled, and the Angels wheeled round, flying as one, back to their places.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 8, 85

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:109-139 Conrad Malaspina

    The shade who had drawn close to the Judge when he called, was not freed from gazing at me, for even a moment, during all that threat. He began: ‘May that lamp that leads you higher, find as much fuel, in your will, as is needed to reach the enamelled summit: if you know true news of Valdimagra, or its region, tell it to me, who was once mighty, there. I was called Conrad Malaspina: not the elder, but descended from him: I had that love for my own, that here is purified.’
    I said to him: ‘O, I have never been through your lands, but where do men live throughout Europe, to whom they are not known? The fame that honours your house, proclaims its lords abroad, and proclaims their country, so that he, who has never been there, knows it. And, as I pray that I may go above, I swear to you, that your honoured race does not impair the glory of the coffer and the sword. Nature and custom grant it such privilege, that it alone walks rightly, and scorns the evil way, for all that a guilty head twists the world.’

    And he: ‘Now go, since the sun will not rest, seven times, in Aries, that couch that the Ram covers, and straddles with all four feet, before this courteous opinion is fixed in your brain, with a deeper pinning than other men’s words, if the course of justice is not halted.’

    Purgatorio Canto IX:1-33 Dante dreams he is clasped by an Eagle

    Now the moon’s aurora, mistress of ancient Tithonus, was whitening at the eastern terrace, free of her lover’s arms; her forehead glittering with jewels, set in the form of the chill creature that stings people with its tail; and, where we were, Night had climbed two of the steps by which she mounts, and the third was already furling its wings; when I who had in me something of the old Adam, overcome by sleep, sank down on the grass, where all five of us were already seated.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 9, 1

    At the hour, near dawn, when the swallow begins her sad songs, in memory, perhaps, of her former pain, and when the mind is almost prophetic, more of a wanderer from the body, and less imprisoned by thought, I imagined I saw an eagle, in a dream, poised in the sky, on outspread wings, with golden plumage, and intent to swoop. And I seemed to be there when Ganymede left his own, snatched up by Jupiter, to the high senate.

    I thought, inwardly: ‘Perhaps, through custom, he only strikes here, and perhaps he disdains to carry anyone away in his talons from any other place.’ Then it seemed to me, that wheeling for a while, terrible as lightning, he descended, and snatched me upwards, as far as the sphere of fire. There he and I seemed to burn, and the flames of vision so scorched me, that my sleep was broken.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 9, 29

    Purgatorio Canto IX:34-63 Virgil explains

    Achilles was no less startled, turning his waking eyes about, not knowing where he was, when Thetis, his mother, carried him away, in her arms, as he slept, from Chiron to the island of Scyros, the place from which the Greeks, later, made him go to the Trojan war, than I was as soon as sleep had left my face: and I grew pale, like a man chilled with fear. My comforter was the only one with me, and the sun was already more than two hours high, and my eyes were turned towards the sea.
    My lord said: ‘Have no fear, be assured, since we are in a good position: do not shrink back, but put out all your strength. You have now reached Purgatory: there, see, the cliff that circles it: see the entrance, there, where it seems cleft.

    Before, in the dawn, that precedes the day, when your spirit was asleep in you, among the flowers, with which it is all beautified below, a Lady came, and said: I am Lucia: Let me take this man, who sleeps, and I will help him on his way.’ Sordello was left behind with the other noble forms. She took you, and came on upwards, as day brightened, and I followed in her track. Here she placed you, and her lovely eyes first showed me that open passage: then she, and sleep, together, vanished.’

    Purgatorio Canto IX:64-105 The Angel at the Gate of Purgatory

    I felt changed, as a man in fear does who is reassured, and who exchanges comfort for fear, when the truth is revealed to him. When my leader saw me freed from anxiety, he moved up by the cliff, and I followed, towards the heights.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 9, 74

    Reader, you know, clearly, that I must enrich my theme, so do not wonder if I support it with greater art. We drew close, and were at a point, just there where a break, like a fissure, that divides the cliff, first appeared to me. I saw a gate, and three steps, of various colours, below it, to reach it, and a keeper, who as yet said nothing. And as I looked closer, there, I saw that, seated as he was on the top step, there was that in his face I could not endure. He held a naked blade in his hand, that reflected the sun’s rays towards us, so that I turned my eyes towards it, often, but in vain.

    He began to speak: ‘Say, what you want, from where you stand: where is your escort? Be careful that coming up here does not harm you!’ My master answered: ‘A heavenly Lady, who has good knowledge of these things, said to us, just now: ‘Go there, that is the gate.’ ‘And may she quicken your steps towards the good,’ the courteous doorkeeper began again: ‘come then, towards our stair.’

    Where we came, the first step was of white marble, so smooth and polished that I was reflected there, as I appear. The second was darker than a dark blue-grey, of a rough, calcined stone, cracked in its length and breadth. The third, which is massed above them, seemed like red porphyry to me, fiery as blood spurting from an artery. God’s Angel kept both his feet on this, seated at the threshold, which seemed, to me, to be of adamantine stone.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:106-145 The Angel opens the Gate

    My guide led me, willingly, up the three steps, saying: ‘Ask humbly for the bolt to be drawn.’ I flung myself, devoutly, at the sacred feet: I begged him for pity’s sake to open the gate to me: but first I struck myself three times on the breast.
    He inscribed seven letter P’s on my forehead, with the tip of his sword, and said: ‘Cleanse these wounds when you are inside.’ Ashes, or dry earth, would be at one with the colour of his robe, and he drew two keys out from under it. One was of gold, and the other of silver: he did that to the gate that satisfied me, first with the white, and then the yellow. He said: ‘Whenever one of these keys fails, so that it does not turn in the lock correctly, the way is not open. The one is more precious, but the other needs great skill and intellect, before it works, since it is the one that unties the knot. I hold them, for Peter, and he told me to err by opening it, rather than keeping it locked, if people humbled themselves at my feet.’

    Then he pushed the door of the sacred gateway, saying: ‘Enter, but I let you know, that whoever looks behind, returns outside, again.’ The doors of the Tarpeian treasury, did not groan as harshly, or as much, when good Metellus was dragged from them, so that it remained poor afterwards, as the pivots of that sacred door, which are of strong and ringing metal, when they were turned in their sockets.

    I turned, listening for a first sound, and seemed to hear Te Deum Laudamus, in a voice intermingled with sweet music. What I heard gave me just the kind of feeling we receive when people sing to the accompaniment of an organ, when the words are now clear, and now lost.

    Purgatorio Canto X:1-45 The First Terrace: The Frieze: The Annunciation

    When we were beyond the threshold of the gate, which the soul’s worse love neglects, making the crooked way seem straight instead, I heard it close again, with a ringing sound: but if I had turned my eyes towards it, what could have excused the fault?
    We climbed through a broken rock, which was moving on this side and on that, like a wave that ebbs and flows. My leader began: ‘Here we must use a little skill, in keeping near, now here, now there, to the side that is receding’ And this made our steps so slow that the wandering circle of the moon regained its bed to sink again to rest, before we were out of that needle’s eye.

    But when we were free, and in the open, above, where the Mount is set back, I, being weary, and both of us uncertain of our way, we stood still, on a level space, more lonely than a road through a desert. The length of three human bodies would span it, from its brink where it borders the void, to the foot of the high bank that ascends sheer. And this terrace appeared to me like that, as far as my eye could wing in flight, now to the left, and then to the right.

    Our feet had not yet moved along it, when I saw that the encircling cliff, which, being vertical, lacked any means of ascent, was pure white marble, and beautified with friezes, so that not merely Polycletus, but Nature also, would be put to shame by it.

    In front of us, so vividly sculpted, in a gentle attitude, that it did not seem a dumb image, the Angel Gabriel, appeared, who came to earth, with the annunciation of that peace, wept for, in vain, for so many years, that opened Heaven to us, after the long exile. You would have sworn he was saying: ‘Ave,’ since She was fashioned there, who turned the key to open the supreme Love. And these words were imprinted in her aspect, as clearly as a figure stamped in wax, Ecce ancilla Dei: behold the servant of God.

    Purgatorio Canto X:46-72 King David dancing before the Ark

    ‘Do not keep your attention on one place alone’ said the sweet master, who had me on that side of him where the heart is: at which I moved my eyes about, and saw another story set in the rock, behind Mary, on the side where he was, who urged me onwards.
    There, on the very marble, the cart and oxen were engraved, pulling the sacred Ark of the Covenant, which makes us fear, by Uzzah’s example, an office not committed to us. People appeared in front, and the whole crowd, divided into seven choirs, made one of my senses say ‘No’ they do not sing,’ another say ‘Yes, they do.’ Similarly, eyes and nose disagreed, between yes and no, over the smoke of incense depicted there.

    There King David, the humble Psalmist, went, dancing, girt up, in front of the blessed tabernacle: and he was, in that moment, more, and less, than King. Michal, Saul’s daughter, was figured opposite, looking on: a woman sad and scornful. I moved my feet from the place where I stood, to look closely at another story, which shone white in front of me, beyond Michal.

    Purgatorio Canto X:73-96 The Emperor Trajan

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 10, 74

    There the high glory of the Roman prince was retold whose worth moved Gregory to intercession, and to great victory: I speak of the Emperor Trajan: and at his bridle was a poor widow, in the attitude of tearfulness and grief. A crowd, of horsemen, trampling, appeared round him, and the gold eagles, above him, moved visibly in the wind. The poor woman, among all these, seemed to say: ‘My lord, give me vengeance for my son who was killed, at which my heart is pierced.’ And Trajan seemed to answer her: ‘Now, wait, till I return.’ And she, like a person, urgent with sorrow: ‘My lord, what if you do not return?’ And he: ‘One who will be in place of me will do it.’ And she: ‘What merit will another’s good deed be to you, if you forget your own?’ At which he said: ‘Now be comforted, since I must fulfil my duty before I go: justice wills it, and pity holds me here.’
    He who never sees anything unfamiliar to him, made this speech visible, which is new to us, because it is not found here.

    Purgatorio Canto X:97-139 The Proud and their Punishment

    While I was joying in seeing the images, of such great humility, precious to look at, for their Maker’s sake, the poet murmured: ‘See, here, many people, but their steps are few: they will send us on to the high stairs.’ My eyes, that were intent on gazing to find new things, willingly, were not slow in turning towards him.
    Reader, I would not wish you to be scared away from a good intention, by hearing how God wills that the debt is paid. Pay no attention to the form of the suffering: think of what follows it: think that, at worst, it cannot last beyond the great Judgement.

    I began: ‘Master, those whom I see coming towards us do not seem like persons, but I do not know what they look like, my sight errs so much.’ And he to me: ‘The heavy weight of their punishment, doubles them to the ground, so that my eyes, at first, were troubled by them. But look steadily there, and disentangle with your sight what is coming beneath those stones: you can see, already, how each one beats his breast.’

    O proud Christians, weary and wretched, who, infirm in the mind’s vision, put your trust in downward steps: do you not see that we are caterpillars, born to form the angelic butterfly, that flies to judgement without defence? Why does your mind soar to the heights, since you are defective insects, even as the caterpillar is, in which the form is lacking?

    As a figure, with knees joined to chest, is sometimes seen, carved as a corbel, to support a ceiling or a roof, which though unreal, creates a real discomfort in those who see it, even so, I saw these, when I paid attention. Truly, they were more or less bent down, depending as to whether they were weighted more or less, and the one who had most patience in its bearing, seemed to say, weeping: ‘I can no more.’

    Purgatorio Canto XI:1-36 The Proud paraphrase the Lord’s Prayer

    ‘O our Father, who are in Heaven, not because of your limitation, but because of the greater love you have for your first sublime works, praised be your name and worth by every creature, as it is fitting to give thanks for your sweet outpourings. May the peace of your kingdom come to us, since we cannot reach it by ourselves, despite all our intellect, if it does not come to us itself. As Angels sacrifice their will to yours, singing Hosanna: so may men sacrifice theirs. Give us this day our daily bread, without which he who labours to advance, goes backward, through this harsh desert. And forgive in loving-kindness, as we forgive everyone, the evil we have suffered, and judge us not by what we deserve. Do not test our virtue, that is easily conquered, against the ancient enemy, but deliver us from him who tempts it. And this last prayer, dear Lord, is not made on our behalf, since we do not need it, but for those we have left behind.’
    So those shades, praying good speed to us and themselves, went on beneath their burdens, like those that we sometimes dream of, weary, and unequal in torment, all around the first terrace, purging away the mists of the world.

    If ever a good word is said, there, for us, by those who have their will rooted in the good, what can we say or do for them, here? Truly we should help them wash away the stain, that they have carried from here, so that, light and pure, they might issue to the starry spheres.

    Purgatorio Canto XI:37-72 Omberto Aldobrandeschi

    Virgil said: ‘Ah, that justice and mercy might soon disburden you, so that you might spread your wings, that will lift you as you desire, show us, now, in which direction we might go, most quickly, to the stairway: and if there is more than one way, tell us which one ascends least steeply, because he, who comes along with me, is slow in climbing, despite his will, because of the burden of the flesh of Adam, he is clothed with.’
    It was not obvious where the words came from, which were returned to those that he, whom I followed, had said, but this was the reply: ‘Come with us, to the right, along the cliff, and you will find the pass that a living man can ascend. And if I were not obstructed by the stone that weighs my proud neck down, so that I have to carry my head low, I would look at him, who is yet alive, who does not name himself, to see if I know him, and to make him pity this burden.

    I was Italian, and the son of a great Tuscan: my father was Gugliemo Aldobrandesco: I do not know if his name was ever known to you. My ancestors’ ancient blood and noble actions, made me so arrogant that I held all men in such scorn, not thinking of our common mother, that it was the death of me, as the Sienese, and every child in Campagnatico, know. I am Omberto, and it is not me alone that pride does ill to, because it has dragged all my companions to misfortune. And here, until God is satisfied, I must carry this burden among the dead, since I did not do so among the living.’

    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117 Oderisi of Gubbio: The Vanity of Fame

    Listening, I had bent my head down, and one of them, not he who was speaking, twisted himself beneath the weight that obstructed him: and saw me, and knew me, and was calling out, keeping his eyes fixed on me, who all bent down was moving along with them, with difficulty.
    I said to him: ‘O, are you not Oderisi, the glory of Gubbio, and the glory of that art which in Paris they call ‘Illumination’?’ He said: ‘Brother, the leaves that Franco of Bologna paints are more pleasing: the glory is all his now, and mine in part. In truth, I would not have been so humble while I lived, because of the great desire to excel, that my heart was fixed on. Here the debt is paid for such pride: and I would still not be here, if it were not that, having power to sin, I turned to God.

    O empty glory of human power: how short the green leaves at its summit last, even if it is not buried by dark ages! Cimabue thought to lead the field, in painting, and now Giotto is the cry, so that the other’s fame is eclipsed. Even so, one Guido, Cavalcanti, has taken from Guinicelli, the other, the glory of our language: and perhaps one is born who will chase both from the nest.

    Worldly Fame is nothing but a breath of wind, that now blows here, and now there, and changes name as it changes direction. What more fame will you have, before a thousand years are gone, if you disburden yourself of your flesh when old, than if you had died before you were done with childish prattle? It is a shorter moment, in eternity, than the twinkling of an eye is to the orbit that circles slowest in Heaven.

    All Tuscany rang with the noise of him who moves so slowly in front of me, along the road, and now there is hardly a whisper of him in Siena, where he was lord, when Florence’s fury was destroyed, when she was prouder then, than she is now degraded. Your Reputation is like the colour of the grass, that comes and goes, and he through whom it springs green from the earth, discolours it.’

    Purgatorio Canto XI:118-142 Provenzan Salvani

    And I to him: ‘Your true speech fills my heart with holy humility, and deflates my swollen pride, but who is he whom you were speaking of just now?’ He answered: ‘That is Provenzan Salvani, and he is here because he presumed to grasp all Siena in his hand. So he goes, and has gone, without rest, since he died: such coin they pay, to render satisfaction, who were too bold over there.’
    And I: ‘If spirits who wait until the brink of death, before they repent, are down below, and do not climb up here, unless holy prayers help them, till as much time has passed as they once lived, how has his coming here been allowed him?’ He replied: ‘When he lived in highest state, he stationed himself in the marketplace at Siena, of his own free will, putting aside all shame, and made himself quiver in every vein, to deliver a friend from the pain he was suffering, in Charles’s prison.

    I will say no more, and I know that I speak darkly, but a short time will pass and your neighbours will act such that you will be able to understand the beggar’s shame. That action released him from those confines.’

    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63 Many examples of Pride

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 12, 1

    I went alongside the burdened spirit, in step, like oxen under the yoke, as long as the sweet teacher allowed it. But when Virgil said: ‘Leave him, and press on, since here it is best if each drives on his boat with sail and oars, and all his strength,’ I stood erect, as required for walking, although my thoughts remained bowed down and humbled.
    I had moved, and was following, willingly, in my master’s steps, and both of us were already showing how much lighter of foot we were, when he said to me: ‘Turn your eyes downward: it will be good for you to look beneath your feet, to ease the journey. As tombstones in the ground, over the dead, carry the figures of who they were before, so that there may be a memory of them, and often cause men to weep for them, through that thorn of memory that only pricks the merciful, so I saw all the roadway that projects from the mountainside, sculpted in relief there, but of better likeness, because of the artistry.

    On one side, I saw Satan, who was created far nobler than any other creature, falling like lightning from Heaven.

    On the other side I saw Briareus, transfixed by the celestial thunderbolt, lying on the ground, heavy with the chill of death.

    I saw Apollo Thymbraeus: I saw Mars and Pallas Athene, still armed, with Jupiter their father, gazing at the scattered limbs of the Giants.

    I saw Nimrod at the foot of his great tower of Babel, as if bewildered, and looking at the people, who shared his pride, in Shinar.

    O Niobe, with what sorrowful eyes I saw you sculpted in the roadway, between your seven dead sons and seven dead daughters!

    O Saul, how you were shown there, dead by your own sword, on Gilboa, that never felt rain or dew after!

    O foolish Arachne, already half spider, so I saw you, saddened, amongst the tatters of your work, woven by you to your own harm!

    O Rehoboam, now your image seems to threaten no longer, but a chariot carries you away, terrified, before chase is given!

    Again, the hard pavement showed, how Alcmaeon made the gift of the luckless necklace costly to his mother Eriphyle.

    It showed how Sennacherib’s sons flung themselves on him in the Temple, and how they left him there, dead.

    It showed the cruel slaughter and destruction that Tomyris generated, at the time when she said, to the dead Cyrus: ‘You thirsted for blood, now take your fill of blood!’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 12, 39

    It showed how the Assyrians fled in a rout, after Holofernes was killed, and also the remains of the murder.

    I saw Troy in ashes and ruin: O Ilion, how low and debased, the sculpture, that is visible there, showed you.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:64-99 The Angel of Humility

    What master was it, of the brush, or the engraving tool, who drew the lines and shadows that would make every subtle intellect gaze at them? The dead seemed dead, and the living, living: he who saw the reality of all the tales I trod on, while I went by, bent down, saw no better than me. Be proud then, children of Eve, and on with your haughty faces, and do not bow your heads, in case you see your path of sin!
    Already we had circled more of the Mount, and more of the sun’s path was spent, than the un-free mind judged so, when he, who was always going on, alert, in front of me, began to say: ‘Lift your head up, this is no time to go absorbed like that: see an Angel there who is preparing to come towards us: look how the sixth handmaiden is returning from her hour’s service. Be reverent in your bearing, and in your look, so that it may gladden him to send us on upward: consider, that this day never dawns again.’

    I was well used to his warnings never to lose time, so that he could not speak to me unclearly on that matter. The beautiful creature came to us, robed in white, and, in his face, the aspect of the glimmering morning star. He opened his arms, and then spread his wings. He said: ‘Come: here are the steps, nearby, and the climb now is easily made.’ Few are those who do come, at this invitation. O human race, born to soar, why do you fall so, at a breath of wind?

    He led us to where the rock was cleft: there he beat his wings against my forehead: then he promised me a safe journey.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:100-136 The first letter P is now erased

    As the ascent is broken on the right by steps, made in the times when the public records, and the standard measure, were safe, that climb the hill where San Miniato stands, looking down on Florence, that well-guided city, over the Ponte Rubaconte, so is this gully made easier, that here falls steeply from the next terrace, but so that the high rock grazes it on either side.
    While we were changing our direction, voices sang, so sweetly no speech could describe it: ‘Beati pauperes spiritu, blessed are the poor in spirit.’ Ah! How different these openings are from Hell’s: here we enter with songs, and, down there, with savage groaning.

    Now we were climbing by the sacred stair, and it seemed to me that I was much lighter, than I seemed to be on the terrace, at which I said: ‘Master, say, what heavy weight has been lifted from me, so that I hardly feel any effort in moving?’ He answered: ‘When the letter P’s, that have stayed on your face, but are almost invisible, shall be erased completely, like that first one, you feet will be so permeated by goodness, that not only will they not feel it as effort, but it will be a pleasure to them to be urged on.’

    Then, like someone who goes along with something on their face, unknown to them, except when another’s gestures make them guess, so that the hand lends its help to make sure, searches, and finds, and carries out the task that cannot be done by looking, I, with the fingers of my right hand outspread, found only six letters, of those that he, the key-holder, had cut on me, over the temples: at which my guide, seeing it, smiled.

    Purgatorio Canto XIII:1-45 The Second Terrace: The voices in the air

    We were at the summit of the stairway, where the Mount, that frees us from evil by our ascent, is terraced for a second time. There a cornice, like the first, loops round the hill, except that its curve is sharper. There is no shadow there, or decoration: the cliff appears so naked, and the path level, with the livid colour of the stone.
    The poet was saying: ‘If we wait here for people to ask our way of, I am afraid our decision may be delayed too long.’ Then he set his eyes intently on the sun: he made his right a pivot, and turned his left side, saying: ‘O sweet light, trusting in whom I enter on the new track, lead us on, as we, would be led, within ourselves: you give the world warmth, you shine upon it: if no other reason urges otherwise, your rays must always be our guide.’

    We, by our eager will, in a short time, had already gone as far, there, as counts for a mile here, when we heard, not saw, spirits flying towards us, granting courteous invitations to love’s feast. The first voice that passed by in flight said loudly: ‘Vinum non habent: they have no wine,’ and went by, repeating it behind us.

    And before it was completely lost to hearing, due to distance, another voice passed by, crying: ‘I am Orestes,’ and also did not stay. I said: ‘O, father, what voices are these,’ and as I asked, there was a third voice saying: ‘Love those who have shown you hatred.’ And the good master said: ‘This circle scourges the sin of Envy, and so the cords of the whip are made of Love. The curb or bit is of the opposite sound: I think you will hear it, I believe, before you reach the Pass of Forgiveness.

    But fix your gaze steadily through the air, and you will see people seated in front of us, along the cliff.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 13, 55

    Purgatorio Canto XIII:46-84 The Envious and their Punishment

    Then my eyes opened wider than before: I looked in front and saw shades with cloaks of the same colour as the stone. And when we were a little nearer, I heard a cry: ‘Mary, pray for us,’ and a cry: ‘Michael, Peter, and all the Saints.’
    I do not believe there is anyone on earth so hardened, that they would not be pierced with compassion, at what I saw then: when I had come near them so that their features were clear to me, heavy tears were wrung from my eyes. They seemed to me to be covered with coarse haircloth: each supported the other with a shoulder: and each was supported, by the cliff.

    Like this, the blind, lacking means, sit near the confessionals, begging for alms, and sink their heads upon one another, so that pity may be stirred quickly in people, not only by their words, but by their aspects, that plead no less. And as the sun does not help the blind, so Heaven’s light will not be generous to the shades I speak of, since an iron wire pierces their eyelids, and stitches them completely shut, just as is done to a wild hawk, that will not stay still.

    By seeing others, and not being seen, I felt I did them a wrong as I went by, at which I turned to Virgil. He knew well what the dumb would say, and so he did not wait for my question, but said: ‘Speak, and be brief, and to the point.’

    My counsellor was with me on the side of the terrace where one might fall, since there is no parapet surrounding it: the devout shades were on the other side, who were squeezing out tears, through the terrible seam, so that they bathed their cheeks.

    Purgatorio Canto XIII:85-154 Sapia de’ Saracini

    I turned to them and began: ‘O people, certain to see the light, above, the only thing your desire cares for, may grace quickly clear the dark film of your conscience, so that memory’s stream may flow through it clearly: tell me, since it will be gracious and dear to me, if any soul among you is Italian, and perhaps it will bring him good if I know it.’
    I seemed to hear this for answer, some way further on than where I was: ‘O my brother, we are all citizens of a true city: you mean those who lived as wanderers in Italy.’ So I made myself heard more distinctly towards that side. I saw a spirit among the others, hopeful in look, and if you ask: ‘How?’ its chin was lifted higher in the manner of a blind person.

    ‘Spirit,’ I said, ‘that does penance, in order to climb, if you are the one who replied, make yourself known to me by place or name.’ She answered: ‘I was of Siena, and purge my sinful life, with these others here, weeping to Him, that he might lend his grace to us. Sapia, I was named, though sapient I was not, and I was far happier in other’s harm, than in my own good fortune. And so that you do not think I mislead you, listen, and see if I was as foolish as I say.

    Already when the arc of my years was declining, my townsmen were engaged in battle with their enemies, near to Colle, and I prayed God for what he had already willed. They were routed there, and rolled back in the bitterness of flight, and I joyed, above all, in watching the chase, so much so that I lifted my impudent face, crying out to God: “Now I no longer fear you,” as the blackbird does at a little fine weather.

    I wished to make peace with God, at the end of my life, and my debt would not be reduced, even now, by penitence, had it not been that Pier Pettignano remembered me in his holy prayers, and grieved for me out of charity. But who are you, who go asking about our state, and, as I believe, have your eyes un-sewn, and breathing, speak?’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 13, 129

    I said: ‘My eyes will yet be darkened here, but for only a short time, since they did little offence through being turned to envy. My soul is troubled by a far greater fear of the torment just below, since even now the burden there weighs on me.’ And she to me: ‘Who has led you then, up here, among us, if you expect to return below?’ And I: ‘He who is with me, here, and is silent: and I am alive, and so, spirit elect, ask something of me, if you wish me to move my mortal feet for you, over there.’

    She answered: ‘Oh, this is such a strange thing to hear, that it is a sign that God loves you: so help me sometimes with your prayers. And I beg you, by all you most desire, if ever you tread the soil of Tuscany, renew my fame amongst my people. You will see them among that vain race, that put their faith in the harbour of Talamone, and will know more lost hopes there, than in searching for the stream of Diana: but the admirals will lose most.’

    Purgatorio Canto XIV:1-27 Guido del Duca and Rinieri da Calboli

    ‘Who is this, that circles the Mount, before death has allowed him flight, and who opens and closes his eyelids at will?’ ‘I do not know who he is, but I know he is not alone. You, who are nearest, question him, and greet him gently, so that he might speak.’
    So two spirits talked of me there, on the right, one leaning on the other: then held their faces up to speak to me: and one said: ‘O soul, still trapped in the body, journeying towards Heaven, out of charity, bring us consolation, and tell us where you come from, and who you are, since you make us wonder greatly at your state of grace, as a thing does that was never known before.’

    And I: ‘A river runs through the centre of Tuscany, rising at Falterona, in the Apennines, and is not sated by a course of a hundred miles. I bring this body from its banks. It would be useless to tell you who I am, since my name does not sound much, as yet.’ Then, he who had spoken first, answered me: ‘If I penetrate your meaning clearly with my intellect, you are talking about the Arno.’ And the other said to him: ‘Why did he hide the name of the river, as one does with a dreadful thing?’

    Purgatorio Canto XIV:28-66 The Valley of the Arno

    And the shade who was asked the question replied as follows: ‘I do not know, but truly it is fit that the name of such a valley should die, since from its head, where the alpine chain from which Cape Faro in Sicily is separated, is so extensive, that there are few places where it exceeds that breadth, as far as Pisa, where it yields that which the sky absorbs from the sea, restoring that water that provides the rivers with what flows in them, Virtue, like a snake, is persecuted as an enemy, by them all, either because of the evil place, or the evil customs that incite them; so that the people, who live in that miserable valley, have changed their nature, until it seems as if Circe had them in her sty.
    It first directs its feeble channel, among the Casentines, filthy hogs, more fitted for acorns than any other food created for man’s use. Then descending, it reaches the Aretines, curs that snarl more than their power merits, and turns its current, scornfully, away from them.

    On it goes in its fall, and the greater the volume in its accursed ditch the more it finds the dogs grown to Florentine wolves. Having descended then, through many scooped-out pools, it finds the Pisan foxes, so full of deceit that they fear no tricks that might trap them.

    I will not stop speaking even if this other hears me, and it would be well for him if he reminds himself, again, of what true prophecy unfolds to me. I see Fulcieri, his grandson, who is becoming a hunter of those Florentine wolves on the bank of the savage river, and who fills them all with terror. He sells their flesh while they are still alive, then slaughters them like worn-out cattle: he deprives many of life, and himself of honour. He comes out, bloodied, from the sad wood. He leaves it so that, a thousand years from now, it will not regenerate to its primal state.’

    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123 Guido’s diatribe against Romagna

    I saw the other shade, who had turned round to hear, grow troubled and sad, after it had heard these words, as the face of him who listens is troubled, at the announcement of heavy misfortunes, as to which side the danger might attack him from. The speech of the one, and the look of the other, made me long to know their names, and I asked them, mixing the request with prayers. At this the spirit who first spoke to me, began again: ‘You want me to condescend to do that for you, that you will not do for me, but, since God wills so much of his grace to shine in you, I will not be reticent with you: therefore know that I am Guido del Duca.
    My blood was so consumed by envy, that you would have seen me suffused with lividness, if I saw a man render himself happy. I reap the straw of that sowing. O humankind, why set the heart there, where division of partnership must follow?

    This is Rinier: this is the honour and glory of the House of Calboli, in which no one, since him, has made themselves heir to his worth. And not only is his bloodline devoid of the goodness demanded of truth and chivalry between the River Po and the mountains, the Adriatic shore and Reno, but the Romagna, that is within these boundaries, is choked with poisonous growth, that cultivation would now root out with difficulty.

    Where is the good Lizio, and Arrigo Mainardi, Pier Traversaro or Guido di Carpigna? Oh, you Romagnols, turned to bastards, when will a Fabbro again take root in Bologna: when, in Faenza, a Bernadin da Fosco, scion of a low-born plant?

    Do not wonder, Tuscan, if I weep, when I remember Ugolin d’Azzo, and Guido da Prata, who lived among us; Federico Tignoso, and his fellows, the Houses of Traversari, and Anastagi, both races now without an heir, the ladies and the knights, the toils and the ease, that love and courtesy made us wish for, there, where hearts are grown so sinful.

    O town of Bertinoro, famous for your hospitality, why do you not vanish, since your noble families, and many of your people, are gone, to escape guilt? It is good that Bagnacavallo produces no more sons, and bad that Castrocaro, and worse that Conio, still trouble to beget such Counts. The Pagani will do well when Mainardo, their devil, is gone: but not, indeed, in that true witness of their lives will remain.

    O Ugolin de’ Fantolin, your name is safe, since there is no more chance of there being any heir to blacken it through degeneration.

    Purgatorio Canto XIV:124-151 Examples of Envy

    Now, go your ways, Tuscan, since it delights me more to weep than talk, our conversation has so wrung my spirit.’ We knew that those dear shades heard us leave, so, by their silence, they gave us confidence in our road.
    When we were left, journeying on, alone, a voice struck us, like lightning when it splits the air, saying: ‘Everyone who findeth me shall slay me’, and vanished like a thunderclap, that dies away when the cloud suddenly bursts.

    When our hearing was free of it, behold, a second, with such a loud crash, that it was like thunder, following on quickly: ‘I am Aglauros, she, who was turned to stone.’ Then I made a backward step, not a forward one, to press close to the poet.

    Now the air was quiet on all sides, and he said to me: ‘That was the harsh curb, that ought to keep humankind within its limits. But you take the bait, so that the old enemy’s hook draws you towards him, and the bridle and the lure are little use. The Heavens call to you, and circle round you, displaying their eternal splendours to you, but your eyes are only on the ground: for which, he who sees all things, chastises you.’

    Purgatorio Canto XV:1-36 The Angel of Fraternal Love

    As much of the sun’s course seemed left before evening, as we see between dawn and the third hour of the day, on the zodiacal circle that is always skipping up and down like a child: it was Vespers, evening, there in Purgatory, and midnight here. And the sun’s rays were striking us mid-face, since we had circled enough of the Mount, to be travelling due west, when I felt my forehead far more burdened, by the splendour, than before, and the unknown nature of it stunned me, so that I lifted my hands above my eyes, and made that shade which dims the excess light.
    Just as when a ray of light bounces from the water’s surface towards the opposite direction, ascending at an equal angle to that at which it falls, and travelling as far from the perpendicular line of a falling stone, in an equal distance, as science and experiment show, so I seemed struck by reflected light, in front of me, from which my eyes were quick to hide.

    I said: ‘Sweet father, what is that, from which I cannot shade my sight enough to help me, that seems to be moving towards us?’ He answered: ‘Do not be amazed if the heavenly family still dazzles you: it is a messenger that comes to invite us to climb. Soon, seeing these things will not be painful to you, but a joy as great as nature has equipped you to feel.’

    When we had reached the blessed Angel, it said, in a pleasant voice: ‘Enter a stairway, here, much less steep than the others.’

    Purgatorio Canto XV:37-81 The Second Beatitude: Dante’s doubts

    We were climbing, and already leaving, and, behind us, ‘Beati misericordes: blessed are the merciful,’ was sung, and, ‘Rejoice you who conquer.’
    My master, and I, the two of us, alone, were climbing, and I thought to derive profit from his words while we went, and I addressed him, saying: ‘What did the spirit from Romagna mean by mentioning division and partnership?’ At which he said to me: ‘He knows the harm of his great defect, and therefore let no one wonder if he condemns it, so that the harm, he mourns for, is lessened.

    Inasmuch as your desires are centred where things are diminished by partnership, it is Envy moving the bellows, with your sighs. But if the love of the highest sphere drew your desire upward, envious fear would not be core to your heart, since each possesses that much more of the good by the measure of how many more say ours, and so much more love burns in that cloister.’ I said: ‘I am hungrier by being fed than if I had kept silent from the start, and I have added more confusion to my mind.

    How can it be that a shared good makes a greater number of possessors richer by it than if it is owned by a few?’ And he to me: ‘Because you fix your eyes, again, only on earthly things, you produce darkness from true light. That infinite and ineffable good, that is up there, rushes towards love as a ray of light rushes towards a bright body. The more ardour it finds, the more it gives of itself, so that, however far love extends, eternal good causes its increase: and the more people there are up there who understand each other, the more there are to love truly, and the more love there is, and, like a mirror, the one increase reflects the other.

    And if my explanation does not satisfy your hunger, you will see Beatrice, and she will free you completely from this and from every other longing. Only work, so that the other five wounds that are healed by our pain are soon erased, as two have been.’

    Purgatorio Canto XV:82-145 The Third Terrace: Examples of Gentleness

    As I was about to say: ‘You have satisfied me,’ I saw I had arrived on the next terrace, so that my eager gaze made me silent. There I seemed to be suddenly caught up in an ecstatic dream, and to see many people in a temple, and a lady about to enter, saying, with the tender attitude of a mother: ‘My son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? behold thy father and I sought thee sorrowing,’ and as she fell silent that which had appeared at first, now disappeared.
    Then another woman appeared to me, with those tears on her cheeks, that grief distils, and that well up in someone because of great anger, saying: ‘O Pisistratus, if you are lord of Athens, the city from which all knowledge shines, and whose naming made such strife between the gods, take revenge on those audacious arms that clasped our daughter.’ And her lord, kindly and gently, seemed to answer her, with a placid look: ‘What shall we do to those who wish harm to us, if we condemn him who loves us?’

    Then I saw people, blazing with the fire of wrath, killing a youth with stones, and calling continually and loudly to each other: ‘Kill him, kill him! And I saw him sinking to the ground in death, which already weighed him down, but he made of his eyes, all the while, gateways to Heaven, praying to the Lord on high, in such torment, with that look, that unlocks pity, of forgiveness towards his persecutors.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 15, 103

    When my spirit returned outwards, to find the true things outside it, I understood my visions did not lie. My guide who could see me acting like a man who frees himself from sleep, said: ‘What is wrong with you, that you cannot control yourself, but have come almost two miles, with your eyes covered, and your legs staggering, like someone overcome by wine or sleep? I said: ‘O sweet my father, if you listen, I will tell you what appeared to me, when my legs were pulled from under me.’

    And he said: ‘If you had a hundred masks on your face, your thoughts, however slight, would not be hidden from me. What you saw was to prevent you having an excuse for not opening your heart, to the waters of peace, that are poured from the eternal fountain. I did not ask “What is wrong” for the reason one does, who only sees with the eye, that cannot see when the body lies senseless, but I asked in order to give strength to your feet: so the slothful, who are slow to employ the waking hour when it returns, have to be goaded.’

    We were travelling on, through the evening, straining our eyes ahead, as far as we could, against the bright sunset rays, and behold, little by little, a smoke, dark as night, moving towards us, and there was no space to escape it. This stole away our sight, and the clear air.

    Purgatorio Canto XVI:1-24 The Wrathful and their Punishment

    The gloom of Hell, and a night deprived of every planet, under a scant sky, darkened by cloud, as far as it could be, did not make as thick a veil for my sight, or as harsh a texture to the touch, as the smoke that enveloped us there, since it did not even allow the eyes to remain open, at which my wise and faithful escort came near, and offered me his shoulder.
    As a blind man goes behind his guide, in order not to wander, and not to strike against anything that may harm him, or perhaps kill him, so I went, through the foul and bitter air, listening to my leader, who kept saying: ‘Be careful not to get cut off, from me.’

    I heard voices, and each one seemed to pray to the Lamb of God, who takes away sin, for peace and mercy. ‘Agnus Dei,’ was their only commencement: one word and one measure came from them all: so that every harmony seemed to be amongst them. I said: ‘Master, are those spirits, that I hear?’ And he to me: ‘You understand rightly, and they are untying the knot of anger.’

    Purgatorio Canto XVI:25-96 Marco Lombardo: Free Will

    A voice said: ‘Now, who are you, who divide our smoke, and talk of us, as if you still measured time by months?’ At which my Master said to me: ‘You, answer, and ask if we should go upwards by this path.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 16, 23

    And I said: ‘O creature, who purge yourself to return to him who made you, beautified, you will hear a wonder if you follow me.’ He answered: ‘I will follow you, as far as is allowed me, and if the smoke prevents us seeing, hearing will allow contact between us, instead.’ So I began: ‘I am travelling upwards, with those garments that death dissolves, and came here through the pain of Hell, and if God has so far admitted me to his grace, that he wills I should see his court, in a manner wholly outside modern usage, do not conceal from me who you were before death, but tell me, and tell me, also, if I am heading straight for the pass: and your words will be our escort.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 16, 32

    He answered: ‘I was called Mark, and I was a Lombard: I knew the world, and loved that worth, at the sight of which every one now unbends their bow: you go the right way to ascend,’ and he added, ‘I pray you to pray for me, when you are above.’

    And I to him: ‘By my faith, I promise you, to do what you ask of me, but I am wrung within by doubt if I cannot free myself of it. First it was simple doubt, and now it is re-doubled by your speech, strengthening it in me here, along with that which I couple to it from elsewhere. The world is indeed so wholly destitute of every virtue, even as you say, and covered and weighed down with sin: but I beg you to show me the cause, so that I can see it, and tell others, since some people place the cause in the sky, and others here below.’

    He first gave a deep sigh, which grief shortened to ‘Ah!’ and then began: ‘Brother the world is blind, and you come from there, indeed. You, the living, refer every cause to the heavens, as though they carried all along with them by necessity. If it were so, free will would be destroyed in you, and there would be no justice in taking delight in good, and lamenting evil. The heavens initiate your movements: I do not say all, but even if I said it, you are given a light to know good from evil: and you are given free will, which gains the victory, completely, in the end, if it survives the stress of its first conflict with the heavens, and is well nurtured.

    Free, you are subject to a greater force, and a better nature, and that creates Mind in you, that the sky does not have control of. So if the world today goes awry, the cause is in yourselves, search for it in yourselves, and I will be a true guide to you in this.

    From His hands, who loves her dearly before she exists, issues the soul, in simplicity, like a little child, playing, in laughter and in tears, and she knows nothing, but that, sprung from a joyful Maker, she willingly turns towards what delights her. She savours, at the start, the taste of childish good, and is beguiled by it, and chases it, if her love is not curbed or misguided. That is why it was necessary to create Law as a curb, and necessary to have a ruler, who might at least make out the towers of the true city.’

    Purgatorio Canto XVI:97-145 The Error of the Church’s temporal power

    ‘There are laws, but who sets their hand to them? No one: because the Shepherd who leads his flock may chew the cud, may meditate, but does not have a divided hoof, and confuses spiritual and temporal. So the people, seeing their Guide only aiming at that benefit he is eager for, feed on that, and do not question further. You can see clearly that bad leadership is the cause of the world’s sinfulness, and not that nature, corruptible within you.
    Rome, that made the civilised world, used to have two Suns, that made the two roads visible, that of the world, and that of God. One has quenched the other: and the sword and the shepherd’s crook are joined: and the one linked to the other must run to harm, since, being joined, one will not fear the other. If you do not believe me, look closely at the crop, since every plant is known by its seed.

    Worth and courtesy used to be found, in Lombardy, that land the rivers Po and Adige water, before Frederick faced opposition. Now it can only be crossed, in safety, by those who, through shame, have ceased to talk to good men, or live near them. True there are three elder statesmen, in whom the ancient times reprove the new, and it feels a long time to them before God takes them to a better life: Corrado da Palazzo, and the good Gherardo da Camino, and Guido da Castel, who is better named in the French way, the honest Lombard. As of now, say that the Church of Rome, confusing two powers in herself, falls in the mud, and fouls herself and her charge.’

    I said: ‘O my Mark you reason clearly, and now I see why the priests, the sons of Levi, were not allowed to inherit. But who is that Gerard, who you say remains as an example of the vanished race, to reprove this barbarous age?’ He answered: ‘Your speech is either meant to deceive me or to test me, since, speaking in Tuscan, you seem to know nothing of the good Gherard. I know him by no other name, unless I were to take one from his daughter Gaia. God be with you, since I come, with you, no further. See the light, whitening, shining through the smoke: the Angel is there, and I must go before he sees me.’

    So he turned back, and would no longer listen.

    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39 Examples of Anger

    Reader, if a mist has ever caught you in the mountains, through which you saw as a mole does, through the skin, remember how the sun’s sphere shone, feebly, through the dense, damp, vapours as it began to melt away, and your imagination will easily understand how I saw the sun again, which was now setting. So, measuring my steps by my faithful Master’s, I issued from that cloud to the sunlight, already dead on the low shore.
    O imagination, that takes us out of ourselves, sometimes, so that we are conscious of nothing, though a thousand trumpets echo round us, what is it that stirs you, since the senses place nothing in front of you? A light stirs you, which takes its form from heaven, by itself, or by a will that sends it downwards.

    The traces of Procne’s impiety appeared in my imagination, she, who changed her form to a nightingale’s, the bird that most delights in singing, and here my mind was so absorbed in itself, that nothing from outside came to it, or was received in it.

    Then in my high fantasy a crucified man, scornful and haughty of aspect, appeared, and it was Haman, so dying. Round about him were the great Ahasuerus, Esther, his wife, and the just Mordecai, who was so sincere in speech and actions.

    And, as this imagining burst like a bubble does, when the water surface it is made of breaks, a girl, Lavinia, weeping pitfully, rose to my vision, saying: ‘O Queen Amata, why have you willed yourself to nothingness, through anger? You have killed yourself in order not to lose me: now you have lost me. I am she, who mourns, Mother, for your loss, rather than for his.’

    Purgatorio Canto XVII:40-69 The Angel of Meekness: Third Beatitude

    As sleep is broken, when a new light suddenly strikes on the closed eyelids, and hovers, brokenly, before it completely vanishes, so my imaginings were destroyed, as soon as light struck my face, light far greater than that which we are used to. I was turning about to see where I was, when a voice which snatched me from any other intention, said: ‘Here, you can climb’, and it made me want to see who it was who spoke, with that eagerness that never rests till it confronts the other.
    But my powers failed me there, as at the sun that oppresses our vision, and veils his form, through excess of light. My leader said: ‘This is a Divine Spirit, that points us towards the path to climb, without our asking, and hides itself in its own light. It does towards us what a man does towards himself: since he who sees the need, but waits for the request, has set himself malignly towards denial. Now let our feet fit the invitation: let us try to ascend before nightfall, since we cannot, then, until day returns.’ I turned my steps, with him, towards a stairway, and as soon as I was on the first step, I felt something like the touch of a wing, and my face was fanned, and I heard someone say: ‘Beati pacifici: blessed are the meek, who are without sinful anger.’

    Purgatorio Canto XVII:70-139 Virgil explains the structure of Purgatory

    Now the last rays, that night follows, were angled so high above us that the stars were appearing, on every side. ‘Oh, my powers, why do you ebb away from me like this?’ I said inside myself, since I felt the strength of my legs vanish.
    We stood where the stairway went no further, and were aground, like a boat, that arrives at the shore: and I listened for a while to see if I could hear anything in the new circle: then turned to my Master, and said: ‘My sweet father, say what offence is purged in this circle, where we are? Though our feet are stopped, do not stop your speaking.’ And he to me: ‘The love of good, that fell short of its duties, restores itself just here: here the sinfully lazy oar is plied again. But so that you might understand more clearly, turn your mind on me, and you will gather some good fruit from our delay.’

    He began: ‘Son, neither creature nor Creator, was ever devoid of love, natural or rational, and this you know. The natural is always free of error: but the rational may err because of an evil objective, or because of too much or too little energy.

    While it is directed towards the primary virtues, and moderates its aims in the secondary ones, it cannot be the cause of sinful delight, but when it is turned awry, towards evil, or moves towards the good with more or less attention than it should, the creature works against its Creator. So you can understand, that love is the seed of each virtue in you, and its errors the seeds of every action that deserves punishment. Now, in that love can never turn its face away from the well being of its object, everything is safe from self-hatred. And, because no being can be thought to exist apart, standing separate in itself, from the First Cause, all affection is prevented from hating Him.

    It follows, if I judge well in my classification that the evil we desire is due to the presence of our neighbours, and this desire has three origins, in your clay.

    There are those who hope to excel through their neighbour’s downfall, and because of this alone want them toppled from their greatness. This is Pride.

    There are those who fear to lose, power, influence, fame or honour because another is preferred, at which they are so saddened they desire the contrary. This is Envy.

    And there are those who seem so ashamed because of injury, that they become eager for revenge, and so are forced to wish another’s harm. This is Wrath.

    This three-fold desire is lamented, below. Now, I want you to understand the other desires which aim towards love in an erroneous manner.

    Everyone vaguely apprehends a good, where the mind finds rest: and desires it: so everyone labours to attain it.

    If inadequate love draws you on to sight or attainment of that good, this terrace torments you for it, after just repentance. This is Sloth.

    There is another good, which does not make men happy: it is not happiness: it is not the essential good, the root and fruit of all goodness.

    The love that abandons itself to it, excessively, is lamented above us, on three terraces: but how it is separated into three divisions, I will not say, in order that you search it out for yourself.’

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:1-48 Virgil on the Nature of Love

    The high-minded teacher had ended his discourse, and was looking at my face, attentively, to see if I was satisfied, and I, who was tormented by a new thirst, was outwardly silent, but inwardly said: ‘Perhaps the extent of my questions annoys him.’ But that true father, who noticed the hesitant wish, that did not show itself, gave me courage to speak, by speaking himself.
    At which I said: ‘Master, my vision is so invigorated, by your light, that I understand, clearly, what all your reasoning means and describes. I beg you, therefore, sweet, dear father, to define Love for me, to which you reduce every good action and its opposite.’ He said: ‘Direct the keen eyes of the intellect towards me, and the error of the blind who make themselves their guides, will be apparent to you.

    The spirit, that is created ready for love, is moved by everything pleasing, as soon as it is stirred into action by pleasure.

    Your sensory faculties take an impression from real objects, and unfold it inside you, so that the spirit turns towards those objects. And if it is attracted to them, being turned, that attraction is Love: that is Nature, newly confirmed in you by pleasure.

    Then, as fire rises, because of its form, whose nature is to climb to where it can live longest in its fuel, so the mind, captured, enters into desire, which is a movement of the spirit, and never rests until the object of its love gives it joy.

    Now it may be apparent to you, how deeply truth is concealed from those people, who say that every act of love is praiseworthy in itself, since love’s material may always be good, perhaps, but every seal is not good, even though the wax is good.’

    I replied: ‘Your words, and my wits following you, have made Love clear to me, but it has made me more pregnant with doubts, since if Love is offered to us from outside ourselves, and the spirit has no other foot of her own to walk on, it is no merit of hers whether she walks straight or slantwise.’

    And he said to me: ‘I can tell you merely what Reason sees: beyond this point, wait only for Beatrice, since it is a question of Faith.’

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:49-75 Virgil on Freewill

    ‘Every living form, which is distinct from matter, but is united to it, has a specific virtue, contained in it, that is not seen except in its operation, or manifest except by what it effects, as life is manifest in a plant in the green leaves.
    Therefore human beings do not know where knowledge of primary sensations comes from, or attraction to the primary objects of appetite: they are in you, as the drive in bees to make honey: and this primary volition merits neither praise nor blame.

    Now, in order that every other volition may be related to this one, the virtue, which allows judgement, is innate in you, and ought to guard the threshold of assent. This is the source from which the cause of merit, in you, derives, according to how it gathers and sieves good and evil desires.

    Those who went to the foundations in their reasoning, recognised this innate freedom, and so left their Ethics to the world.

    Therefore, even if you suppose that every love, which burns in you, rises out of necessity, the power to control it is within you. Beatrice takes Freewill to be the noble virtue, so take care to have that in mind, if she sets herself to speak of it, to you.

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:76-111 The Slothful and their Punishment

    The moon, almost at midnight, shaped like a burning pail, made the stars appear fainter to us, and her track across the heavens, in the east, was on those paths, in Sagittarius, that the sun inflames, when in Rome they watch its setting between Sardinia and Corsica. And that noble shade, whose birthplace, Andes, is more renowned than any other Mantuan town, had laid down the burden I had put on him, so that I who had gathered clear, plain answers to my questions, stood like one who wanders, drowsily.
    But this drowsiness was suddenly snatched from me, by people who had already come round on us, from behind our backs. And just as the Rivers Ismenus and Asopus, saw, a furious rout, at night, along their banks, when the Thebans called on the help of Bacchus, so, along that terrace, quickening their steps, those were approaching, who, by what I saw of them, good will and just desire rode. They were soon upon us, since all that vast crowd was moving at a run, and two in front were shouting, tearfully: ‘Mary ran with haste to the hill country,’ and: ‘Caesar lanced Marseilles, and then raced to Spain, to subdue Lerida in Catalonia.’

    The rest shouted, after that: ‘Hurry! Hurry! Do not let time be wasted, through lack of love, so that labouring to do well may renew grace.’

    My guide said: ‘O people, in whom an eager fervour now makes good, perhaps, the negligence and tardiness shown by you, in being lukewarm at doing good, this one who lives wishes to climb, if the sun only shines for us again, and indeed I do not lie to you, so tell us where the ascent is nearest.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 18, 87

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:112-145 The Slothful: Examples of Sloth

    One of the spirits said: ‘Come behind us, and you will find the gully. We are so full of desire for speed, we cannot stay: so forgive us if you take our penance as an offence. I was the Abbot of San Zeno in Verona, under the rule of the good Barbarossa, of whom Milan still speaks with sorrow. And one I know, Alberto della Scala, who already has one foot in the grave, will soon mourn because of that monastery, and will be saddened at having held power there, because he has appointed his son there, Giuseppe, deformed in body, and more so in mind, and born of shame, instead of a true shepherd.
    I do not know if he said more, or was silent, he had raced so far beyond us, already, but I heard that and was pleased to remember it. And he who was my help when I needed it, said: ‘Turn this way, and see two that come, showing remorse at Sloth.’

    Last of them all, they cried: ‘The people for whom the Red Sea opened, were dead before Jordan saw their heirs,’ and: ‘Those who did not endure the labour with Aeneas, Anchises’s son, until the end, gave themselves to an inglorious fate.’

    Then a new thought rose in me, when those shadows were distant from us, so far they could no longer be seen, from which many other diverse thoughts sprang: and I wandered so much, from one to another, that I closed my eyes in wandering, and transmuted thought to dream.’

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:1-36 Dante’s Second Dream: The Siren

    In the hour, before dawn, when the day’s heat, lost by Earth, or quenched by Saturn, no longer offsets the moon’s coldness; when the geomancers see their Fortuna Major, formed of the last stars of Aquarius, and the first of Pisces, rise in the east, on a path which is only dark for a little while, a stuttering woman, came to me in a dream, her eyes squinting, her feet crippled, with maimed hands, and sallow aspect. I gazed at her, and my look readied her tongue, and straightened her completely, in a few moments, as the sun comforts the cold limbs that night weighs down, and her pale face coloured, as love wills.
    When her tongue was freed, she began to sing, so that I could hardly turn my attention away. ‘I am,’ she sang, ‘I am the sweet Siren: I am so pleasing to hear that I lead seamen astray, in mid-ocean. With my song, I turned Ulysses from his wandering path, and whoever rests with me, rarely leaves, I satisfy him so completely.’ Her lips had barely closed, when a lady appeared, near me, saintly and ready to put her to confusion. She said, angrily: ‘O Virgil, Virgil what is this?’ And he came, with his eyes fixed on that honest one.

    He seized the Siren, and, ripping her clothes, revealed her front, and showed me her belly, that woke me with the stench that came from it. I turned my eyes away, and the good Virgil said: ‘I have called you at least three times, rise and come with me, let us find the opening by which you may climb.’

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:37-69 The Angel of Zeal: The Fourth Beatitude

    I rose, and all the circles of the holy mountain were now filled with the high day, and we went with the new sun at our backs. I was following him, with my forehead wrinkled like someone burdened by thought, and who makes half a bridge’s arch of his body, when I heard words, spoken, in so gentle and kind a voice, as is not heard in this mortal world: ‘Come, here is the pass.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 19, 51

    He, who spoke to us, directed us upwards, between two walls of solid stone, with his outspread wings, that seemed like a swan’s. Then he stirred his feathers, and fanned us, affirming that they who mourn, qui lugent, are blessed, whose spirits shall be richly consoled.

    My guide began to speak to me, both of us having climbed a little higher than the Angel: ‘What is wrong with you, that you are always staring at the ground?’ And I: ‘A strange dream, that draws me towards it, so that I cannot stop thinking of it, makes me go in such dread.’ He said: ‘Did you see, that ancient witch, through whom alone those above us now weep? Did you see how man escapes from her? Let that be enough for you, and spurn the Earth with your heels, turn your eyes towards the lure, that the King of Eternity spins, in the great spheres.’

    I became like a falcon, that, at first, is gazing at his feet, then turns at the call, and spreads his wings, with longing for the food, that draws him towards it, and so I went, as far as the rock is split, to allow passage, to him who climbs up, to where the terrace begins.

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:70-114 The Avaricious: Pope Adrian V

    When I was in the open, in the fifth circle, I saw people around it, lying on the ground, who wept, all turned face downwards. I heard them say: ‘Adhaesit pavimento anima mea, my soul cleaveth unto the dust’ with such deep sighing the words were hardly understood. ‘O God’s elect, whose sufferings justice and hope make easier, direct us towards the high ascents.’ So the poet prayed, and so, a little in front of us, there was an answer: ‘If you come longing to find the quickest way, and are safe from having to lie prostrate, let your right hand be always towards the outer edge.’ At that I noted what was hidden in the words, and turned my eyes towards my lord, at which he gave assent, with a sign of pleasure, to what my look of longing desired.
    When I was free to do what my mind wished, I went forward, standing over that creature whose previous words made me note them, saying: ‘Spirit, delay your greater business, a while, for me, you, in whom weeping ripens that without which one cannot turn towards God. If you would have me obtain anything for you, over there, where I come from, living, tell me, who you are, and why you have your backs turned upwards.’

    And he to me: ‘You will know why Heaven turns our backs towards it, but first scias quod ego fui successor Petri: know that I was Pope Adrian V, a successor of Peter. A fair river, the Lavagna, flows down to the Gulf of Genoa, between Sestri and Chiaveri, and my people’s title takes its name from it.

    For little more than a month, I learnt how the great mantle weighs on him, who keeps it out of the mire, so much so, that all other burdens seem light as feathers. Alas, my conversion was late, but when I was made Pastor of Rome, then I discovered the false life. I saw that the heart was not at peace there, nor could one climb higher in that life: so that love of this one was kindled in me. Until that moment I was a wholly avaricious spirit, wretched, and parted from God: now, as you see, here, I am punished for it.’

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:115-145 The Avaricious: Their Punishment

    ‘Here, what Avarice does is declared, in the purgation of the down-turned spirits, and the Mount has no bitterer penalty. Just as our eyes did not lift themselves up to the heights, but were fixed on earthly things, so here justice has sunk them towards the earth. Just as Avarice killed our love for all good, so that our efforts were lost, so here justice holds us fast, taken and bound, by hands and feet, and as long as it is the good Lord’s pleasure, we will lie here outstretched and unmoving.’
    I had knelt, and was about to speak, but he detected my reverence, merely by listening, and as I began, he said: ‘Why do you bend your knees?’ And I to him: ‘My conscience pricked me, for standing, knowing your high office.’ He answered: ‘Straighten your legs, and rise, brother: do not err: I am a fellow servant, of the one Power, with you and the others. If you ever understood the words of the holy gospel, neque nubent, there ‘they neither marry nor are given in marriage’ you will understand, clearly, why I say so.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 19, 131

    Now go: I do not wish you to stay longer, since your remaining disturbs my weeping, by means of which I ripen what you spoke of. I have a niece, Alagia by name, over there, who is good in herself, if only our house does not make her evil by example, and she is the only one left to me, over there.’

    Purgatorio Canto XX:1-42 Examples of Poverty and Liberality

    The will fights ill against a finer will: so, to please him, but against my pleasure, I drew the unsaturated sponge from the water. I went on, and my leader went on, also, through the free space, along the rock, as you go by the wall close to the battlements, because those people, who distil, from their eyes, drop by drop, the evil that fills the whole world, were too close to the edge for us to pass on the other side.
    Accursed be you, Avarice, ancient she-wolf, who, to satisfy your endless hunger, take more prey than any other beast! O Heaven, by whose circling, it appears to be believed, conditions down here are altered, when will one come by whose actions Avarice will vanish?

    We journeyed on, with slow, meagre paces, and I paying attention to the spirits, that I heard weeping piteously, and complaining: and, by chance, I heard one calling, tearfully, in front of us: ‘Sweet Maria’, like a woman in labour, and continuing to speak: ‘you were so poverty-stricken as can be seen by that inn where you laid down your sacred burden.’

    Following that I heard: ‘O good Caius Fabricius, you wished to possess virtue in poverty, rather than great riches with vice.’ These words were so pleasing to me that I moved forward, to make contact with the spirit, from whom they seemed to emerge.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 20, 17

    It went on to speak of the gifts, that Bishop Nicholas gave to the young girls, to lead their youth towards honour.

    I said: ‘O spirit, who speaks of good so much, tell me who you are, and why you alone repeat this praise of worthiness? If I return, to complete the short space of a life that flies to its end, you words will not be un-rewarded.’ And he: ‘I will tell you, not because I expect any comfort from over there, but because so much grace shines in you before your death.’

    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96 Hugh Capet and the Capetian Dynasty

    ‘I was the root of the evil tree, that overshadows all Christian countries, so that good fruit is rarely obtained there. But if Douay, Lille, Ghent and Bruges can, they will soon take revenge on it, and I beg this of Him who judges all. I was called Hugh Capet, over there: from me the ‘Philip’s and ‘Louis’s derive by whom France is ruled of late.
    I was the son of a Paris butcher. When the line of ancient kings was ended, except for one who was clothed in the grey robe, I found the reins of the kingdom’s government held tight in my hands, and had so much power in new acquisitions, and was so rich in friends that the widowed crown was placed on my son’s head, he, with whom the Capetian dynasty’s consecrated bones begin.

    Before the dowry of Provence, took away all sense of shame from my race, the line was worth little, but did little harm. Its rapaciousness began there in force and fraud, and then to make amends, Ponthieu, Normandy and Gascony were seized. Charles of Anjou came to Italy, and to make amends, made a victim of Conradin: and then sent Thomas Aquinas back to heaven, to make amends.

    I see a time, not far distant from now, that will bring another Charles, of Valois, out of France, rendering him and his people better known. He comes alone, without an army, and with the lance of treachery Judas jousted with, and couches it so as to make the guts of Florence spill. From that he will gather sin and shame, not land, so much the more grave for him, because he treats such wrongs so lightly.

    I see the other Charles, the Lame, who was once taken captive in his ship, selling his daughter Beatrice, and haggling over her, as pirates do over other hostages. O Avarice, who more can you do to us, since you have so attracted my tribe to you, that it does not care about its own flesh and blood?

    To make the ill that is past and to come, seem lesser, I see the fleur-de-lys enter Anagni, and Christ taken captive in the person of Boniface, his Vicar. I see him mocked for a second time: I see the gall and vinegar renewed, and see him killed, between living thieves. I see the new Pilate, Philip the Fourth, acting so cruelly, that even this does not satisfy him, but he must carry his sails of greed, lawlessly, against the Temple. O my Lord, when will I rejoice to see the sweet vengeance, which, hidden, your anger forms in secrecy?’

    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151 Examples of Avarice: The Earthquake

    ‘What I was saying, concerning the only Bride of the Holy Spirit, that made you turn towards me for explanation, such is the burden of all our prayers as long as daylight lasts, but when the night comes, we adopt a different strain instead.
    Then we rehearse the history of Dido’s brother Pygmalion, whose insatiable lust for gold made him traitor, thief and parricide, and avaricious Midas’s misery, that followed on his greedy wish, for which he must always be derided.

    Then each remembers foolish Achan, who stole the consecrated treasure, so that Joshua’s anger still seems here to rend him.

    Then we accuse Sapphira and Ananias her husband; we praise the kicks from the hooves that struck Heliodorus: and the whole Mount echoes with the infamy of Polymnestor who murdered Polydorus.

    Last of all, here, we cry out: “Crassus, tell us, since you know, what does gold taste like?”

    Sometimes one speaks high and another low, now with greater or lesser force, according to the impulse prompting us to speak: so I was not alone, before, in speaking of the good, as we do, by day, but no one else was raising his voice near here.’

    We had already left him, and were labouring to conquer the path, as far as it was in our power to do, when I felt the mountain tremble, like something falling, at which a coldness seized me, as it seizes him who goes to death. Surely Delos was not shaken as violently, before Latona, there, made her nest give birth to the twin eyes of Heaven.

    Then a shout went up on every side, so that the Master drew near me, saying: ‘Have no fear, while I am your guide.’ All were saying: ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo: Glory to God in the highest,’ from what I understood of those nearby, whose words I could hear. We stood, immobile, still as those shepherds who first heard that hymn, till it ceased when the quake ended. Then we took up our holy path again, gazing at the spirits lying on the ground, already returned to their usual laments.

    If my memory makes no mistake in this, no lack of knowledge ever assaulted me with such a desire to know, as I appeared to feel then, as I reflected, and because of our haste, I was not keen to ask, nor could I see any cause for it there, myself: so I went on, fearful, and thoughtful.

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33 The Poets meet Statius

    The natural thirst for knowledge that is never quenched, except by that water’s grace the woman of Samaria asked for, troubled me, and haste was driving me along the impeded path behind my leader, and I was grieving at the spirits’ just punishment, and behold, just as Luke writes that Christ, already risen from the mouth of the tomb, appeared to two who were on the road, so a shade appeared to us, and came on behind gazing at the prostrate crowd at its feet, and we did not see it until it spoke, saying: ‘My brothers, God give you peace.’ We turned quickly, and Virgil gave the appropriate sign in reply, then said: ‘May the true Court, that holds me in eternal exile, bring you in peace to the Council of the Blessed.’
    As we went forward, strongly, the spirit said: ‘How is this: if you are shadows that God does not allow here above, who has escorted you as far as this, by his stairways?’ And my teacher said: ‘If you look at the marks this man carries on his forehead, and which the Angel traced, you will see clearly that it is right for him to reign among the good. But since Lachesis, she who spins, night and day, had not yet drawn out the thread, fully, that Clotho places and winds on the distaff, for each of us, his soul which is sister to yours and mine, coming up here, could not come alone, since it does not understand as we do: so I was sent from the wide jaws of Hell to guide him, and as far as my knowledge can lead, I will guide him upwards.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:34-75 The Cause of the Earthquake

    ‘But, if you know, tell us why the Mount shook so much before, and why everyone appeared to shout with one voice, right down to its soft base.’ So by asking he threaded the true needle’s eye of my wish, and my thirst was less fierce through hope alone.
    That spirit began: The sacred rule of the mountain allows nothing without purpose, or beyond what is customary. Here we are free from earthly changes: Here, what Heaven accepts from its own self can operate as a cause, nothing else: and rain, hail, snow, dew, and frost cannot fall higher than the brief stair with three steps. Thin or dense cloud does not appear, nor lightning, nor the rainbow, Iris, Thaumas’s daughter, who over there often changes zone. Dry vapours rise no higher than the top of the three steps I spoke of, where Peter’s vicar has his feet.

    Perhaps it trembles lower down, more or less, because of the winds hidden underground, I do not know, it never trembles here. Here it quakes when some soul feels itself purged so that it can rise, or set out to soar above, and such shouting follows it. The will alone gives evidence of the purging, seizing the soul, completely free to change her convent, and helping her in willing. True, she had will before, but the eagerness that Divine Justice creates for the punishment, where before there was eagerness for the sin, counters the will, inhibiting it.

    And, only now, I, who have undergone this torment for five hundred years and more, feel free will towards a better threshold. So, you felt the earthquake, and heard the pious souls around the mountain render praise to the Lord, that he might soon send them above.’

    So he spoke to us, and since we enjoy the drink more, the greater the thirst we have, I could not convey how much he refreshed me.

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:76-136 Statius and Virgil

    And the wise leader said: ‘Now, I see the net that traps you here, and how one breaks through it; why the mountain quakes; and why you rejoice together at it. Now may it please you to tell me who you are, and let me learn from your words, why you have been here so many centuries.’
    The spirit answered: ‘When the good Titus, with the help of Heaven’s King, avenged the wounds, from which the blood, that Judas sold, issued, I was famous, with the name of poet, that endures longest, and gives most honour, but not yet of the faith. The music of my words was so sweet, that Rome drew me, from Toulouse, to herself, where I merited a myrtle crown for my forehead. The people, there, still call me Statius: I sang of Thebes, and then of great Achilles: but I fell by the wayside with the second burden.

    The sparks that warmed me, from the divine flame, which has kindled more than a thousand fires, were the seeds of my poetic ardour: I talk of the Aeneid, that was a mother to me, and a poetic nurse, without which I would not have been worth a drachm. And I would agree to endure one sun more than I owe, before coming out of exile, to have lived over there when Virgil was alive.’

    These words made Virgil turn towards me with a silent look that said: ‘Be silent.’ But the virtue that wills is not all-powerful, since laughter and tears follow the passion, from which they spring, so closely, that, in the most truthful, they obey the will least. I merely smiled, like someone who signals, at which the shade fell silent, and looked me in the eyes, where the soul is most present. And he said: ‘So that great effort might achieve its aim, say why your face just now showed me a flash of laughter?’

    Now I am caught on both sides: one forces me to stay silent, the other demands I speak: at which I sigh, and am understood by my master, and he says to me: ‘Do not be afraid to speak, but speak and tell him what he asks with such great desire.’ At which I said: ‘Ancient spirit, perhaps you wonder at the laugh I gave, but I wish a greater wonder to seize you. He, who leads my vision on high, is that Virgil from whom you derived the power to sing of men and gods. If you think there was any other reason for my laughter, set it aside as untrue, and believe it was the words you spoke about him.’

    He was already stooping to embrace my teacher’s ankles: but Virgil said: ‘Brother, do not, since you are a shadow, and it is a shadow that you see.’ And Statius, rising, said: ‘Now you can understand the depth of love that warms me towards you, when I forget our nothingness, and treat shadows as solid things.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:1-24 The Angel of Liberality: The Fifth Beatitude

    The Angel was already left behind, the Angel who had directed us to the sixth circle, having erased the mark from my forehead, saying that those whose desire is for righteousness are blessed, and accomplishing it with the word sitiunt, ‘they thirst’, and nothing more.
    And I went on, lighter than when I left the other stairways, so that I was following the swift souls upwards, without effort, when Virgil began to speak, to Statius: ‘Love, fired by virtue, has always fired further love, when its flame has been revealed. From that moment when Juvenal descended amongst us in the Limbo of Hell, and made your affection known to me, my good will towards you has been more than has ever tied anyone to an unseen person, so that this stairway will seem short to me.

    But tell me, now, and, if too great a confidence looses the reins, forgive me, as a friend, and speak to me, as a friend: ‘How could Avarice find a place in your heart, amongst such wisdom as you were filled with, by your efforts?’

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:25-54 Statius’s error was Prodigality not Avarice

    These words, at first, moved Statius to smile a little, then he answered: ‘Every word of yours is a precious mark of affection to me. In truth, things often appear that provide false food for doubt, because of the true reasons that are hidden. Your question shows me that you thought I was avaricious in the other life, perhaps because of the terrace you found me on. Know now that Avarice was too far distant from me, and my excess, in the other direction, thousands of moons have punished. And I would feel the grievous butting, where they roll the weights in Hell, had I not straightened out my inclinations, when I noted the lines in your Aeneid where you, as if angered against human nature, exclaimed: ‘O sacred hunger for gold, why do you not rule human appetite?’ Then I saw that our hands could open too far, in spending, and I repented of that as well as other sins.
    How many will rise with shorn heads, through ignorance, which prevents repentance for this sin, in life and at the last hour? And know that the offence that counters the sin with its direct opposite, here, together with it, withers its growth. So, if I, to purge myself, have been among those people who lament their Avarice, it has happened to me, because of its contrary.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93 Statius’s Conversion to Christianity

    Virgil, the singer of the pastoral songs, said: ‘Now, when you sang, in your Thebaid, of the savage warfare between Jocasta’s twin sorrows, from the pagan nature of what Clio touches on there, with you, it seems that Faith, without which goodness is insufficient, had not yet made you faithful. If that is so, what sunlight or candlelight illuminated the darkness for you, so that after it you set sail to follow the Fisherman?’
    And he replied: ‘You first sent me towards Parnassus, to drink in its caverns, and then lit me on towards God. You did what he does who travels by night, and carries a lamp behind him, that does not help him, but makes those who follow him, wise, when you said: ‘The Earth renews: Justice returns, and the first Age of Mankind: and a new race descends from Heaven.’

    I was a poet, through you, a Christian, through you, but so you may see what I outline more clearly, I will extend my hand to paint it in. The whole world was already pregnant with true belief, seeded by the messengers of the eternal kingdom, and your words, mentioned above, were so in harmony with the new priests, that I took to visiting them. Then they came to seem so holy to me, that when Domitian persecuted them, their sighs were combined with tears of mine. And I aided them, while I trod the earth over there, and their honest customs made me scorn all other sects, and I received baptism, before I had got the Greeks to the rivers of Thebes in my poem, but was a secret Christian out of fear, pretending to Paganism for a long while: and this diffidence sent me round the fourth terrace, for more than four centuries.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114 The Pagans in Limbo

    ‘Now you, who lifted the veil that hid me from the great good I speak of, when we have time to spare from the climb, tell me where the ancients, Terence, Caecilius, Plautus and Varro are, if you know: say if they are damned, and in what circle.’ My leader answered: ‘They, and I, and Persius, and many others, are with that Greek whom the Muses nursed above all others, in the first circle of the dark gaol. We often speak of the mountain that always holds the goddesses, our foster-mothers.
    Euripides and Antiphon are there with us, Simonides, Agathon, and many other Greeks who once covered their foreheads with laurel. Of the people celebrated in your poems, Antigone, Deiphyle, and Argia are seen, and Ismene, as sad as she was. There Hypsipyle, is visible, who showed the fountain, Langia. Tiresias’s daughter is there, and Thetis, and Deidamia with her sisters.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:115-154 Examples of Temperance

    Now both the poets were silent, newly intent on looking round, free of the ascent and the walls, and four handmaidens of the day were already left behind, and the fifth was by the pole of the sun’s chariot, which still had its fiery tip slanted upwards, when my leader said: ‘I think we must turn our right shoulders towards the edge, and circle the mountain as we did before.’ So custom was our guide, even there, and we followed the way with less uncertainty, because of the other noble spirit’s assent.
    They went on in front, and I, alone, behind: and I listened to their conversation, which increased my understanding of poetry. But soon the sweet dialogue was interrupted, by our finding a tree, in the middle of the road, with wholesome, and pleasant smelling fruit. And as a pine tree grows so that its branches lessen as the trunk goes upwards, so that did downwards: I think so that no one can climb up. On the side where our way was blocked, a clear stream fell from the high cliff, and spread itself over the canopy above.

    The two poets went near to the tree, and a voice inside the leaves cried: ‘Be chary of this food,’ and then it said: ‘Mary thought more about how the marriage-feast might be made honourable, and complete, than of her own mouth, which now intercedes for you all. And the Roman women in ancient times were content to drink water: and Daniel despised food and gained wisdom. The First Age was beautiful, like gold: it made acorns tasty, to the hungry, and every stream, nectar, to the thirsty. Honey and locusts were the meat that fed John the Baptist in the desert, and so he is glorious and great, as the Gospel shows you.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:1-36 The Gluttonous and their Punishment

    While I was gazing through the green leaves, like a man does who wastes his life chasing wild birds, my more-than-father said to me: ‘Son, come on now, since the time we have been given must be spent more usefully.’ I turned my face, and my steps as quickly, towards the wise pair, who were talking; making it no penalty to me to go.
    And ‘Labia mea Domine: O Lord open thou my lips,’ was heard, in singing and weeping, producing joy and pain. I began to speak: ‘O sweet father, what do I hear?’ And he: ‘Shadows who perhaps go freeing the knot of their debts.’ Just as thoughtful travellers, who pass people unknown to them on the road, turn to look, but do not stop, so a crowd of spirits, coming on more quickly behind us, passed us by, silent and devout, gazing at us.

    Their eyes were all dark and cavernous, their faces pale, and so wasted that the skin took shape from the bone. I cannot believe Erysichthon was as withered to the skin by hunger, even when he felt it most. I said in my inward thought: ‘See, the people who lost Jerusalem at the time when the woman, Mary, devoured her own child.’

    The sockets of their eyes seemed gem-less rings: those who see the letters ‘omo’ in a man’s face, would clearly have distinguished the ‘m’ there. Who, if they did not know the cause, would believe that merely the scent of fruit and water had created this, by creating desire?

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:37-90 Forese Donati

    I was still wondering what famished them, since the reason for their leanness, and their skin’s sad scurf, was not obvious yet, when a shadow turned its eyes towards me from the hollows of its head, and stared fixedly, then cried out loudly: ‘What grace is this, shown to me?’ I would never have recognised him by his face, but what was extinguished in his aspect, was revealed by his voice. This spark kindled the memory in me of the altered features, and I recognised Forese’s face.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 23, 47

    ‘Oh, do not stare at the dry leprosy that stains my skin,’ he begged, ‘nor at any lack of flesh I may have, but tell me truly about yourself, and who those two spirits are there, who escort you: do not stop without speaking to me.’ I replied: ‘Your face I once wept over at your death, gives me no less grief now, even to weeping, seeing it so tortured. Then tell me, in the name of God, what strips you of flesh: do not make me speak while I am wondering, since he talks badly who is filled with another longing.’

    And he to me: ‘A power flows down, into the water, and into the tree we have left behind, from the Eternal Will, the cause of my wasting. All these people who weep and sing, purify themselves again, through hunger and thirst, for having followed Gluttony to excess. The perfume that rises from the fruit, and from the spray that spreads over the leaves, kindles, in us, the desire to eat and drink. And our pain is not merely renewed the once as we circle this road: I say pain, but ought to say solace, since that desire leads us to the tree which led Christ to say ‘Eli’, when he freed us with his blood.’

    And I said to him: ‘Forese, less than five years have revolved since the day when you left the world for a better life. If the power to sin ended in you before the hour of sacred sorrow came, that marries us again to God, how have you come here? I thought I would still find you below, where time is repaid, for time alive.’ And he to me: ‘My Nella, by her river of tears, has enabled me, so soon, to drink the sweet wormwood of affliction: by her devout prayers and her sighs she has drawn me from the shores of waiting, and freed me from the other terraces.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:91-133 The Immodesty of the Florentine Women

    ‘My widow, whom I loved deeply, is the more precious and dear to God the more solitary she is in her good works, since the savage women of mountainous Barbagia in Sardinia are far more modest, than those of that Barbagia, Florence, where I left her. O sweet brother, what would you have me say? Already I foresee a time to come, to which this time will not be too distant, when, from the pulpits, the brazen women of Florence will be forbidden to go round displaying their breasts and nipples.
    When was there ever a Saracen woman, or woman of Barbary, who needed disciplining spiritually or otherwise, to force her to cover herself? But the shameless creatures would already have their mouths open to howl, if they realised what swift Heaven is readying for them, since, if prophetic vision does not deceive me, they will be crying before he, who is now calmed with a lullaby, covers his cheeks with soft down.

    Brother, I beg you, do not hide your state from me any longer: you see that all these people, not only I, are gazing at where you veil the sun.’ At which I said to him: ‘If you recall to mind what you have been with me, and I have been with you, the present memory alone will still be heavy. He who goes in front of me, turned me from that life, the other day, when the Moon, the sister of that Sun, shone full for you,’ (and I pointed to the sun).

    ‘This one has led me through the deep night, from the truly dead, in this true flesh, that follows him. From there his companionship has brought me, climbing and circling the mountain, which straightens you, whom the world made crooked.

    He speaks of my being his comrade, till I am there where Beatrice is: there I must remain without him. Virgil it is who tells me so (and I pointed to him), and this other shade is one for whom every cliff of your region, that now frees him from itself, shook, before.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:1-33 The Gluttonous

    Speech did not make the journey go more slowly, nor the journey speech, but we went strongly, like a ship driven by a favourable wind. And the shades, that seemed doubly dead, drew their amazement from me through the pits of their eyes, knowing I lived.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 24, 4

    And I, continuing my conversation, said: ‘Perhaps Statius climbs more slowly than he might, because of the other. But tell me where Piccarda is, if you know: tell me if I can see anyone of note, amongst the people who stare at me.’ He said, first: ‘My sister – I do not know if she was more beautiful or more good – now triumphs, rejoicing in her crown on high Olympus,’ and then: ‘It is not forbidden to name anyone here, since our features are so shrivelled by hunger.

    This (and he pointed with his finger) is Bonagiunta, Bonagiunta of Lucca: and that face beyond him, leaner than the rest, is Martin, who held the Holy Church in his embrace: he was from Tours, and purges the eels of Bolsena, and the sweet wine.’

    He named many others to me, one by one, and all seemed pleased to be named, so that I did not see a single black look. I saw Ubaldino della Pila, snapping his teeth on the void, out of hunger, and Bonifazio who was pastor to many peoples with his crozier. I saw Messer Marchese, who had time before, at Forlì, to drink, with less reason for thirst, and yet was such that he was never sated.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:34-99 Bonagiunta

    But like he who looks, and then values one more than another, so I did him of Lucca, who seemed to know me. He was murmuring, what sounded like ‘Gentucca’, there where he was undergoing the wounds of justice, which pares them so. I said: ‘O spirit, who seem longing to talk with me, speak so that I can understand you, and satisfy us both with your speech.’ He began: ‘A woman is born, and is not yet married, who will make my city pleasing to you, however men may reprove the fact. You will go from here with that prophecy: if you have understood my murmuring wrongly, the real events will yet make it clear to you.
    But tell me if, here, I see him who invented the new verse beginning: “Donne, ch’avete intelletto d’Amore: Ladies, who have knowledge of Love.” ’ And I to him: ‘I am one who, when Love inspires him, takes note, and then, writes it in the way he dictates within.’ He said: ‘Brother, O I see, now, the knot that held back Jacopo da Lentino, Fra Guittone, and me, from the dolce stil nuovo, the new sweet style I hear. Truly, I can see how your pens closely follow him who dictates, which certainly was not true of ours. And he who sets out to search any further, cannot distinguish one style from the other,’ and he fell silent, as if satisfied.

    As birds that winter on the Nile, sometimes crowd into the air, then fly more quickly and in files, so all the people there, turning round, quickened their steps, made swift by leanness and longing. And as someone tired of running lets his companions go by, and walks, until the heaving of his chest has eased, so Forese let the sacred flock pass, and came on behind them, with me, saying: ‘When will I see you again?’

    I answered him: ‘I do not know how long I may live, but my return will not be soon enough for my longing not to be before me, at the shore, since the place appointed for me there, is, day by day, more naked of good, and seems condemned to sad ruin.’ Now go, he said, for I see him, who is most guilty, Corso Donati, dragged at the tail of a beast towards the valley where sin is never purged. The beast goes faster at every pace, ever increasing, until it smashes him, and leaves his body vilely broken.

    Those gyres above (and he lifted his eyes towards the sky) do not have long to turn before what my words may no longer say is clear to you. Now stay behind, since time is precious in this region, and I lose too much of it, matching my pace to yours.’ He left us, with greater strides, as a horseman sometimes issues at a gallop from a troop riding past, and goes to win the honour of the first encounter: and I was left by the road, with the two who were such great marshals in the world.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:100-154 Examples of Gluttony: The Angel

    And when he had gone so far in front of us that my eyes chased after him, as my mind did his words, the green and laden boughs of another fruit-tree appeared, and not far off, since I had just come round to it. I saw people under it lifting their hands, and calling out to the leaves, like spoilt, greedy, children begging, and the one they plead with does not reply, but holds up high what they want, and does not hide it, to make their longing more acute.
    Then they went away, undeceived, and now, we came, to that great tree that denies all those prayers and tears. ‘Go on, without coming near: higher up there is a tree that Eve ate from, and this was grafted from it.’ So a voice spoke, among the branches: at which Virgil, Statius, and I went on by the cliff side. It said: ‘Remember the accursed Centaurs formed in the clouds, who fought Theseus, with their bi-formed bellies sated with food and wine: and remember the Hebrews who appeared fastidious when drinking, so that Gideon would not have them for his comrades when he came down from the hills to Midian.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 24, 112

    So we passed, close to one of the two sides, hearing sins of Gluttony, followed once by woeful victories. Then, a thousand steps or more took us forwards, scattered along the empty road, each reflecting in silence.

    ‘What do you journey considering so deeply, you solitary three?’ a voice said suddenly, so that I started, as timid creatures do when scared. I lifted my head to see who it was, and glass or metal was never seen as red and glowing in a furnace as the one I saw, who said: ‘If it please you to climb, here you must turn: they go from here, who wish to journey towards peace.’

    His face had robbed me of sight, so I turned back towards my teachers, like one who follows the instructions he hears. And, as the May breeze, announcing the dawn, moves and breathes, impregnated with herbs and flowers, so I felt a wind on my forehead, and I clearly felt the feathers move, that blew an ambrosial perfume to my senses: and I heard a voice say: ‘Blessed are those who are so illumined by grace, that the love of sensation does not fire too great a desire in their hearts, and who only hunger for what is just.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXV:1-79 Human Embryology and Consciousness

    It was an hour when nothing prevented our climbing, since the Sun had relinquished the meridian circle to Taurus, while night held Scorpio. So we entered the gap, one behind the other, climbing the stair, whose narrowness separates the climbers, as men do who do not stop, but go on, whatever happens to them, when the spur of necessity pricks them. And like the young stork that raises its wing, wanting to fly, and drops it again, not daring to leave the nest, so my longing to question was lit and quenched, getting as far as the movement one makes when preparing to speak.
    My sweet father did not stop, even though the pace was quick, but said: ‘Fire the arrow of your speech, that you have drawn to the notch.’ Then I opened my mouth confidently, and began: ‘How can one become lean, there, when food is unnecessary?’ He said: ‘If you recall how Meleager wasted away, as the firebrand was consumed, it would not seem so hard for you to understand: or if you thought how your insubstantial image, in the mirror, moves with your every movement, what seems hard would seem easy to you. But in order for you to satisfy your desire, Statius is here, and I call on him, and beg him, to heal your wounds.’

    Statius replied: ‘If I explain the eternal justice he has seen, even though you are here, let my excuse be that I cannot refuse you anything.’ Then he began: ‘Son, if your mind listens to and considers my words, they will enlighten you about what you ask.

    Perfect blood, which is never absorbed by the thirsty veins, and remains behind, like food you remove from the table, acquires a power in the heart sufficient to invigorate all the members, as does the blood that flows through the veins to become those members. Absorbed again it falls to the part, of which it is more fitting to be silent than speak, and, from that part, is afterwards distilled into the partner’s blood, in nature’s vessel. There one blood is mingled with the other’s: one disposed to be passive, the other active because of the perfect place it springs from: and mixed with the former, begins to work, first coagulating, then giving life, to what is has formed for its own material.

    The active power having become a spirit, like a plant’s, different in that it is developing, while the plant’s is developed, now operates so widely that it moves and feels, like a sea-sponge, and then begins to develop organs, as sites for the powers of which it is the seed. Now, son, the power that flows from the heart of the begetter, expands, and distends, into human members as nature intends: but you do not yet understand how it becomes human, from being animal: this is the point which made one wiser than you, Averroës, err, so that he made the intellectual faculty separate from the spirit, because he found no organ that it occupied.

    Open your mind to the truth which follows, and understand that as soon as the structure of the brain is complete in the embryo, the First Mover turns to it, delighting in such a work of nature, and breathes a new spirit into it, filled with virtue, that draws into its own substance what it finds already active, and forms a single soul, that lives and feels, and is conscious of itself. And so that you wonder less at my words, consider the heat of the sun, which becomes wine when joined to the juice of the grape.

    Purgatorio Canto XXV:80-108 The Soul after death: The Shadows

    And when Lachesis has no more thread to draw, the soul frees itself from the flesh, taking both the human and divine powers: the other faculties falling silent: memory, intellect, and will far keener in action than they were before. It falls, by itself, wondrously, without waiting, to one of these shores: there it first learns its location.
    As soon as that place encircles it, the formative power radiates round, in quantity and form as in the living members: and as saturated air displays diverse colours, by the light of another body reflected in it, so the surrounding air takes on that form that the soul, which rests there, powerfully prints on it: and then, like the flame that follows fire wherever it moves, the spirit is followed by its new form.

    Since it is in this way that it takes its appearance, it is called a shadow: and in this way it shapes the organs of every sense including sight. In this way we speak, and laugh, form tears, and sighs, which you might have heard, around the mountain. The shade is shaped according to how desires and other affections stir us, and this is the cause of what you wondered at.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXV:109-139 The Lustful and their Punishment

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 25, 107

    And now we had reached the last turn, and had wheeled round to the right, and were conscious of other things. There the cliff hurls out flames, and the terrace breathes a blast upwards that reflects them, and keeps the path free of them, so that we had to go by the side that was clear, one by one: and I feared the fire on one side, and on the other feared the fall. My leader said: ‘Along this track, a careful watch must be kept, because an error can easily be made.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 25, 117

    I heard: ‘Summae Deus clementiae: God of supreme mercy’ sung then, in the heart of the great burning, that made me no less keen to turn away: and I saw spirits walking through the flames, so that I looked at them, and at my steps, with a divergent gaze, from time to time. After the end of that hymn, they shouted aloud: ‘Virum non cognosco: I know not a man,’ then they softly recommenced the hymn. At the end they shouted again: ‘Diana kept to the woods, and chased Callisto away, who had known the taint of Venus.’

    Then they returned to singing: then cried the names of women and husbands who were chaste, as virtue and marriage demand. And I believe this mode is sufficient for the whole time that the fire burns them: the last wound must be healed, by this treatment, and this diet.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 25, 119

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:1-66 The Lustful

    While we were going along the brink, like this, one behind the other, the good Master often said: ‘Take care, let me caution you.’ The sun was striking my shoulder, his rays already changing the whole aspect of the west from azure to white, and I made the flames appear redder in my shadow, and many spirits I saw, noted, even so slight a sign, as they passed. This was the cause that gave them a reason to speak about me, and they began to say, one to another: ‘He does not seem to be an insubstantial body.’
    Then some of them made towards me, as far as they could, always careful not to emerge, to where they would be no longer burning. ‘O you who go behind the others, perhaps out of reverence not tardiness, answer me who burn in thirst and fire: and your reply is needed not by me alone, since all these thirst for it, more than Indians or Ethiopians do for water. Tell us how it is that you make a wall against the sunlight, as if you were not held in death’s net.’ So one of them spoke to me, and I would have revealed myself then and there, had I not been intent on something strange that appeared, since people were coming through the middle of the fiery road, their faces opposite these people, and it made me pause, in wonder.

    There I see, each shadow hurry to kiss someone on the other side, without staying, satisfied by a short greeting: ants, in their dark battalions, embrace each other like this, perhaps to know their path and their luck. As soon as they break off the friendly clasp, before the first step sends them onwards, each one tries to shout the loudest: the newcomers: ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ and the others: ‘Pasiphaë enters the wooden cow, so that the young bull may run to meet her lust.’

    Then like cranes that fly, some to the northern mountains, others towards the desert: the latter shy of frost, the former of the sun: so one crowd passes on, and the other comes past, and they return, weeping, to their previous singing, and to the cries most suitable to them: and those same voices that entreated me, before, drew closer to me, showing their desire to listen, in their aspect.

    I who had seen this desire, twice, began: ‘O spirits, certain, sometime, of reaching a state of peace, my limbs have not remained over there, green or ripe in age, but are here, with me, with all their blood and sinews. I go upwards from here, in order to be blind no longer: there is a lady there above who wins grace for us, by means of which I bring my mortal body through your world. But – and may your desires be satisfied quickly, and Heaven house you, which stretches furthest, filled with love – tell me who you are, so that I may write it on paper, and who that crowd are, vanishing behind your backs?’

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:67-111 Guido Guinicelli, the poet

    Each shadow in appearance seemed as troubled as the dazed mountain man becomes, when he enters the city, staring about speechlessly, in his roughness and savagery, but when they had thrown off their amazement, which is soon quenched in finer hearts, the first shade who had made his request to me, began: ‘Blessed spirit, who are gathering knowledge of our borders, to achieve the holier life! The people who do not come along with us, offended in that way that made Caesar hear ‘Regina:Queen’ called after him in his triumph, so they leave us, shouting: “Sodom” reproving themselves, as you have heard, and helping the burning with the heat of their shame.
    Our sin was heterosexual, but because we did not obey human law, and followed our appetites like beasts, when we part from them, to our infamy we call her name, Pasiphaë, that made herself a beast, in the beast-like framework.

    Now you know our actions, and what we were guilty of: if you want to know, perhaps, who we are, by name, there is not time enough to tell you, nor could I. But I will indeed make your wish to know me wane: I am Guido Guinicelli, and am purging myself already, because I made a full repentance, before the end.’

    As in the midst of Lycurgus’s sorrow, her two sons were on seeing their mother Hypsipyle again, so I was, though I cannot rise to those heights, when I heard my ‘father’, and the ‘father’ of others who are my betters, name himself, he, who always made use of the sweet and graceful rhymes of love: and without speaking or hearing, I went on, thinking, gazing at him for a long while, and did not move closer there because of the fire.

    When I was filled with gazing, I offered my services to him, eagerly, with that strength that compels belief in the other. And he said to me: ‘I hear that you leave tracks so deep and clear, that Lethe cannot remove or dim them. But if your words just now expressed truth, tell me why you demonstrate, in looks and speech, that you hold me so dear.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:112-148 Arnaut Daniel, the poet

    And I to him: ‘Your sweet lines, whose very ink is precious, as long as the modern style shall last.’ He said: ‘O my brother, this one whom I indicate with my finger,’ (and he pointed to a spirit in front) ‘was the better craftsman of his mother tongue. He surpassed all who wrote love-verses and prose romances, and let those fools talk who think that Giraut de Borneil, he of Limoges, excels. They turn their faces towards rumour rather than truth, and confirm their opinions before they listen to art or reason. So, many of our fathers did, with Guittone, shouting praise after praise of him, but truth has won at last, with most people.
    Now if you have such breadth of privilege, that you are allowed to go to that cloister, where Christ is head of the college, say a Pater Noster there for me, as much of one as is as needed by us, in this world, where the power to sin is no longer ours.’ Then, perhaps in order to give way, to another following closely, he vanished through the fire, like a fish diving, through water, to the depths.

    I drew forward, a little, towards the one Guido had pointed to, and said that my longing was preparing a place of gratitude for his name. And, freely, he began to speak:

    ‘Tan m’abelis vostre cortes deman,
    qu’ieu no-m puesc, ni-m vueil a vos cobrire.

    Ieu sui Arnaut, que plor e vau cantan;
    consiros vei la passada falor,
    e vei jausen lo jorn, qu’esper, denan.

    Ara vos prec, per acquella valor
    que vos guida al som de l’escalina,
    sovgna vos a temps de ma dolor.’

    ‘Your sweet request of me is so pleasing,
    that I cannot, and will not, hide me from you.

    I am Arnaut, who weeping goes and sings:
    seeing, gone by, the folly in my mind,
    joyful, I hope for what the new day brings.

    By that true good, I beg you, that you find,
    guiding you to the summit of the stairway,
    think of my sorrow, sometimes, as you climb.’

    Then he hid himself in the refining fire.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:1-45 The Angel of Chastity

    So the sun stood, as when he shoots out his first rays, there at Jerusalem, where his Maker shed his blood; as when Ebro’s river falls under heaven-borne Libra’s scales, and Ganges’s waves are scorched by mid-day heat: so there the daylight was fading when God’s joyful Angel appeared to us. He was standing beyond the flames, on the bank, and singing: ‘Beati mundo corde: Blessed are the pure in heart,’ in a voice more thrilling than ours. Then, when we were nearer to him, he said: ‘You may go no further, O sacred spirits, if the fire has not first bitten you: enter it, and do not be deaf to the singing beyond,’ at which, on hearing him, I became like someone laid in the grave.
    I bent forward, over my linked hands, staring at the fire, and, powerfully conceiving human bodies, once seen, being burnt alive. The kindly guides then turned to me, and Virgil said: ‘My son, there may be torment here, but not death. Remember, remember……if I led you safely, on Geryon’s back, what will I do now, closer to God? Believe, in truth, that if you lived in this womb of flames, even for a thousand years, they could not scorch a single hair: and if you think, perhaps, that I deceive you, go towards them, and gain belief, by holding the edge of your clothes out, in your hands. Now forget, forget all fear: turn this way, and go on, in safety.’

    And I, still rooted to the spot: and conscience against it. When he saw me standing there still rooted, and stubborn, troubled a little, he said: ‘Now, see, my son, this wall lies between you and Beatrice.’

    As Pyramus opened his eyes on the point of death, at Thisbe’s name, and gazed at her, there, where the mulberry was reddened, so, my stubbornness softened, I turned to my wise leader, on hearing that name that always stirs in my mind. At which, he shook his head, and said: ‘What? Do we desire to stay on this side?’ Then he smiled, as one smiles at a child, won over with an apple.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:46-93 The Passage through the Fire

    Then he went into the fire, in front of me, begging Statius, who, for a long distance before, had separated us, to come behind.
    When I was inside, I would have thrown myself into molten glass to cool myself, so immeasurable was the burning there. My sweet father, to comfort me, went on speaking only of Beatrice, saying: ‘I seem, already, to see her eyes.’

    A voice guided us, that was singing on the far side, and, only intent on it, we came out, there, where the ascent begins. ‘Venite benedicti patris mei: Come ye blessed of my father,’ sounded from inside a light that shone there, so bright it overcame me, and I could not look at it. It added: ‘The sun is sinking, and the evening comes: do not stay, but quicken your steps, while the west is not yet dark.’

    The way climbed straight through the rock, in such a direction that I blocked the light, of the already low sun, in front of me. And we had attempted only a few steps, when I, and the wise, saw, because of the shadow, which vanished, that the sun had set behind us. And before night held all sovereignty, and the horizon, through all its immense spaces, had become one colour, each of us made a bed, of a step: since the law of the Mount took the power, not the desire, to climb, from us.

    As mountain goats, that have been quick and wanton on the summits, before they are fed, become tame, ruminating, silently in the shade, when the sun is hot, guarded by the shepherd leaning on his staff, and watching them as he leans: and as the shepherd lodging in the open, keeps quiet vigil, at night, near his flock, guarding it, in case a wild beast scatters it: so were we, all three, I, the goat, and they, the shepherds, closed in by the high rock, on both sides.

    Little could be seen there of the outside world, but through that little space I saw the stars, brighter and bigger than they used to be. As I ruminated, like this, and gazed at them, sleep came to me: sleep that often knows the future, before the fact exists.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:94-114 Dante’s third dream

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 27, 97

    In that hour, I think, when Cytherean Venus, who always seems burning with the fire of love, first shone from the east towards the Mount, a lady appeared to me in a dream, young and beautiful and going along a plain gathering flowers: and she said, singing: ‘Whoever asks my name, know that I am Leah, and go moving my lovely hands around to make a garland. I adorn myself here, to look pleasing in the glass, but my sister, Rachel, never moves from her mirror, and sits there all day long. She is as happy to gaze at her lovely eyes, as I am to adorn myself with my hands: action satisfies me: her, contemplation.’
    And now, at the pre-dawn splendour, which grows more welcome to travellers, when, returning, they lodge nearer home, the shadows of night were vanishing, on all sides, and my sleep with them, at which I rose, seeing the great Masters had already risen.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:115-142 Virgil’s last words to Dante

    ‘That sweet fruit, that mortal anxiety goes in search of, on so many branches, will give your hunger peace today.’ Virgil employed such words to me, and there were never gifts equalling these in sweetness. Such deep longing, on longing, overcame me, to be above, that afterwards, I felt my wings growing, for the flight, at every step.
    When the stairway, below us, was done, and we were on the topmost step, Virgil fixed his eyes on me, and said: ‘Son you have seen the temporal and the eternal fire, and have reached a place where I, by myself, can see no further. Here I have led you, by skill and art: now, take your delight for a guide: you are free of the steep path, and the narrow. See, there, the sun that shines on your forehead, see the grass, the flowers and the bushes, that the earth here produces by itself.

    While the lovely, joyful eyes, that, weeping, made me come to you, are arriving, here you can sit down, or walk amongst all this. Do not expect another word, or sign, from me. Your will is free, direct and whole, and it would be wrong not to do, as it demands: and, by that, I crown you, and mitre you, over yourself.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:1-51 Matilda gathering flowers

    Now, eager to explore, within and round, the dense green of the divine wood, that moderated new daylight to my eyes, I left the mountainside without delay, crossing the plain, slowly, slowly, over the ground, perfumed on every side. A sweet breath of continuous air, struck my forehead, with no more force than a gentle wind, before which the branches, immediately shaking, were all leaning towards that western quarter where the sacred Mount casts its first shadow, not bent so far from their vertical that the little birds, in the treetops, left off practising their art: but singing, in true delight, they welcomed the first breezes among the leaves, that murmured a refrain to their songs: such as gathers, from bough to bough, through the pine-woods on Chiassi’s shore, when Aeolus frees the Sirocco.
    Already my slow steps had taken me into the ancient wood, so far that I could not see where I had entered: and, see, a stream prevented my going further, that, with its little waves, bent the grass that issued from its shore, towards the left. All the waters that seem purest, here, would appear tainted, compared to that, which conceals nothing: though it flows dark, dark in perpetual shade, that never allows the sun or moonlight there.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 28, 22

    I rested my feet, and, with my eyes I passed beyond the stream, to stare at the vast multitude of fresh flowers of May, and, just as something suddenly appears, that sets all other thoughts aside, through wonderment, a lady, all alone, appeared to me, going along singing, gathering flowers on flowers, with which all her path was painted. I said to her: ‘I beg you, lovely lady, who warm yourself at Love’s rays, if I can believe appearances, so often witness to the heart, may it please you to come nearer to the stream, so that I can know what you sing. You make me think of where, and how, Proserpine seemed, when Ceres, her mother, lost her, and she, the Spring.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:52-138 The Garden’s winds, plants and waters

    As a lady, who is dancing, turns, with feet close to each other, and to the ground, and barely placing foot in front of foot, she turned to me, among the red and yellow flowers, as a virgin who looks downwards, modestly: and satisfied my prayer, drawing so near, that the sweet sound, and its meaning, reached me.
    As soon as she was there, where the grass is already bathed by the waves of the lovely stream, she granted me the gift of raising her eyes. I do not think as bright a light shone, beneath Venus’s eyelids, when she was, accidentally, wounded by her son, Cupid, against his wish. Matilda smiled, from the right bank, opposite, gathering more flowers in her hands, which the high ground bears without seeds. The river kept us three steps apart, but the Hellespont, that Xerxes crossed, a check to human pride to this day, was not hated more by Leander, because of its turbulent wash, between Sestos and Abydos, than this stream was by me, because it did not open then, for me.

    She began: ‘You are new, and perhaps because I am smiling here, in this place chosen as a nest for the human race, wonderingly, you have some doubts: but the psalm “Delectasti: you have made me glad” sheds light that might un-fog your intellect. And you, who are in front, and entreated me, say if you want to hear anything more, since I came ready to answer your questions, until you are sated.’

    ‘The water,’ I said, ‘and the sound of the forest, are struggling in me with a new belief, in something, I have heard, contrary to this.’ At which she said: ‘I will tell you the cause of what you wonder at, and I will clear away the fog that annoys you.

    The highest Good, who is his own sole joy, created Man good, and for goodness, and gave him this place as a pledge of eternal peace. Through Man’s fault, he did not stay here long: through Man’s fault, he exchanged honest laughter, and sweet play, for tears and sweat. So that the storms, caused below this Mount, by the exhalations of water and earth, following the heat as far as they can, should not hurt Man, it rose this far towards Heaven, free of them, from beyond where it is closed off.

    Now, since the whole of the air turns in a circle with the primal circling, unless its motion is blocked in some direction, that motion strikes this summit, which is wholly free in the clear air, and makes the woods resound because they are so solid: and a plant that is struck has such power, that it impregnates the air with its virtue, and the air, in its circling, scatters it round: and the other soil, depending on its quality and its situation, conceives, and produces various plants, with various virtues.

    If this were understood, over there, it would not seem strange when some plant takes root without obvious seed. And you must know that the sacred plain, where you are, is full of every kind of seed, and bears fruit in it that is not gathered over there.

    The water you see does not rise from a spring, fed by the moisture that the cold condenses, as a river does that gains and loses volume, but issues from a constant, unfailing fountain, that, by God’s will, recovers as much as it pours out freely, on every side.

    On this side it falls with a power that takes away the memory of sin: on the other, with one that restores the memory of every good action. On this side it is called Lethe, on that side Eunoë, and does not act completely unless it is tasted first on this side, and then on that. It surpasses all other savours, and though your thirst to know may be fully sated, even though I say no more to you, I will give you this corollary, out of grace, and I do not think my words will be less precious to you, because they go beyond my promise to you.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:139-148 The Golden Age

    Perhaps, in ancient times, those who sang of the Golden Age, and its happy state, dreamed of this place, on Parnassus. Here the root of Humanity was innocent: here is everlasting Spring, and every fruit: this is the nectar of which they all speak.’
    Then I turned straight back towards the poets, and saw that, with smiles, they had heard the last elucidation. Then I turned my face to the lovely lady.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:1-36 The Divine Pageant

    She continued, from the end of her words, singing, like a lady in love: ‘Beati, quorum tecta sunt peccata: Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven.’ And, like the nymphs who used, alone, to wander through the woodland shadows, one wishing to see the sun, another to flee it, she moved then, walking along the bank, against the stream, and I across from her, one small step answering the other.
    Her steps, with mine, were not a hundred, when both banks curved alike, so that I turned eastwards. And our journey was not far yet, when the lady turned completely to me, saying: ‘My brother, look and listen.’ And see a sudden brightness flooded, through the great forest, on every side, so that I was unsure if it was lightning. But since lightning vanishes, as it comes, and that shone brighter and brighter, lasting, I said, in my mind: ‘What is this thing?’

    And a sweet melody ran through the glowing air, at which righteous zeal made me condemn Eve’s boldness, who a woman, alone, and newly created, there, where Heaven and Earth were obedient, could not bear to be under any veil, which if she had borne, devoutly, I would have known these ineffable delights earlier, and for longer.

    While I was moving among such first fruits of the eternal bliss, enraptured and still longing for greater joys, the air turned to blazing fire, under the green branches in front of us, and the sweet sound was distinguished as a song.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:37-61 The Seven Branched Candlesticks

    O sacred, virgin Muses, if ever I endured hunger, cold or vigil for you, the occasion spurs me on to ask my reward. Now I need Helicon to stream out for me, and Urania to aid me with her choir, to put into words, things that are hard to imagine.
    A little further on, the illusion of seven golden trees appeared, caused by the great space still between us and them: but when I had come nearer, so that the common object, that can deceive the senses, had not lost any of its details, the power that creates matter for reasoning, realised that branched candlesticks were what they were, and the content of the singing was: ‘Hosanna.’ The lovely pageant was blazing out, above, far brighter than the mid-month moon, at midnight.

    I turned full of wonder, towards the good Virgil, and he replied with a face no less stunned. Then I turned my face back towards the sublime things, which moved towards us, so slowly, that they would be out-paced by a new bride.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:61-81 The Seven Banners

    The lady cried to me: ‘Why are you only so ardent for the sight of the bright lights, and pay no attention to what comes behind them?’
    Then I saw people, dressed in white, following as if behind their leader: and there was never such whiteness, here, among us. The water shone brightly on my left, and reflected my left side, like a mirror, if I gazed into it. When I was situated on the edge, so that the river alone separated me from them, I stopped to see better, and I saw the flames advance, leaving the air behind them tinted, and they had the appearance of trailing banners, so that the air above remained coloured in seven bands, of the hues in which the sun creates his bow, and Diana, the Moon, her halo.

    These banners streamed to the rear, way beyond my sight, and, as far as I could judge, the outermost ones were ten paces apart.

    Purgatorio CantoXXIX:82-105 The Elders: The Four Beasts

    Under as lovely a sky as I could describe, came twenty -four Elders, two by two, crowned with lilies. They were all singing: ‘Blessed art thou among the daughters of Adam, and blessed to all eternity be thy beauties.’ When the flowers, and the other fresh herbs, on the other bank opposite, were free of all those chosen people, four creatures came after them, each one crowned with green leaves, as star follows star in the sky.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 29, 80

    Each was plumed with six wings, the feathers full of eyes, and the eyes of Argus, if they were living, would be like them. Reader, I will scatter no more words, to describe their form, since other duties constrain me, so that I cannot be lavish here, but read Ezekiel, who pictures them as he saw them, coming from the icy firmament in whirlwind, cloud and fire, and as you will find them in his pages, so they were here, except that John, the Divine, is with me as to the wings, and differs from him.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:106-132 The Chariot: The Grifon: The Virtues

    The space within the four of them contained a triumphal, two-wheeled, chariot drawn by a Grifon, harnessed at the neck. And the Grifon stretched each wing upwards between the centre and three of the banners, so that he did no harm by cutting across them. The wings rose so high their tips could not be seen. Its members were golden, where he was birdlike, and the rest white mixed with brilliant red. Neither Scipio Africanus nor, indeed, Augustus ever gladdened Rome with so magnificent a chariot, and the Sun’s would be poor by comparison, the Sun’s, that was consumed when Phaethon strayed, at Earth’s devout request, when Jupiter was darkly just.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 29, 118

    Three ladies came dancing, in a circle, by the right hand wheel: one was so red she would scarcely be visible in the fire: the next was as if her flesh and bones were made of emerald: the third seemed of newly fallen snow: and now they seemed led by the white, and now by the red, and from her song the others took their metre, slow or quick.

    By the left hand wheel, four dressed in purple, made festive, following the lead of the one who had three eyes in her face.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154 Luke, Paul and others

    Behind the group I have described, I saw two aged men, of similar bearing, but dissimilar clothing, grave and venerable: one was Luke, showing himself to be of the school of that supreme Hippocrates, whom nature made physician to the creatures she most cares for: the other, Paul, displayed the opposite role, with a sharp, gleaming sword, so that it made me afraid, even on this side of the stream.
    Then I saw four, of humble aspect: and behind them all, a solitary old man, John the Divine, coming by, with a visionary face, as if dreaming. And all these seven were costumed like the first company, but had no garland of lilies round their heads, rather one of roses and other crimson flowers, so that someone who saw them close to would have said they were all on fire above their eyes.

    And when the chariot was opposite me, a clap of thunder was heard: and those noble people seemed to have their further progress stopped, and halted there with the first banners.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:1-48 Beatrice

    When those Seven Lights of the first Heaven had halted, that never knew setting or rising, or the veil of any other mist but sin, and which made all aware of their duty, just as the lower seven, Ursa Minor, guide the helmsman towards port, the people of truth, who had first appeared, between them and the Grifon, turned towards the chariot, as if towards their place of peace: and one of them, as if sent from Heaven, lifted his voice, three times, singing: ‘Veni sponsa de Libano: Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse,’ and all the others sang after him.
    As the Saints at the Last Judgment will rise, ready, each one, from his tomb, singing Halleluiah, with renewed voice, so a hundred rose, in the divine chariot, ad vocem tanti senis, at the voice of so great an Elder, the ministers and messengers of eternal life. All were saying: ‘Benedictus qui venis: Blessed art thou that comest’ and, scattering flowers above and around, ‘Manibus o date lilia plenis: O give lilies with full hands.’

    I have seen, before now, at dawn of day, the eastern sky all rose-red, and the rest of the heavens serene and clear, and seen the sun’s face rise, veiled, so that because of the moderating mists, the eye, for a long while, endured him: and so, in a cloud of flowers, that lifted from the angelic hands, and fell again, inside and beyond, a lady appeared to me, crowned with olive-leaves, over a white veil, dressed in colours of living flame, beneath a green cloak.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 30, 32

    And my spirit, that had endured so great a space of time, since it had been struck with awe, trembling, in her presence, through the hidden virtue that issued from her, and without having greater knowledge through my eyes, felt the intense power of former love.

    As soon as that high virtue struck my sight, which had already transfixed me, before I was out of my childhood, I turned to the left, with that faith with which a little boy runs to his mother, when he is afraid or troubled, saying to Virgil: ‘There is a barely a drop of blood in me that does not tremble: I know the tokens of the ancient flame.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:49-81 Virgil has left: Dante is filled with Shame

    But Virgil had left us, bereft of himself, Virgil, sweetest father, Virgil to whose guidance I gave myself: and all the beauties, that our ancient mother lost, did not prevent my dew-washed cheeks from turning dark again with tears.
    ‘Dante, do not weep, because Virgil goes, do not weep yet, not yet, since you must weep soon for another reason.’ Like an admiral, who stands, at stern and prow, to inspect the crews who man the other ships, and encourage them to brave action, so I saw the lady who first appeared to me, veiled, beneath the angelic festival, directing her gaze towards me on this side of the stream, from the left of the chariot, when I turned at the sound of my own name, that I write here, from necessity.

    Although the veil which draped her head, crowned with Minerva’s olive leaves, did not allow her to appear clearly, she continued to speak, regally, and severely, like someone who holds back the sharpest words till last.

    ‘Look at me, truly: I truly am, I truly am Beatrice. How did you dare to approach the Mount? Did you not know that here Man is happy?’ My eyes dropped to the clear water, but seeing myself there, I looked back at the grass, so much shame bowed my forehead down. As the mother seems severe to her child, so she seemed to me: since the savour of sharp pity tastes of bitterness.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:82-145 Her Mission to help him

    She fell silent, and immediately the Angels sang: ‘In te, Domine, speravi: In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust.’ but did not sing beyond the words: ‘pedes meos: my feet.’
    As the snow is frozen, among the living rafters, along Italy’s back, under the blast and stress of Slavonic winds, then, melting, trickles down inside its mass, if the ground, free of shadow, breathes, so that the fire seems to melt the candle, so I was frozen, without sighs or tears, before they, who always harmonise their notes with the melody of the eternal spheres, sang: but when I heard the compassion for me in their sweet harmony, greater than if they had said: ‘Lady, why do you shame him so?’ the ice that had closed around my heart became breath and water, and issued from my chest, in anguish, through my mouth and eyes.

    She, still standing on that side of the chariot I spoke of, directed her words, then, to the pitying Angels: ‘You are vigilant in the eternal day, so that night or sleep do not hide one measure of the earth’s journey along its way, from you: therefore I answer with greater care, so that he who weeps there can understand, so that his sorrow and his sin can be measured together.

    Not merely by the motion of the vast spheres, that direct each seed to some objective, according to the stars’ attendance, but by the generosity of divine graces, that yield their rain from such lofty vapours our eyes do not reach near them, this man, potentially, was such in his vita nuova, his new life, that every true skill would have grown miraculously in him. But the more good qualities the earth’s soil has, the more wild and coarse it becomes with evil seed, and lack of cultivation.

    For a while I supported him with my face: showing him my young eyes, I drew him with me, directed towards the right goal. But, as soon as I was on the threshold of my second age, and changed existences, he left me and gave himself to others. I was less dear to him, and less pleasing, when I rose from flesh to spirit, and beauty and virtue increased in me: and he turned his steps to an untrue road, chasing false illusions of good, that never completely repay their promise.

    Nor was it any use to me to gain inspiration to call him back to himself, in dreams, or otherwise: he valued them so little. He sank so low, that all means to save him were already useless, except that of showing him the lost people. To achieve that, I visited the gates of the dead, and, weeping, my prayers carried to him who guided him upwards.

    God’s highest law would be broken, if Lethe were gone by, and such food was tasted, without some tax of penitence, that sheds tears.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:1-42 Dante confesses his guilt

    She began again, continuing without delay, directing her speech with its sharp point towards me, whose edge had seemed keen to me: ‘O you, who are on that side of the sacred stream, say, say if it is true: your confession must meet the charge.’
    My powers were so confused, that the voice sounded and was gone before it emerged from its agent. She suffered a pause, then said: ‘What are you thinking of? Reply to me: the sad memories, you have, are not yet erased by the water.’ Confusion and fear, joined together, drove a ‘Yes’ from my mouth, so quietly that eyes were needed to interpret it.

    As a crossbow breaks, in string and bow, when fired at too high a tension, and the bolt hits the mark with lessened force, so I broke under this heavy charge, pouring out a flood of tears and sighs, and my voice died away in transit. At which she said to me: ‘In your desire for me, that led you to love that good, beyond which there is nothing to aspire to, what pits did you find in your path, or chains to bind, that you had to despoil your hope of passing upward? And what allurements, or attractions were displayed in others’ faces, to make you stray towards them?’

    After heaving a bitter sigh, I had hardly voice to answer, and my lips gave it shape with effort. I said, weeping: ‘Present things with false delights turned my steps away, as soon as your face had vanished.’ And she: ‘If you had stayed silent, or denied what you have confessed, your fault would be no less noted, such is the judge who knows of it. But when self-accusation of sin bursts from the mouth, in our Court, the grindstone blunts the edge.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:43-69 Beatrice rebukes him

    ‘However, in order that you might be ashamed of your errors, and might be more steadfast, on hearing the Siren sing next time, stifle the source of your weeping, and listen: then you will hear how my entombed flesh should have led you towards the opposite goal.
    Art and Nature never presented such delight to you, as the lovely body I was enclosed by, now scattered into dust: and if the greatest delight was lost to you, by my death, what mortal thing should have led you to desire it? Truly, at the first sting of false things, you should have risen after me, who was no longer such. Some young girl, or other vanity, of such brief enjoyment, should not have weighted your wings, to wait for more arrows. The young bird stays for two or three, but the net is spread, and the shaft fired, in vain, in front of the eyes of the fully-fledged.

    As children stand, mute with shame, listening with eyes on the ground, repentant, and self-confessing, so I stood, there. And she said: ‘Since you are grieving at what you hear, lift your bearded head, and you will have greater grief from what you see.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:70-90 Dante’s remorse

    A strong oak-tree is uprooted with less resistance by our northern winds, or the southerlies from Iarbas’s Africa, than I lifted my face, at her command. And when she spoke of my beard, as a man I knew the venom behind her words.
    And when my head was stretched forward, my eyes saw those primal creatures resting from strewing flowers, and my eyes, not yet quite in my control, saw Beatrice, turned towards the Grifon, which is Christ, one sole person in two natures.

    Under her veil, and beyond the stream, she seemed to me to exceed her former self, more than she exceeded others when she was here. The nettle of repentance stung me so fiercely, that the thing that drew me most to love of it, of all other things became most hateful to me. Such great remorse gnawed at my heart, that I fell, stunned, and what I became then she knows, who gave me cause.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:91-145 Lethe: Beatrice unveiled

    Then, when my heart restored the power of outward things, I saw Matilda bending over me, that lady whom I had found alone, and she said: ‘Hold to me! Hold to me!’ She had drawn me into the river, up to my neck, and she went along, over the water, light as a shuttle, pulling me behind her.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 31, 100

    When I was near to the shore of the blessed, I heard: ‘Asperges me: cleanse me’ sung so sweetly, I cannot remember it, nor can I describe it. The lovely lady opened her arms, clasped my head, and submerged me so that I had to swallow water, then pulled me out, and led me, cleansed, in among the dance of the four lovely ones, and each took my arm, and singing, they began: ‘Here we are nymphs, and in heaven we are stars: before Beatrice descended to your world, we were ordained to be her helpers. We will take you to her eyes: but the three on the other side, who look more deeply, will sharpen your vision to the joyful inward light.’

    Then they lead me, with them, up to the Grifon’s breast, where Beatrice stood, turned towards us. They said: ‘See that you do not spare your eyes: we have set you in front of the bright emeralds, from which Love once shot his arrows at you.’ A thousand desires, hotter than flame, kept my eyes fixed on those shining eyes, that in turn stayed fixed on the Grifon. The dual-natured creature was reflected in them, just like the sun in a mirror, with the attributes now of the human, now of the divine. Reader, think how I marvelled, in my mind, to see the thing itself remain unmoving, and yet its image changing.

    While my spirit, filled with delight and wonder, was tasting that food, that satisfies and causes hunger, the other three ladies, revealing themselves to be of highest nobility in their aspect, came forward, dancing to their angelic measure. ‘Turn Beatrice, turn your sacred eyes, to your faithful one,’ was their song, ‘he, who has trodden so many steps to see you. By your grace, grace us, by unveiling your face to him, so that he may see the second beauty that you conceal.’

    O splendour of eternal living light, who of us is there, grown pale in the shadow of Parnassus, a drinker from its well, whose mind would not seem hampered, trying to render you as you appeared, there, where Heaven in harmony outlines you, when you showed yourself in the clear air?

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:1-36 The Pageant moves eastward

    My eyes were so fixed on satisfying their ten-year thirst, that all my other senses were dulled, and there was a wall of disinterest either side of them, so that her holy smile drew my vision in, towards itself, into its ancient net: at which my face was turned of necessity to my left to those goddesses, because I heard them say: ‘Too intensely.’
    And the state of vision the eyes are in, struck, just now, by the sun, left me sightless for a while: but once my sight adjusted to lesser things (I mean lesser compared to the greater object of perception, that I turned away from, of necessity) I saw the glorious pageant had turned round on the right and was returning, with the sun and the seven flames in its front.

    As a detachment turns to retreat, behinds its shields, and wheels, with the standard, before it can fully change fronts, that militia of the heavenly region, that led, passed us all by, before the chariot-pole had turned. Then the ladies returned near to the wheels, and the Grifon moved the holy burden forwards, without ruffling a plume.

    The lovely lady who drew me across the ford, and Statius, and I, were following the right wheel that made its turn following a tighter arc. So, an angelic melody accompanied our steps, passing through the tall forest that was empty, because of her who believed the serpent. We had gone as far, perhaps, as an arrow would travel in three flights, when Beatrice descended from the chariot.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:37-63 The Mystic Tree

    I heard them all mutter: ‘Adam!’ Then they surrounded a tree, with every branch stripped of blossom, and foliage. The height of its canopy, that stretches out further the higher it reaches, would be marvelled at by the people of India, in their forests.
    ‘Blessed, are you, Grifon, who tears nothing sweet-tasting from this tree, with your beak, because the stomach is wrenched by it.’ So the others shouted, round the solid tree; and the creature of two natures said: ‘So the seed of righteousness is preserved.’ And turning to the pole he had dragged, he pulled it to the foot of the denuded trunk, and left, bound to it, the Cross, that came from it.

    As our trees bud, when the great light falls, mixed with the light that shines from Aries, following Pisces, the heavenly Fish, and each is newly dressed with colour, before the sun yokes his horses under the light of the following constellation, opening tinted more than rose and less than violet, so that tree renewed itself, that had naked branches before.

    I did not understand the hymn the people sang then, nor is it sung here, and I could not withstand its burden to the end.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99 Dante sleeps: Beatrice guards the chariot

    If I could depict how Argus’s pitiless eyes closed in sleep, hearing the tale of Syrinx, those eyes, whose greater power to watch, cost him so dear, I would paint how I fell asleep, as an artist does from a model: but who can truly show drowsiness? So, I move on, to when I woke, and say that a bright light tore the veil of sleep, and there was a cry: ‘Rise, what are you about?’
    As, at the Transfiguration, Peter, John, and James were brought, to behold the blossom of Christ, the apple-tree, that makes the Angels eager for its fruit, and makes a perpetual marriage in Heaven, and came to themselves, having been overcome, at the word by which Lazarus’s deeper sleep had been broken, and saw that Moses and Elias had vanished, and their Master’s white raiment changed, even so I came to myself, and saw the compassionate one, who guided my steps, before, along the stream, bending over me.

    And all bemused I said: ‘Where is Beatrice?’ and Matilda replied: ‘See her sitting under the new foliage, at its root. See, the company that surround her: the rest are rising after the Grifon, with sweeter and deeper song.’ And I do not know if her words went on, because now She was in front of my eyes, whose presence prevented me from attending to other things. She sat, alone, on the bare earth, left there as the guardian of the chariot, that I had seen the dual-natured creature anchor to the tree.

    The seven nymphs made a ring, encircling her, carrying those lights, which are secure from the north and south winds, in their hands.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:100-160 The Church’s Past, Present and Future

    Beatrice spoke: ‘You will not be a forester long, here, and will be with me, a citizen, eternally, of that Rome of which Christ is a Roman. So, to help the world that lives wrongly, fix your gaze on the chariot, and take care to write what you see, when you return, over there.’ And I, completely obedient to her commands, set my mind and eyes where she desired.
    Fire never fell so swiftly from dense cloud, falling from that region that is most remote, as I saw Jupiter’s eagle swoop down through the tree, tearing its bark, its flowers, and its new leaves, and he struck the chariot with all his power, at which it swayed like a ship in a storm, beaten by the seas, now to larboard, then to starboard.

    Then I saw a vixen that seemed starved, of all decent food, leap into the body of the triumphal car. But my Lady put her to a flight as swift as fleshless bones could sustain, rebuking her for her foul sins.

    Then I saw the eagle drop into the body of the chariot from the place where he had first swooped, and leave it feathered with his plumage. And a voice came from Heaven, as it comes from a sorrowing heart, and it said: O my little boat, how badly you are freighted!’

    Then it seemed to me that the ground opened, between the two wheels, and a dragon emerged pointing his tail upwards through the chariot, and drawing his spiteful tail towards himself, like a wasp withdrawing her sting, he wrenched away part of its base, and slid away.

    What was left, covered itself, with those feathers, just as fertile land is covered with grass, offered perhaps with true and benign intent, and the chariot-pole and both wheels were covered by them, in less time than a mouth is open for a sigh. The holy structure, transformed, grew heads above its members, three above the pole and one at each corner. The first three were horned like oxen, but the other four had a single horn on the forehead: such a Monster was never seen before.

    Seated on it, secure as a tower on a high hill, a shameless Whore appeared, looking eagerly round her. And I saw a Giant standing by her side, so that she could not be snatched from him, and each kissed the other, now and then: but because she turned her lustful, wandering eye on me, her fierce lover scourged her from head to foot. Then full of jealousy and vicious with anger, he loosed the Monster, and dragged it so far, through the wood, that he made a screen between me, and the Whore and Monster.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 32, 148

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57 Beatrice’s prophetic words

    Now as three, then four, alternately, and weeping, the ladies began a sweet psalmody, singing: ‘Deus, venerunt genes: O God, the heathen are come,’ and Beatrice. compassionate and sighing, was listening to them, so altered in aspect, that Mary was no less altered at the foot of the Cross. But when the virgins gave way for her to speak, standing upright she replied, colouring like fire: ‘Modicum, et non videbitis me, et iterum, my beloved sisters, modicum, et vos videbitis me: a little while, and ye shall not see me, my beloved sisters, and again, a little while, and ye shall see me.’
    Then she set all seven of them in front of her, and, merely with a nod of the head, motioned myself, the Lady and the Sage who had stayed, behind her. So she went on, and I believe that hardly a tenth step touched the ground, until her eyes struck my eyes, and she said to me, quietly: ‘Come along, faster, so that, if I speak to you, you are well placed to listen.’

    As soon as I, dutifully, was next to her, she said: ‘Brother, why when you come along with me, do you not venture to question me?’ I was like those, who are too humble in speech in front of their elders, who do not raise their voice fully to their lips, and short of full volume, I began: ‘Madonna, you know my needs, and what is good for them.’ And she to me: ‘I want you to free yourself, now, from fear and shame, so that you no longer speak like one who dreams.

    Learn that the chariot that the serpent shattered was, and is not: and let him, whose fault it is, know that God’s vengeance cannot be evaded. The eagle, that left its feathers on the car, to make it a Monster, to be preyed on, shall not be without heirs for ever, since I see, with certainty, and so I tell you, stars are already nearing, safe from all barriers and impediments, that will bring us times in which a five-hundred, a ten, and a five (DVX, a leader) sent by God, will kill the Whore, and the Giant, who sins with her.

    And perhaps my prophecy, as obscure as Themis and the Sphinx, persuades you less, because it darkens the mind, after their fashion, but the fact is that Oedipus, will solve this difficult question, without damage to flocks or harvest.

    Take note of it: and just as these words carry from you to me, tell them to those who live the life that is a race towards death, and remember when you write, not to hide that you have seen the tree, now twice spoiled, here.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:58-102 The Tree of Empire

    ‘Whoever robs it, and tears at it, in a blasphemous act, offends God, who created it sacred to his sole use. Adam, the first soul, longed for Him, in torment and desire, for more than five thousand years: He who punished the bite of the apple in Himself. Your intelligence is asleep if it does not judge that tree to be so high, and widened towards its summit, from some special cause. And if your idle thoughts had not been like the waters of the River Elsa round your mind, petrifying it, and their delights had not stained it as Pyramus’s blood the mulberry, you would have recognised in the tree, by these many circumstances alone, that, morally, God’s justice is in the injunction.
    But since I see your mind made of stone, and like a stone, stained, so the light of my words dazes you, I want you to carry my words away with you as well, if not written at least in symbolic form, for the same reason that the pilgrim’s staff returns wreathed with palm-branches. And I said: ‘My brain is now stamped by you, like wax by the seal, whose imprint does not change. But why do your words, I longed for, soar so far beyond my vision, that the more it strains after them, the more they vanish?

    She said: ‘So you may know the School you followed, and see whether its teachings follow my words, and may see that your way is as far from the divine way, as the swiftest Heaven is from the earth.’ At which I replied: ‘I do not remember that I was ever estranged from you, nor does conscience gnaw me, regarding it.’ She answered, smiling: ‘And, if you cannot remember it, think, now, how you drank Lethe’s water today: and if fire is deduced from smoke, this forgetfulness clearly proves the guiltiness of your desire, intent on other things. But now my words will be naked, as far as is needed to show them to your dull vision.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:103-145 Dante and Statius drink from Eunoë

    The sun was holding the noon circle, which varies here and there, as location varies, shining more brightly, travelling more slowly, when, like those who act as escorts for people, who stop if they find strange things or their traces, those seven ladies stopped, at the edge of a pale shadow, such as the Alps cast over their cool streams, under green leaves and dark branches.
    I seemed to see Euphrates and Tigris, welling from one spring, in front of them, and parting, like lingering friends. I said: ‘O light, O glory of human kind, what waters are these that pour from one source, here, and separate themselves?’ At my prayer, she said: ‘Beg Matilda, to explain,’ and that lovely Lady answered her, like one who absolves herself from blame: ‘I have told him about this, and about other things, and I am sure Lethe’s water does not hide them from him.’ And Beatrice said: ‘Perhaps some greater care, that often robs us of memory, has dimmed the eyes of his mind. But see, Eunoë, that flows from there: lead him to it, and as you are used to do, revive his flagging virtue.’

    Like a gentle spirit, that does not make excuses, but forms her will from another’s will, as soon as it is revealed, by outward sign, so that lovely Lady, set out, after taking charge of me, and said to Statius, in a ladylike way: ‘Come, with him.’

    Reader, if I had more space to write, I would speak, partially at least, about that sweet drink, which would never have sated me: but because all the pages determined for the second Canticle are full, the curb of art lets me go no further.

    I came back, from the most sacred waves, remade, as fresh plants are, refreshed, with fresh leaves: pure, and ready to climb to the stars.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 33, 134

    The Paradiso

    Contents

    Paradiso Canto I:1-36 Dante’s Invocation
    Paradiso Canto I:37-72 The Sun
    Paradiso Canto I:73-99 The Harmony of the Spheres
    Paradiso Canto I:100-142 Beatrice explains Universal Order
    Paradiso Canto II:1-45 The First Sphere: The Moon: Inconstancy
    Paradiso Canto II:46-105 The Shadows on the Moon
    Paradiso Canto III:1-33 The Spirits manifested in the Moon
    Paradiso Canto III:34-60 Piccarda Donati
    Paradiso Canto III:61-96 God’s Will
    Paradiso Canto III:97-130 St Clare: The Empress Constance
    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63 Dante’s doubts: The Spirits: Plato’s Error
    Paradiso Canto IV:64-114 Response to Violence: The Dual Will
    Paradiso Canto IV:115-142 Dante’s desire for Truth
    Paradiso Canto V:1-84 Free Will: Vows: Dispensations
    Paradiso Canto V:85-139 The Second Sphere: Mercury: Ambition
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111 Justinian: The Empire
    Paradiso Canto VI:112-142 Romeo of Villeneuve
    Paradiso Canto VII:1-54 The Fall of Man and the Crucifixion
    Paradiso Canto VII:55-120 The Redemption: The Incarnation
    Paradiso Canto VII:121-148 Creation and Resurrection
    Paradiso Canto VIII:1-30 The Third Sphere: Venus: Earthly Love
    Paradiso Canto VIII:31-84 Charles Martel
    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148 Heredity and the Influence of the Heavens
    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66 Cunizza da Romano
    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126 Folco of Marseilles
    Paradiso Canto IX:127-142 Florence: The corruption of usury
    Paradiso Canto X:1-63 The Fourth Sphere: The Sun: Prudence
    Paradiso Canto X:64-99 Thomas Aquinas: Albertus Magnus
    Paradiso Canto X:100-129 Solomon: Dionysius: Boëthius
    Paradiso Canto X:130-148 Isidore: Bede: Richard of St. Victor: Sigier
    Paradiso Canto XI:1-42 Saint Dominic and Saint Francis
    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117 The Life of Saint Francis
    Paradiso Canto XI:118-139 Saint Dominic: The Dominicans
    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36 Saint Bonaventura
    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105 Bonaventura speaks of Saint Dominic
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145 Bonaventura names the spirits
    Paradiso Canto XIII:1-51 Aquinas answers Dante’s second question
    Paradiso Canto XIII:52-90 Creation and Emanation: Matter and Form
    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142 Solomon’s choice: his Wisdom: Heretics
    Paradiso Canto XIV:1-66 Solomon: The Resurrection
    Paradiso Canto XIV:67-139 The Fifth Sphere: Mars: Fortitude
    Paradiso Canto XV:1-36 Silence: Beatrice’s eyes
    Paradiso Canto XV:37-87 All things seen in God
    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148 Cacciaguida
    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45 Cacciaguida’s ancestry
    Paradiso Canto XVI:46-87 The growth of Florence
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154 The ancient families of Florence
    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99 Cacciaguida unfolds Dante’s future
    Paradiso Canto XVII:100-142 He urges Dante to reveal his Vision
    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57 The Warriors of God
    Paradiso Canto XVIII:58-99 The Sixth Sphere: Jupiter: Justice
    Paradiso Canto XVIII:100-136 The lights form an Eagle
    Paradiso Canto XIX:1-90 Divine Justice
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148 The Christian Kings
    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72 The Eagle celebrates the Just
    Paradiso Canto XX:73-148 Trajan and Ripheus: Predestination
    Paradiso Canto XXI:1-51 The Seventh Sphere: Saturn: Temperance
    Paradiso Canto XXI:52-142 Peter Damian
    Paradiso Canto XXII:1-99 Saint Benedict
    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154 Dante enters Gemini
    Paradiso Canto XXIII:1-48 The Vision of Christ
    Paradiso Canto XXIII:49-87 The Virgin and the Apostles
    Paradiso Canto XXIII:88-139 Gabriel: The Redeemed: The Apostles
    Paradiso Canto XXIV:1-51 Saint Peter
    Paradiso Canto XXIV:52-87 Faith: Saint Paul
    Paradiso Canto XXIV:88-114 The Source of Faith
    Paradiso Canto XXIV:115-154 Dante’s Belief
    Paradiso Canto XXV:1-63 Saint James and Saint Peter
    Paradiso Canto XXV:64-96 Hope: Saint James
    Paradiso Canto XXV:97-139 Love: Saint John
    Paradiso Canto XXVI:1-69 Dante blinded temporarily speaks of Love
    Paradiso Canto XXVI:70-142 Dante regains his sight: Adam
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66 Saint Peter denounces the Popes
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:67-96 Dante’s view of Earth
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:97-148 The Primum Mobile: Time: Degeneracy
    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:1-57 The Angelic Circles
    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:58-93 Beatrice reconciles the two orders
    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:94-139 The Angelic Hierarchies
    Paradiso Canto XXIX:1-66 The Creation of the Angels
    Paradiso Canto XXIX:67-84 The Angels’ Faculties
    Paradiso Canto XXIX:85-126 Ineffectual teaching and remission
    Paradiso Canto XXIX:127-145 The Number and Diversity of Angels
    Paradiso Canto XXX:1-45 Dante and Beatrice enter the Empyrean
    Paradiso Canto XXX:46-96 The River of Light
    Paradiso Canto XXX:97-148 The Ranks of the Blest
    Paradiso Canto XXXI:1-27 The Rose
    Paradiso Canto XXXI:28-63 Saint Bernard
    Paradiso Canto XXXI:64-93 Beatrice crowned in Heaven
    Paradiso Canto XXXI:94-142 The Virgin
    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36 The Two Halves of the Rose
    Paradiso Canto XXXII:37-84 The Children
    Paradiso Canto XXXII:85-114 Gabriel
    Paradiso Canto XXXII:115-151 The Noble Souls
    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:1-48 The Prayer to the Virgin
    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:49-145 The Final Vision
    Paradiso Canto I:1-36 Dante’s Invocation

    The glory of Him, who moves all things, penetrates the universe, and glows in one region more, in another less. I have been in that Heaven that knows his light most, and have seen things, which whoever descends from there has neither power, nor knowledge, to relate: because as our intellect draws near to its desire, it reaches such depths that memory cannot go back along the track.
    Nevertheless, whatever, of the sacred regions, I had power to treasure in my mind, will now be the subject of my labour.

    O good Apollo, for the final effort, make me such a vessel of your genius, as you demand for the gift of your beloved laurel. Till now, one peak of Parnassus was enough, but now inspired by both I must enter this remaining ring. Enter my chest, and breathe, as you did when you drew Marsyas out of the sheath that covered his limbs.

    O Divine Virtue if you lend me your help, so that I can reveal that shadow of the kingdom of the Blessed, stamped on my brain, you will see me come to your chosen bough, and there crown myself with the leaves, that you, and the subject, will make me worthy of. Father, they are gathered, infrequently from it, for a Caesar’s or a Poet’s Triumph, through the fault, and to the shame, of human will: so the leaves of Daphne’s tree, the Peneian frond, should light joy in the joyful Delphic god, when it makes someone long for them. A great flame follows a tiny spark: perhaps, after me, better voices will pray, and Parnassus will respond.

    Paradiso Canto I:37-72 The Sun

    The Light of the World rises, for mortals, through different gates: but he issues on a happier course, and is joined to happier stars, and moulds and stamps the earthly wax more in his manner, when his rising joins four circles in three crosses. It had made it morning there, when it was evening here: and now that hemisphere was all bright, at noon, and this one dark, when I saw Beatrice, turned towards her left, gazing at the sun. No eagle ever fixed its eyes on it so intently.
    And even as the reflected ray always issues from the first, and rises back upwards, like a pilgrim wishing to return, so my stance took its form from hers, infused through the eyes into my imagination, and I fixed my eyes on the sun, beyond our custom. Much is allowed to our powers there, which is not allowed here, through the gift of that place, made to fit the human species.

    I could not endure it long, but enough to see him sparkle all round, like iron poured, molten, from the furnace. And suddenly, it seemed that day was added to day, as though He who has the power, had equipped Heaven with a second sun.

    Beatrice was standing, with her gaze fixed on the eternal spheres, and I, removing my sight from above, fixed it on her. In that aspect I became, inwardly, like Glaucus, eating the grass that made him one with the gods of the sea.

    To go beyond Humanity is not to be told in words: so let the analogy serve for those to whom grace, alone, may allow the experience.

    Paradiso Canto I:73-99 The Harmony of the Spheres

    Love, who rules the Heavens, you know, who lifted me upwards, with your light, whether I was only that which you created, new, in me.
    When the sphere, which you make eternal through the world’s longing, drew my mind towards itself with that harmony which you tune and modulate, so much of the Heavens seemed to me then lit by the sun’s flame, that no rainfall or river’s flow ever made so wide an expanse of lake. The novelty of the sound, and the great light, lit a greater longing in me than I had ever felt, desiring to know their cause. So that She, who saw me as I see myself, opened her lips, to still my troubled mind, before I could open mine to ask, and said: ‘You make yourself stupid with false imaginings, and so you do not see, what you would see, if you discarded them.

    You are no longer on earth, as you think, but lightning leaving its proper home, never flew as quickly as you, who are returning there.’ If my first perplexity was answered by the brief smiling words, I was more entangled by a second, and I said: ‘Content, and already free of one great wonder, now I am startled as to how I lift above lighter matter.’

    Paradiso Canto I:100-142 Beatrice explains Universal Order

    At that, after a sigh of pity, she turned her eyes towards me, with that look a mother gives to her fevered child, and began: ‘All things observe a mutual order among themselves, and this is the structure that makes the universe resemble God. In it the higher creatures find the signature of Eternal Value, which is the end for which these laws were made, that I speak of.
    In that order, I say, all things are graduated, in diverse allocations, nearer to, or further from, their source, so that they move towards diverse harbours, over the great sea of being, each one with its given instincts that carry it onwards. This instinct carries the fire towards the moon; that one is the mover in the mortal heart; this other pulls the earth together and unifies it. And this bow does not only fire creatures that are lacking in intelligence, but also those that have intellect and love.

    The Providence that orders it so, makes the Empyrean, in which the ninth sphere whirls with the greatest speed, quiet, with its light: and the power of the bowstring, that directs whatever it fires towards a joyful target, carries us towards it now, as if to the appointed place. It is true that, as form is sometimes inadequate to the artist’s intention, because the material fails to answer, so the creature, that has power, so impelled, to swerve towards some other place, sometimes deserts the track (just as fire can be seen, darting down from a cloud) if its first impulse is deflected towards earth by false pleasures.

    You should not wonder more at your ascent, if I judge rightly, than at rivers falling, from mountains to their foot. It would be a marvellous thing, in you, if without any obstruction, you had settled below; just as stillness would be marvellous, on earth, in a living flame.’ At that She turned her gaze back towards Heaven.

    Paradiso Canto II:1-45 The First Sphere: The Moon: Inconstancy

    O you, in your little boat, who, longing to hear, have followed my keel, singing on its way, turn to regain your own shores: do not commit to the open sea, since, losing me, perhaps, you would be left adrift.
    The water I cut was never sailed before: Minerva breathes, Apollo guides, and the nine Muses point me toward the Bears.

    You other few, who have lifted your mouths, in time, towards the bread of Angels, by which life up here is nourished, and from which none of them come away sated, you may truly set your ship to the deep saltwater, following my furrow, in front of the water falling back to its level. The glorious Argonauts who sailed to Colchis, who marvelled when they saw Jason turned ploughman, did not marvel as much as you will.

    The inborn, perpetual thirst for the divine regions lifted us, almost as swiftly as you see the Heavens move. Beatrice was gazing upwards, and I at her: and I saw myself arriving, in the space of time perhaps it takes an arrow to be drawn, released, and leave the notch, there, where a marvellous thing engaged my sight: and therefore She, from whom nothing I did was hidden, turning towards me, as joyful as she was lovely, said: ‘Turn your mind towards God in gratitude, who has joined us with the first planet.’

    It seemed to me that a cloud covered us, dense, lucid, firm, and polished, like diamond struck by sunlight. The eternal pearl accepted us into it, as water accepts a ray of light, though still, itself, unbroken. If we cannot conceive, here, how one dimension could absorb another, which must be the case, if one body enters another, and if I were then a body, the greater should be our longing to see that Essence, where we see how our own nature, and God’s, were once unified.

    There, what we take, on trust, will be shown us, not demonstrated, but realised in ourselves, like a self-evident truth in which we believe.

    Paradiso Canto II:46-105 The Shadows on the Moon

    I replied to her: ‘Lady, I thank Him who has raised me from the mortal world, as devoutly as I can, but tell me what are those dark marks on this planet, that make the people down there on earth make fables about Cain?’
    She smiled a moment, and then said: ‘If human opinion errs, where the key of the senses cannot unlock it, the arrows of amazement should certainly not pierce you, since you see that Reason’s wings are too short, even when the senses can take the lead. But tell me what you yourself think about it.’ And I: ‘I think what appears variegated to us up here, is caused by dense and rare bodies.’

    And she: ‘You will see that your thought is truly submerged in error, if you listen attentively to the argument I will make against it.

    The eighth sphere, the Stellar Heaven, shows many lights to you, which can be seen to have diverse appearance, in quantity and quality. If rarity and density alone produced that effect, there would be one quality in all of them, more or less equally distributed. Different qualities must be the result of different formal principles, and on your reasoning, only one could exist.

    Again, if rarity were the cause of those dark non-reflecting patches you ask about, this planet would be short of matter in one part, right through: or, as a body layers fat and lean, it would have alternate pages in its volume.

    If the first were true, it would be revealed by solar eclipses, when the light would shine, through the less dense parts, as it does when falling on anything else that is translucent. That is not so: so we must consider the second case, and if I can show this is false also, your idea will have been refuted.

    If this less dense matter does not go right through, there must be a boundary, beyond which its denser opposite must prevent light travelling on, and from that boundary the rays would be reflected, as coloured light returns from glass that hides lead behind it. Now you will say that the ray is darker here than elsewhere because it is reflected from further back. Experiment can untangle you from that suggestion, if you will try it, which is always the spring that feeds the rivers of your science.

    Take three mirrors, and set two equidistant from you, and let the third, further away, be visible to your eyes, between the other two. Turn towards them, and have a light behind you, reflected from the three mirrors, back towards you. Though the more distant has a smaller area, you will see it shine as brightly as the others.’

    Paradiso Canto II:106-148 The Diffusion of the Divine Spirit

    ‘Now, I wish to illuminate you, who are stripped in mind, as the surface of the snow is stripped of colour and coldness by the stroke of the sun’s warm rays, with light so living it will tremble, as you gaze at it.
    In the Empyrean, the heaven of divine peace, a body whirls, the Primum Mobile, in whose virtue rests the existence of everything it contains. The Stellar Heaven that follows next, within and below it, which shows many lights, divides this existence among diverse essences, which it separates out, and contains. The other seven, lower Heavens circling, dispose the distinct powers they have, in themselves, by various differentiations, to their own seeds and ends.

    These organs of the universe fall, as you can see, from grade to grade, since they receive from above, and work downwards. Now, note well how I thread this pass, to the truth you long for, so that afterwards you may know how to keep the ford alone.

    The motion and power, of the sacred lower gyres, must be derived from the Angels, who are their movers and are blessed, as the hammer’s art derives from the blacksmith. And the Stellar Heaven, that so many lights beautify, takes its imprint from the profound mind, of the Cherubim, that turn it, and from that forms the seal. And as the soul, in your dust, diffuses itself through your different members, and melds to diverse powers, so the Divine Intelligence deploys its goodness, multiplied throughout the stars, still turning round its own unity. Each separate Angelic virtue makes a separate alloy with the precious body it vivifies, in which it is bound, as life is bound in you. Because of the joyful nature it flows from, the Angelic virtue, mingled with the body, shines through it, as joy shines through the living eye.

    From this, come the differences, between light and light, not from density or rarity: this is the formal principle that, according to its own excellence, produces the turbid and the clear.’

    Paradiso Canto III:1-33 The Spirits manifested in the Moon

    That sun, which first warmed my heart with love, had unveiled lovely truth’s sweet aspect to me, by proof and refutation: and I lifted up my head to speak, to confess myself corrected and believing, as was needed. But something appeared, that forced me to look at it, so that I stopped thinking of my confession.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 3, 14

    As the outlines of our faces are reflected, from transparent, polished glass, or from clear, tranquil water that is not deep enough for the bottom to be darkened, and are so faint that a pearl on a white forehead is not distinguished more slowly by our eyes, so I saw many faces, eager to speak: at which I fell into the opposite error to that which sparked love between Narcissus and the pool. I was no sooner aware of them, than, thinking they were reflected images, I turned my eyes round to see whose they were: and I saw nothing, and turned them back again, straight to the light of my sweet guide whose holy eyes glowed, as she smiled.

    She said: ‘Do not wonder if I smile, in the presence of your childish thought, since it does not trust itself with the truth, but turns, as it usually does, to emptiness. Those you behold are truly substantial, consigned here for failing in their vows. So speak to them, and listen, and believe, since the true light that satisfies them, does not allow them to turn their steps away from itself.’

    Paradiso Canto III:34-60 Piccarda Donati

    And I turned to the shadow who seemed to long to speak to me most, and, like someone whom too great a desire seizes, I began: ‘O spirit, happily created, who feels, in the rays of the eternal life, that sweetness, never understood till it is tasted, it would please me, if you would grace me with your name and your story.’
    At which she replied, eagerly, with smiling eyes: ‘Our love no more closes the gate on a valid request, than does that Love which would make all its courts like itself. I was a virgin sister in the world, and if your memory is searched deeply, my greater beauty, now, will not hide me from you, but you will know me again, as Piccarda, who am blessed in this sphere that moves the slowest, placed here with these others, who are blessed. Our affections that are only inflamed by the pleasure of the Holy Spirit, delight to be informed under his guidance. And this fate, which seems so humble, is given us because our vows were neglected and missing certain cantos.’

    At that I said to her: ‘In your marvellous aspect, something divine shines out again, that transmutes you from my previous concept of you. That is why I was slow to recall you to mind: now what you tell me gives me such assistance, that I remember you more clearly.’

    Paradiso Canto III:61-96 God’s Will

    ‘But tell me, you who are happy here, do you wish for a higher place, to see further, or to make yourself dearer?’ She smiled with the other shadows first, a little, then replied to me so joyously she seemed to be burning with the first fire of love: ‘Brother, the power of love quiets our will, and makes us only long for what we have, and gives us no other thirst. If we desired to be higher up, our wishes would be at odds with his will, who assigns us here, and there is no room for that discord in these circles, if you think again about love’s nature, and that we of necessity have our being in Love.
    No, it is the essence of this being blessed to keep ourselves to the Divine Will, through which our own wills are unified. So that our being as we are, from step to step, throughout the kingdom, is a joy to all the kingdom, as it is to the king, who draws our wills towards what he wills: and in his will is our peace, la sua volontate è nostra pace: it is the sea, to which all things flow, that it creates, and nature forms.’ It was clear to me then how every part of Heaven is Paradise, even though the grace of the Highest Good does not pour down to it in only one way.

    But even as it happens that, if one kind of food satisfies us, while the appetite for another kind persists, and giving thanks for that one, we ask for this one, so by word and gesture I learned from her what that warp was, through which she had not drawn the shuttle, to its end.

    Paradiso Canto III:97-130 St Clare: The Empress Constance

    She said: ‘A life perfected, and great merit, set a lady, Saint Clare, higher in Heaven, and there are those, in your world, who dress and veil themselves, according to her rule, so that they might sleep and wake, till death, with the Spouse who accepts every vow, which Love has made conformable with his pleasure. I fled from the world, while still a girl, to follow her, and shut myself in her habit, and promised to pursue the way of her company.
    After that, men, who were more used to evil than good, tore me away from that sweet cloister, and God knows what my life became then.

    And this other splendour, who shows herself to you, on my right side, and who burns with all the light of our sphere, says what I say, of myself, about herself. She was a sister, and, in a similar way, the shadow of the holy veil was snatched from her head. But, turned back towards the world as she was, against her will, and against right dealings, she was never torn from her heart’s veil. This is the light of the great Constance, who by Henry the Sixth, the second stormwind of Suabia, conceived Frederick, the third and final power.’

    So she spoke to me, and then began singing: ‘Ave Maria’, and, singing, vanished like a heavy weight through deep water. My vision, which followed her as far as it could, turned, when it lost her, to the mark of a greater longing, and fastened its look wholly on Beatrice: but she flashed into my gaze so brightly, that my sight could not at first endure it, and this made me slower with my questioning.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63 Dante’s doubts: The Spirits: Plato’s Error

    Death from starvation would come to a man, between two foods, equally distant and equally appetising, before a free man set his teeth in either. So a lamb would stand, equally fearful, between the appetites of two fierce wolves, or a dog stand still between two hinds. So I do not blame or commend myself for keeping quiet, caught in the same way, suspended between doubts, because I was forced to.
    I kept quiet, but my longing was pictured on my face, and my questioning also, in far warmer colours than speech could show. And Beatrice took the part that Daniel took, when he lifted Nebuchadnezzar’s cloud of anger that had made him cruel, unjustly, and she said: ‘I can see clearly how this desire and that one stirs you, so that your anxiety constricts itself, and cannot breathe itself out.

    You argue: ‘If the right intent is still there, how can another’s violence lessen my measure of worth?’ And you are given further cause for perplexity, by the souls returning to the stars, in Plato’s doctrine. These are the two questions that weigh equally on your will, so I will take that first which contains the most dangerous error.

    He of the Seraphim nearest to God, Moses, Samuel, John, either one, you may choose, and Mary, none of them take their places in any different Heaven than the spirits who appeared to you just now, nor do they have more years or less of existence. But all beautify the first sphere, the Empyrean, and share sweet life, but differently, by feeling the eternal spirit more, or less.

    They have shown themselves here, not because this sphere is theirs, but to signify the least steep celestial ascent for you. Such speech needs to match your faculties that can only make fit matter, for your intellect, from what is apprehended by your senses. So the Scriptures also bend to your capacity, attributing hands and feet to God, symbolically, and Holy Church represents Gabriel and Michael, and Raphael who made Tobit complete again, in human form.

    What Timaeus argues concerning spirits, is not what can be seen here, since he seems to believe what he says, and says the soul returns to its star, thinking it was split from it, when nature gave it form, though perhaps his meaning is different than the words say, and may have an intention that should not be derided. If he means that the honour and the blame, ascribed to their influence, returns to these spheres, perhaps his arrow hits some mark of truth.

    This principle, badly understood, almost wrenched the whole world awry, so that it rushed to call upon the names of Jupiter, Mars and Mercury.’

    Paradiso Canto IV:64-114 Response to Violence: The Dual Will

    ‘The other source of doubt which troubles you, is less venomous, because its evil influence could not lead you away from me, elsewhere. That our justice appears an injustice to mortal eyes, is a question for faith, not for heretical error. But since your intellect has the power to penetrate easily to this truth, I will satisfy you, as you desire.
    If violence occurs when those who suffer it do nothing to contribute to what displays force towards them, well then, these souls did not have that excuse: since, the will cannot be overcome if it does not will to be, but behaves like nature in the flames, though a thousand times wrenched away by violence. But if it wavers, more or less, it helps the force against it: and they wavered, since they had the power to return later to the sacred place.

    If their will had remained entire, like that which held Saint Lawrence on the grid, and made Mucius Scaevola treat his right hand with severity, it would have pushed them back towards the path, from which they were taken, as soon as they were free: but such strong will is all too rare.

    Now, if you have gleaned what you should have from these words, the difficulty that would have troubled you, many more times, has been resolved. But now another gulf across your track, meets your eyes, which would make you weary, before you crossed it, alone.

    I have surely instilled in your mind that spirits who are blessed cannot tell a lie, because they live close to the First Truth, and also you might have understood, from Piccarda, that Constance maintained her devotion to the veil, so that Piccarda appears to contradict me. Brother, many times before, things have been done to escape danger, that were against the grain, and not fitting: so Alcmaeon, moved by his father’s prayer, killed his own mother, and to be pious, rendered himself impious.

    At this point, I want you to remember that violence is allowed by the will, and they work together, so that the offence cannot be excused. The absolute will does not consent to evil, but it does consent, in as much as it fears that, if it does not, it will encounter worse. So, when Piccarda expresses this, she is speaking of the absolute will, and I of the practical will, so that, together, we both speak the truth.’

    Paradiso Canto IV:115-142 Dante’s desire for Truth

    Such was the flow, from that holy stream, that rose from the fountain from which all truth derives: and was such that it brought peace to both my desires. Then I said: ‘O divine lady, loved by the First Lover, you whose speech floods through me, and warms me, so that it makes me more and more alive, my affections have not the depth to be able to return grace for grace but may He who sees it, and has the power, respond to it.
    Now I see that our intellect can never be satisfied unless the Truth, which no truth goes beyond, shines on it. It rests there, like a wild creature in its lair, as soon as it has reached it: and it can, otherwise all longing would be in vain. So inquiry grows, like a new shoot at the base of truth, a natural thing that rises towards the summit, from ridge to ridge. That invites me, and gives me confidence, to question you lady, reverentially, about another truth hidden from me.

    I wish to know if Man can give you such satisfaction, by other good intentions, for his broken vows, as not to weigh short on your scales.’

    Beatrice looked at me, with eyes so filled with divine sparks of love, that my faculties turned away, overcome, and I felt lost, with downcast eyes.

    Paradiso Canto V:1-84 Free Will: Vows: Dispensations

    ‘If I flame at you, in the heat of love, beyond the degree of it seen on earth, and, in so doing, overcome the power of your eyes, do not wonder, since it arises from perfect vision, that, as it understands, advances in the good it understands. I note clearly how the eternal light, already, shines back from your intellect, that, which, once seen, always sets love alight, and if anything else seduces your love, it is nothing but a trace of this light, wrongly comprehended, that shines through in it.
    You wish to know whether reparation may be made, for broken vows, by means of some other service, great enough as to render the soul secure from disputation.’ So Beatrice began this canto, and like someone who does not pause, continued the sacred progress, like this: ‘The greatest gift that God made at the Creation, out of his munificence, the one that most fitted his supreme goodness, and which he values most, is Free Will, with which intelligent creatures, all and sundry, were, and are, endowed.

    Now the high value placed on vows will be clear to you, if they are made such that God consents, when you consent: since, in confirming the pact between God and Man, the guilty party is rendered such by this treasure of Free Will, just as I say, and by their own act. What can be done then, in recompense? If you thought to make good use of what you once consecrated, you would be doing good with stolen evil. You are now clear on the major point.

    But since Holy Church grants dispensations, that seem to run counter to the truth I have revealed, you must still sit at table for a while, as the tough fibres, you have eaten, require further help to aid digestion. Open your mind to what I unfold for you, and fix it inwardly, since to understand and not retain, is not knowledge.

    Two things appertain to the essence of this self-sacrifice: the first is its content: the second is the vow itself. The latter can never be cancelled, except by being kept: and it is about this that my previous discourse is so precise: so it was necessary, always, for the Hebrews to make sacrifice, though, as you ought to know, the thing sacrificed might sometimes be altered.

    The content, the other aspect of the matter being explained to you, may indeed be such that there is no offence if it is substituted by other content. But let no one shift the burden from his shoulder at his own discretion, without a turn of the gold and silver keys (of knowledge and authority). And let him consider any change as foolish, unless the thing that is lapsed from bears a proportion of four to six, to the thing replacing it. And so whatever weighs so heavily in respect of its value, that it exceeds every scale, can never be replaced by any other means.

    Human beings should never take vows lightly: be faithful, and not perverse, as Jepthath was perverse in his first vow, whom it would have been more fitting to have said: ‘Mal feci: I did wrong,’ than keep the vow and do worse: and you may accuse the great leader of the Greeks, Agamemnon, of the same foolishness, that made Iphigenia weep that her face was lovely, and made the wise and foolish weep for her, hearing tell of such a rite.

    Be more cautious in action, you Christians, not like a feather blown by every wind: and do not think that all water purifies. You have the Old and New Testaments, and the shepherd of the Church to guide you: let that be enough for your salvation. If evil greed declares otherwise, be men not mindless sheep, so that the Jews among you do not deride you. Do not do as the lamb does that leaves its mother’s milk, capricious and silly, sporting with itself for pleasure.’

    Paradiso Canto V:85-139 The Second Sphere: Mercury: Ambition

    So Beatrice spoke to me, as I write it: then she turned, all in longing, to that region where the universe is most alive. Her silence, and her changed aspect, demanded reticence from my eager intellect that already had new questions to ask. And like an arrow, that hits the target, before the bowstring is still, we rose to the second sphere.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 5, 99

    There I saw my Lady, so delighted, at committing herself to the light of this heaven, that the planet itself grew brighter. And if the star was altered, and smiled, what did I, who am, by my very nature, changeable in every way!

    As the fish in a still, clear pool swim towards whatever falls from above that they consider something to feed on, so I saw more than a thousand radiances draw towards us, and in each one was heard: ‘Ecco chi crescerà li nostri amori: Behold someone who will increase our love.’ And as each one came to us, the shadow seemed filled with delight, judging by the bright glow that came from it.

    Reader, think how you would feel an anguished craving, to know more, if what I start now did not continue, and you will see yourself how I longed to hear from them about their state, as soon as they were manifested to my sight.

    ‘O fortunately-born one, you, to whom grace concedes the right to see the thrones of eternal triumph, before you abandon the place of militancy, we are fired by the light that burns through all the heavens, and therefore if you want to be lit by us, satisfy yourself at pleasure.’ So one of the spirits said to me, and Beatrice said: ‘Speak, speak in safety, and believe, as you would gods.’

    Turned to the light that had spoken to me first, I said: ‘Truly, I see how you are nested in your own light, and that you draw it through your eyes, since they sparkle as you smile, but I do not know who you are, noble spirit, or why you are graded in this sphere, that is veiled, for mortals, in the sun’s rays,’ at which it glowed more brightly even than before.

    Like the sun, which hides itself in excess light when heat has eaten away the moderating effect of the thick clouds, so the sacred figure, through greater delight, hid himself in his own rays, and so, enclosed, enclosed, replied to me, as the following canto declares.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111 Justinian: The Empire

    ‘When Constantine had turned the Imperial eagle eastwards, against the sky’s course which it had followed in the wake of Aeneas, who took Lavinia from her father, the Bird of God held court at the extremity of Europe, for two hundred years and more, near to the mountains of Troy that he had first issued from: and there he ruled the world, under the shadow of his sacred wings, from reign to reign, until by the passage of time, rule fell to me.
    Caesar I was, Justinian I am, who pared excess and ineffectiveness from the Law, at the wish of the First Love I now feel: and when I first fixed my mind on that labour, I held that Christ had one nature, and no more, and I was content in that belief: but Agapetus, the blessed, who was Pope, pointed me to the true faith, by his words. I believed him, and now I see the content of his faith, as clearly as you see that in every contradictory pair, if one statement is false, the other is true. As soon as I was in step with the Church, it pleased God, in his grace, to inspire me to that high task, and I gave it my all, and committed my weapons to Belisarius, whom Heaven’s right hand was so wedded to, it was a sign that I should rest from them. Now here is the end, already, of my answer to your first question: who I am: but its context forces me to follow with some additions.

    So you may know how much reason is on the side of those who oppose the sacred banner of Empire, as well as those who embrace it, see how great a nobility has made it worthy of reverence, beginning from the time when Evander’s son, Pallas, died to ensure its rule.

    You know it rested in Alba Longa for more than three hundred years, until the end, when the three Horatii and the three Curiatii fought for it. And you know what it enacted, from the wrong to the Sabine women, to Lucretia’s grief, through the reigns of seven kings who conquered the neighbouring peoples.

    You know what it did, carried against Brennus the Gaul, against Greek Pyrrhus, and against the other princes and powers, from which Torquatus, and Cincinnatus, named for his curling hair, the Decii, and the Fabii, earned the fame that I delight in remembering.

    It threw down the Arab pride that followed Hannibal over the Alps, from which the River Po rises. Scipio and Pompey triumphed beneath it, while still young, and it was bitter to Fiesole, in those hills, under which you were born.

    Then, near the time when Heaven wished to lead the world to its own peaceful mode, Caesar laid hands on it, at Rome’s wish, and the Isère and Arar, the Seine, and every valley filled by the Rhone, know what it achieved, then, from Var to Rhine.

    What it did then, when he left Ravenna and crossed the Rubicon, was so great that tongue and pen could not describe it. It wheeled the armies towards Spain, and then Durazzo, and struck Pharsalia so fiercely that the pain was felt as far as the hot Nile. It saw Trojan Antandros and Simois again, from which it first came, and saw the place where Hector lies, and then, alas for Ptolemy, soared again, and afterwards swooped on Juba in a lightning flash, then wheeled to the west where it heard the Pompeian trumpets.

    Brutus and Cassius howl in Hell because of its support for Augustus who followed, and it made Modena and Perugia mourn. Miserable Cleopatra still suffers because of it, who, as she fled from the eagle, took dark sudden death from the viper.

    It ran with Augustus to the Red Sea coast, and with him brought the world to such a peace that Janus saw his temple gates closed.

    But what the Eagle, that I speak of, did before, what it was yet to do throughout the subject mortal world, becomes a dull and insignificant thing to see, if the standard is viewed, with clear eye and pure heart, in Tiberius’s, the third Caesar’s, hand, since the living Justice, that was my inspiration, granted it the glory of taking vengeance for his anger, in the hands of which I speak.

    Now see the wonder in the twofold thing I tell you! It rushed to wreak vengeance, on that vengeance for the ancient sin, afterwards, under Titus.

    And much later when the Lombard tooth gnawed at the Holy Church, Charlemagne, victorious, sheltered her under its wings.

    Now you may judge those I accused just now, and their sins, which are the cause of all your troubles. One faction, the Guelphs, oppose the golden lilies of France to the people’s Eagle, and the other, the Ghibellines, appropriate it to their party, so that it is difficult to see which one offends the most. Let the Ghibellines deploy their skills under some other banner, since he who divorces it from justice always follows it to disaster. And do not let that new Charles, of Naples, beat it down, with his Guelphs, but let him fear the talons, that have torn the hide from greater lions than him. Many a time, before now, the children have grieved for the father’s sin, and do not let Charles imagine that God will change his coat of arms for royal lilies.’

    Paradiso Canto VI:112-142 Romeo of Villeneuve

    ‘This little planet adorns herself with good souls, who actively searched for honour and fame, and when desire, swerving, tends towards that, the rays of true love shine upwards with less life. But part of our delight is in the matching of our reward to our merit, because we see them neither magnified nor lessened. By this, the living Justice so sweetens our affections, that they may never be twisted to any malice.
    On earth a diversity of voices creates sweet harmony, and in the same way the different degrees in this life make sweet harmony among the spheres.

    And, here, in this pearl, the light of Romeo of Villeneuve shines, whose fine, and extensive efforts were so badly rewarded. But the Provençals who harmed him, cannot smile, and he who makes his own ruin out of another’s goodness, takes a bad road. Raymond Berenger had four daughters, and every one a queen, and this was achieved, on his behalf, by Romeo of Villeneuve, a humble pilgrim wanderer: then muttered words made Raymond demand account from this just man, who gave him twelve for every ten: and Romeo went his way again, old and poor: and if the world knew the heart he had in him, who begged, crust after crust, to stay alive, much as it praises him, it would praise him more.’

    Paradiso Canto VII:1-54 The Fall of Man and the Crucifixion

    ‘Osanna Sanctus Deus Sabaoth, superillustrans claritate tua felices ignes horum malachoth! Hosanna, Holy God of Sabaoth, illuminating the blessed fires of these kingdoms, with your brightness from above! So I saw him, singing, to whom the double lustre, of Law and Empire, adds itself, revolving to his own note, and he and the others moved in dance, and like the swiftest of sparks, suddenly veiled themselves from me, in the distance.
    I said, hesitating: ‘Speak to her, Speak,’ in myself, ‘Speak to my Lady who quenches my thirst, with the sweetest drops.’ But that reverence that completely overcomes me, even at the sound of Be or ice, bowed me again, like a man who slumbers. Beatrice only let me be like that for a moment, and began to direct the rays of her smile towards me, that would make a man happy in the flames: ‘According to my unerring perception, those words about how just vengeance was revenged, with justice, have set you thinking: but I will quickly relieve your thoughts: and listen closely since my words will grant you the gift of a noble statement.

    Adam, that man who was not born, condemned his whole race because he would not suffer a rein on his will, for his own good. Therefore Humanity lay in sickness down there, and in great error, for many ages, until it pleased God’s Word to descend, when he joined that nature that had wandered from its Creator, to his own person, solely by an act of his eternal Love.

    Now turn you vision to what I now say: this nature, joined to its maker, was pure and good, as it was when first created, but it had been exiled from Paradise, by its own action, by turning from the way of truth, and its own life. Measured by the nature assumed, no penalty was ever exacted so justly, as that one, inflicted on the Cross, and if we gaze at the Person who endured it, in whom that nature was incarnate, by the same measure no punishment was ever so unjust. So contrary effects came from one cause: God and the Jews were satisfied by the same death: and Earth shook, and Heaven opened at it.

    Now, it should not seem a difficulty to you, to hear it said that just revenge was taken by the Court of Justice. But now I see your mind tangled in knots, from thought to thought, which it greatly longs for release from.’

    Paradiso Canto VII:55-120 The Redemption: The Incarnation

    ‘You are saying to yourself: Yes, I understand what I hear, but why God only willed this method of our redemption, is hidden from me. Brother, this decree is buried from the sight of everyone whose intellect is not ripened in Love’s flame. But I will reveal why this method was the most valuable, since it is knowledge often aimed at, but little understood.
    The Divine Good, that rejects all envy, fires out such sparks from its inner fire as to show forth the eternal beauty. What distills from it, without mediation, is eternal, because the print cannot be removed, once it has stamped the seal. What rains down from it, without mediation, is total freedom, since it is not subject to the power of transient things. It conforms more closely to the Good, and is therefore more pleasing to it: since the sacred flame that lights everything, is most alive in what most resembles it.

    The human creature has all these advantages, and if one fails, then that creature falls from nobility. Sin is the only thing that disenfranchises it, and makes it dissimilar to the Highest Good, so that its light irradiates it less, and the creature may never return to dignity, unless it fills the place where guilt has made a void, with just punishment for sinful delight.

    When your nature sinned in totality in the first seed, it was parted from dignity, as it was from Paradise: and they could not be regained, however subtly you search, except by crossing over one of these two fords: either that God out of his grace remitted the debt, or Man gave satisfaction for his foolishness.

    Now fix your eyes on the abyss of Eternal Wisdom, following my speech as closely as you can.

    Man had no power ever to be able to give satisfaction, in his own being, since he could not humble himself, by new obedience, as deeply, as he had aimed, so highly, to exalt himself, through disobedience. This was the reason why man was shut out from the power to give satisfaction by himself. Therefore God had to return Man to his perfect life in his own way: that is, through mercy or through justice, or both. And since what is done by the doer is more gracious the more it shows us the goodness of the heart it comes from, the Divine Goodness, that imprints the world, was content to act in both ways, to raise you up again.

    Between the first day and the last, there never was, nor ever will be again, so high and magnificent a progress on either of those roads, since God was more generous in giving of himself, to make Man capable of rising again, than if he had only granted remission, from himself: and every other way fell short of justice, except that by which the Son of God humbled himself, to become incarnate.’

    Paradiso Canto VII:121-148 Creation and Resurrection

    ‘Now to answer all your longings, I go back to explain a certain passage, so that you can understand it as I do. You are saying to yourself: I see the water, fire, earth, and air: and all their mixtures come to corruption, and do not last for long, and yet these things were creatures, and ought to be secure from corruption, if what I have said to you is true.
    Brother, the Angels, and the pure region where you are, may be said to be created as they are, in their total being, but the elements you have named and all the compounds of them, have been inwardly formed by a created power. The matter that they hold was created: the formative power in those stars which circle round them was created.

    The life of every wild creature and every plant is drawn from compounds gaining power by the rays and motion of the sacred lights. But your life is breathed into you without mediation, by the supreme beneficence that makes life love it, so that it always longs for it. And from this you can deduce your resurrection in the flesh, if you again consider how human bodies were first made, when your first parents were both made.’

    Paradiso Canto VIII:1-30 The Third Sphere: Venus: Earthly Love

    In its Pagan days the world used to believe that lovely Cyprian Venus beamed down fond love, turning in the third epicycle, so that those ancient peoples, in ancient error, not only did her the honour of sacrifice and the votive cry, but honoured Dione as well, and Cupid, one as her mother, the other as her son, and told how Cupid sat in Dido’s lap: and from her, from whom I take my start, they took the name of the planet, that courts the Sun, now setting in front, and now behind.
    I had no sense of rising into her sphere, but my Lady’s aspect gave me faith that I was there, because I saw her grow more beautiful. And as we see a spark in a flame, and as a voice can be distinguished from a voice, if one remains fixed and the other comes and goes, so, in that light itself, I saw other lamps, moving in circles, faster or slower, in accord, I believe, with the nature of their eternal vision.

    Blasts never blew from a chill cold, visibly or invisibly, so rapidly that that they would not seem slow and hindered, to whoever had seen those divine lights coming towards us, leaving the circling that has its first conception in the exalted Seraphim. And among those who appeared most in advance, Hosanna sounded, in such a manner that ever since I have not been free of the desire to hear it again.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:31-84 Charles Martel

    Then one came nearer to us, and began alone: ‘We are all at your pleasure, so that you may have joy of us. We orbit with those celestial Princes in one circle, and one circling, and with one thirst, we, to whom you, from the world below, once said: Voi che intendendo il terzo ciel movete: You who by understanding move the third circle: and we are so filled with love, that a moment of rest, to give you pleasure, will be no less sweet to us.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 8, 60

    When my eyes had been lifted in reverence to my Lady, and she had herself given them satisfaction and assurance, they turned back to the light that had offered itself so generously, and: ‘Say, who you are.’ were my words, stamped with great affection. Oh, how I saw it grow in size and splendour, at the new joy, added to its joys, when I spoke! Altered in that way, it said to me: ‘The world held me, held Charles Martel, below for only a little while: if it had been longer, much of the evil that will happen would not happen. My joy, shining round me, keeps me hidden from you, concealing me like a silkworm cocooned in its own silk. You loved me greatly, and with good cause, since if I had stayed below I would have shown you greater love than the mere shoots of it.

    That left bank, Provence, that the Rhone washes after its meeting with the Sorgue, waited for me to be its lord in time, so did Naples, that stretch of Ausonia, with its cities of Bari, Gaeta, and Catona, down from where Tronto and Verde discharge into the sea. The Crown of Hungary, that the Danube waters, when it has left its German banks, already shone on my forehead: and beautiful Sicily, Trinacria, over the gulf the east wind torments most, that is darkened between Pachynus and Pelorus, not by Typhon, but by the sulphurous clouds, would still have looked for its kings born of the line through me from Charles II and the Emperor Rudolph, if bad governance, that stirs the hearts of subject peoples, had not caused Palermo to cry out: “Death, Death.”

    And if Robert of Calabria my brother had seen it in good time, he would already have avoided the greedy adventurers of Catalonia, before they do him wrong, and indeed he or another needs to make provision that a heavier load is not laid on his already laden boat. His nature, meanness descended from generosity, needs soldiers who do not care about stuffing their purses.’

    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148 Heredity and the Influence of the Heavens

    I said: ‘Sir, because I believe you see the great joy your conversation floods me with, as I see it, there where every good has its beginning and end, it is more gratifying to me: and also I value that you see it by gazing on God. You have given me delight, now enlighten me, since in speaking you have stirred me to question how bitter seed can be born from the sweet.’ And he to me: ‘If I can show you a truth, you will have the thing you ask, that is behind your back, in front of your eyes.
    The Good, which turns, and makes content, the whole kingdom, that you climb, makes its providence a power in these great celestial bodies, and provision is not only made for the nature of things but for their welfare too, by that Mind that is perfection in itself. So whatever this bow fires moves towards its destined end, like an arrow fired at the mark. If that were not so, the Heaven you are crossing would bring its effects into being so that they would be chaos and not art, and that cannot be unless the intellects that move these planets are defective, and the First Mover too, who failed to perfect them. Do you wish this truth to be clarified more?’

    I said: ‘No, since I know it is impossible for Nature to fall short of what is needed.’ And he again: ‘Now, say, would it be worse for man if he were not a citizen, on earth, but left to his own sufficiency?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and I do not need to ask the reason.’ ‘And can that be, unless men live various lives below, and with various tasks? Not if your master, Aristotle, wrote truly for you.’ He reached this point, deducing, and then gave the conclusion: ‘Therefore the roots of your qualities must be diverse, so that one is born Solon the lawgiver, and another Xerxes, the soldier, one Melchizedek, the priest, and another Daedalus, the inventor, who lost his son, soaring through the sky.

    Circling Nature, the seal on the mortal wax, is a good maker, and does not distinguish between one house and another. So that Esau differs from Jacob in the seed, and Romulus worshipped as Quirinus, comes from so lowly a father he is assigned to Mars instead. The nature at birth would always be like its parent, if Divine Providence did not overrule it.

    Now what was hidden behind you is in front of you, but so you may know I am delighted with you, I will wrap you round with a corollary. Nature makes a poor fist of things, if she finds events out of harmony with herself, like any other seed out of its proper soil. If the world below paid attention to the foundation Nature lays, and followed that, it would be satisfied with its citizens, but you drag him born to the sword into a religious order, and make a king of him who should be an orator, so that your path cuts across the road.’

    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66 Cunizza da Romano

    Lovely Clemence, when your Charles had clarified things for me, he told me about the wrongs his seed was fated to encounter, but added: ‘Be silent, and let the years turn,’ so that I can say nothing except that well-justified grief will follow those wrongs.
    And already the life of that holy light had turned towards the Sun that illuminates it, as towards the Good which is sufficient to everything. O impious creatures! O deceived spirits who twist your hearts away from that Good, turning your minds to vanities!

    And see, another of those splendours came towards me, and signified its desire to satisfy me, by an outer brightening. Beatrice’s eyes, gazing at me, as before, assured me of happy assent to my wish. I said: ‘Ah, give quick satisfaction to my will, spirit who are blessed, and show proof that I can reflect what I think from you.’ At which the light which was still a stranger to me, from the depths, where it was, at first singing, continued by speaking, like one happy to do good: ‘In that region of Italy, the depraved country, which lies between Venice and the sources of the Brenta and Piave, rises a hill raised to no great height, from which, Ezzelino da Romano, the burning brand, descended, who made a vicious assault on that land. I sprang with him out of the same root: Cunizza I am called, and I shine here because the light of this star conquered me. But I grant myself indulgence for my fate, and it does not grieve me, which perhaps would seem strange to the common man.

    The great fame of this dear shining jewel in our Heaven, Folco of Marseilles, who is my nearest neighbour, remains, and before it dies this centenary year will be repeated five times. See how another life follows the first if a man achieves excellence! The present crew in the March of Treviso, enclosed by the Tagliamento and the Adige, do not think of that, beaten but still unrepentant. But it will soon come to pass that Paduan blood will stain the water that bathes Vicenza, because the people rebel against their duty. And at Treviso, where the Sile meets the Cagnano, Riccardo da Camino holds sway, and goes with head held high, for whom the net to catch him is already woven.

    From Feltro a wail of grief will rise yet, because of the sins of its impious pastor, Alessandro Novello, so foul, that no one ever entered the prison of Malta for their equal. The dish that would be needed to receive Ferrara’s blood, which this obliging priest will give up to show himself loyal, would be too large, and weary whoever had to weigh it ounce by ounce: and such are the gifts that suit this country’s way of life. There are mirrors above, you call them Thrones, from which God shines in judgement on us, so that these words prove good to us.’

    Here she fell silent, and to me she seemed like one who turns to other things, giving herself to the wheel, so that she was as before.

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126 Folco of Marseilles

    The other joyful light, which I had already noted as being distinguished, shone to my sight like a fine ruby, illuminated by the sun. Brightness comes from joy up there, as a smile does here on earth, while down below the spirits are dark outside, just as the mind is saddened.
    I said: ‘God sees it all, and your vision is in him, spirit of the blessed, so that no desire is hidden from you. Why then does your voice, which, with the singing of those devoted fires, the Seraphim, who make a cowl, with six wings, of themselves, gladdens Heaven endlessly, not satisfy my wishes? If I were in you, as you are in me, I would not have waited for your request till now.

    Then he began to speak: ‘The Mediterranean, that greatest valley, into which water flows, from the ocean round the earth, extends so far between its opposite shores, eastwards, that its zenith is formed of what was horizon. I was an inhabitant of Marseilles’s shore, half way between the Ebro and the Macra, which, with its short course, separates the Genoese and the Tuscans. The site of Bougia in Algeria is almost alike in sunrises and sunsets to the place I come from, whose harbour Caesar once warmed with that place’s blood.

    Those who knew me, called me Folco, and I imprint this Heaven as it imprinted me, since Dido, Belus’s daughter, wronging Sichaeus and Aeneas’s Creüsa, burned no hotter than I, as long as it suited my youthfulness: nor did Phyllis, the girl from Rhodope, who was deceived by Demophoön, nor Hercules when his heart enclosed Iole. But this is not a place of repentance, here we smile: not at the sin, which the mind does not dwell on, but the Power that ordained and provided.

    Here we gaze at the Art, which beautified so great a creation, and discern the Good, which returns the world below to the world above. But so that you might fully satisfy all the longings born in this sphere, I must continue. You will wish to know who is inside that light that gleams next to me, like the sun’s rays in pure water. Know, now, that Rahab, the prostitute, finds peace there, and when she joined our order, it sealed itself, in the highest rank, with her. Before any other soul, she was uplifted at Christ’s triumph, by this sphere, which is touched by the shadow your Earth casts into space. It was truly fitting to leave her in one of the Heavens as a symbol of the great victory achieved by those two nailed hands: because she favoured Joshua’s first glorious campaign in the Holy Land, that land that scarcely touches this Pope’s memory.’

    Paradiso Canto IX:127-142 Florence: The corruption of usury

    ‘Florence, the city founded by Mars, that Satan who first turned his back on his Maker, and from whose envy such great grief has come, coins and spreads that accursed lily flower, that has sent the sheep and lambs astray, since it has made a wolf of the shepherd.
    So the Gospels and the Great Doctors are neglected, and only the Decretals, the law-books are studied, as can be seen by their margins. On that, the Pope and Cardinals are intent: their thoughts do not stray to Nazareth, where Gabriel’s wings unfolded, But the Vatican and the other sacred parts of Rome, that cemetery for the soldiers who followed Peter, will soon be freed from the bond of adultery.’

    Paradiso Canto X:1-63 The Fourth Sphere: The Sun: Prudence

    The primal and unutterable Power, gazing at his Son, with the Love that both breathe out eternally, made whatever circles through mind and space with such order, that whoever knows them is not without some sense of Him. Then, Reader, raise you eyes with me to the distant wheels, directed to that point where the Celestial Equator and the Ecliptic meet, and begin to view the art of that Master who loves it so much, within himself, that he never lets his eyes leave it.
    See how the Ecliptic, the oblique circle that carries the planets, slants from that Equinoctial point, to satisfy the world’s call for them: and if their path were not inclined, much of the power of the Heavens would be useless, and every potential dead on Earth: and if the slope from the level was greater or smaller, much would be lacking in Cosmic order below and above.

    Now, Reader, stay on your bench, thinking back on this preamble, if you would delight in it before you weary. I have put the food in front of you, now feed yourself, since the matter I have set myself to write of, now draws my complete attention to itself.

    The Sun, the greatest minister of Nature, who stamps the world with the power of Heaven, and measures time for us by his light, was circling on the spiral where he shows himself earlier every day, joined to that Equinoctial point I recalled. And I was with him: but I was no more aware of my ascent than a man is aware of his first thoughts approaching. It is Beatrice who leads me from good to better, so suddenly that her action requires no time.

    How bright, in itself, must that be, that shows itself in the Sun, which I had entered, not by colour, but by light! Though I might call on intellect, art and knowledge, I could never express it so as to make it imaginable, but it may be believed, and desired to be seen. And if our imaginations are too base for such exaltation, it is no surprise, since no eye could ever transcend the Sun. Such was the fourth House of the supreme Father, who always contents it, by showing how he breathes and engenders.

    And Beatrice began to speak: ‘Give thanks, Give thanks to the Sun of the Angels, who, in his grace, has raised you to this visible sun.’ The heart of man was never so disposed to devotion, and so eager to give itself to God with all its will, as I was at those words: and my love was committed to Him so completely, it eclipsed Beatrice from memory. That did not displease her: but she smiled at it so that the splendour, of her laughing eyes, scattered my mind’s coherence amongst many things.

    Paradiso Canto X:64-99 Thomas Aquinas: Albertus Magnus

    Then I saw many lights, living and victorious, make a central point of us, and a coronet, even sweeter in voice than shining in appearance, of themselves. So we sometimes see the Moon, Diana, Latona’s daughter, haloed when the air is so damp as to retain the rainbow thread that weaves her zone. There are many jewels so dear and lovely, in the courts of Heaven I have returned from, that they cannot be moved from that region, and such was the song of these lights: he who does not wing himself to fly up to them, may as well look for news of them from the speechless.
    When those burning suns, so singing, had circled round us three times, like stars near the fixed poles, they seemed as ladies do, not released from the dance, but resting, silent, listening, until they hear the notes again. And in one I heard a voice begin to say: ‘Since the light of grace glows in you, at which true love is lit, and then by loving is multiplied, so as to lead you on that stair, that no one descends except to climb again, whoever denied you the wine from his glass, to quench your thirst, would be as little at liberty to do so, as water to refuse to flow to the sea.

    You wish to know with what flowers this garland is decorated that circles the lovely lady who strengthens your resolve for Heaven. I was one of the lambs, of the sacred flock, that Dominic leads on the path where there is good pasture, if we do not stray. He, who is nearest to me on the right, was my master and my brother: he was Albert of Cologne, and I, Thomas Aquinas.’

    Paradiso Canto X:100-129 Solomon: Dionysius: Boëthius

    ‘If you wish to know the rest as well, circling above around the garland, blessed, direct your sight according to my words. This next flamelet issues from Gratian’s smile, he who gave such help to the ecclesiastical and civil spheres as is acceptable in Paradise. The fourth, that adorns our choir next, was that Peter Lombard, who, like the poor widow, offered his wealth to Holy Church. The fifth light, which is most beautiful among us, breathes from such a love, that all the world, below, thirsts to have news of it. In there is the noble mind of Solomon, to which was granted a wisdom so profound, that if truth be known, no other ever achieved so complete a vision.
    Next look at that taper’s light, Dionysius, who in the flesh down there, saw deepest into the Angelic nature and its ministry. In the seventh little light, Orosius, that pleader for the Christian Age, whose works Augustine made use of.

    Now if you run your mind’s eye from light to light, following my praise, you are already thirsting for the eighth. In there, seeing every good, Boëthius, the sainted soul rejoices, who unmasked the deceitful world to those who give him a careful hearing. The body from which it was chased out, lies down below in Cieldauro, and it came from exile and martyrdom to this peace.’

    Paradiso Canto X:130-148 Isidore: Bede: Richard of St. Victor: Sigier

    ‘Next, see the glowing breath of Isidore of Seville flame out, of Bede, and Richard of SaintVictor, who in contemplation exceeded Man. The one from whom your glance returns to me, is the light of a spirit, who, of profound thought, seemed to himself to reach death too slowly: it is the eternal light of Sigier, who, lecturing in the Rue du Fouarre, syllogised truths that brought him hatred.’
    Then, as the clock, that strikes the hour, when the bride of God rises, to sing her Matins, to the Bridegroom, so that he might love her, where one part pulls and pushes another, making a chiming sound, of such sweet notes, that the well-disposed spirit fills with love, so I saw the glorious wheel revolve, and answer voice to voice, in harmony, and with a sweetness that cannot be known except where joy renders itself eternal.

    Paradiso Canto XI:1-42 Saint Dominic and Saint Francis

    O mindless mortal cares! How defective the reasoning that makes you beat your wings towards the earth! One person was chasing law, another medicine; one following the priesthood, another rule, by force or sophistry; one robbery, another civic business; one was involved in bodily pleasure, and another taking their ease: while I, free of all these things, was received, with Beatrice, so gloriously in Heaven.
    When each spirit had returned to the place in the circle where he was before, he rested, like a candle in its holder. And I saw a smile begin inside the light that had first spoken, as it grew brighter, and Thomas said: ‘Just as I glow with its rays, so as I gaze into the Eternal Light I know the reason for your thoughts. You question, and wish to understand my words, in such open and extended speech as will match your comprehension, the words I spoke just now, where there is good pasture, and, no other ever achieved, and here we need to draw careful distinctions.

    The Providence that governs the world, with wisdom, that defeats every creature’s understanding, before that creature can plumb its depths, ordained two Princes, to be guides, over there and over here, on behalf of the Church, the spouse of Him, who wedded Her, with great cries, in blessed blood, in order that She might go to Christ, her delight, secure in Herself, and more faithful to Him.

    The one Prince, Saint Francis, was all Seraphic in his ardour, the other, Dominic, was a splendour of Cherubic Light, on earth. I will speak of the first, because whoever praises either, whichever he chooses, talks of both, since both their efforts were to the same end.’

    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117 The Life of Saint Francis

    ‘A fertile slope falls from a high mountain, between the Tupino and the Chiascio, the stream that drops from the hill chosen by the blessed Ubaldo, a slope from which Perugia feels the cold and heat, through the eastern gate of Porta Sole, and behind it the towns of Nocera and Gualdo bemoan the Angevin’s heavy yoke. From this slope, where it becomes least steep, a Sun was born into this world, even as our sun rises from the Ganges. So that whoever speaks of that place, let him not say Ascesi, I have ascended, which is inadequate, but Oriente, if he wants to name it correctly.
    He was not far from rising when he began to make the earth feel a certain comfort from his great virtue, since in his youth, he rushed to oppose his father, for such a Lady, to whom, like Death, no one opens the gate of his pleasure, and he was united to her in the spiritual court that had jurisdiction over him, and in his father’s presence, and then loved her more deeply, from day to day.

    She, deprived of her first husband for eleven hundred years and more, was obscure, despised, until he stood in front of her, uninvited. And the tale that she was found safe with Amyclas, the fisherman, when Caesar’s voice sounded to terrify the world, had not helped her, nor to have been so faithful and unafraid that She mounted the Cross with Christ, when Mary remained below.

    But lest I proceed too darkly, accept, in plain speech, that Francis and Poverty were these two lovers. Their harmony and their delighted appearance made love, wonder, and tender looks, the cause of sacred thought, so that the venerable Bernard first cast off his sandals, and ran to chase after so great a peacefulness, and thought himself all too slow, while he ran. O unnoted riches, O fertile Good! Egidius casts off his sandals, and Sylvester, following the Bridegroom, as the Bride delights to do.

    This Master and this Father went his way, together with his Lady, and with that family already wearing the humble cord, nor did lowliness of heart weigh down his forehead, because he was Pietro Bernardino’s son, nor that he seemed to be so greatly despised. But he revealed his serious intention to Pope Innocent, and took the seal of his Order from him. When the people of poverty, who followed his path, increased, his miraculous life sung more sweetly in Heaven’s glory, then was this master shepherd’s sacred will encircled with a second crown, from Honorious’s hands, by the Eternal Spirit.

    And when, thirsting for martyrdom, he had preached Christ and his followers’ message, in the proud Soldan’s presence; and, finding the people bitterly against conversion, had returned, to avoid a useless stay, to gather fruit from the Italian branches; then, on the harsh rock, between the Tiber and the Arno, he received the final wounds, from Christ, that his limbs showed for two years.

    When it pleased Him, who ordained him to such good effect, to raise him to the reward, which he had earned by humbling himself, he commended his Lady to his brotherhood, his rightful heirs, and asked that they should love her faithfully, and the illustrious spirit willed himself to leave her breast, turning to his own kingdom, yet wished for no other deathbed for his body.’

    Paradiso Canto XI:118-139 Saint Dominic: The Dominicans

    ‘Now think what he must be, who was a worthy colleague, to maintain the course of Peter’s boat in the right direction! Such was our founder, Dominic, so that whoever follows his commands, as you can see, freights himself with good cargoes. But his flock has grown so greedy for new food, it cannot do other than stray through strange pastures, and the more his distant, wandering sheep stray from him, the emptier of milk they return, to the fold. Indeed there are some of them who fear the loss, and keep close to the shepherd, but they are so few it needs little cloth to make cowls for them.
    Now, if my words have not been weak, if you have listened closely, and if you recall what I have said, your wish must now be partly satisfied, since you can see the stem they whittle away, and can see the rebuke intended in the words: where there is good pasture, if we do not stray.’

    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36 Saint Bonaventura

    As soon as the flame of the spirit that was blessed had spoken the last word, the sacred mill began to turn, and had not fully revolved before a second, circling, clasped it, and harmonised movement with movement and song with song: song which is as far beyond our Muses, and our Sirens, in those sweet pipings, as the first glory its reflection.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 12, 16

    As two rainbows, parallel and identical in colour, arch through the thin mist, when Juno commands Iris her servant, the outer one born from the inner one, like the speech of Echo, that wandering nymph, whom Love consumed as the sun the vapour, making people here on earth aware, that, through the covenant God made with Noah, the world should never be drowned again: so the two garlands of those everlasting roses circled round us, and so the outer answered the inner.

    As soon as the dance, and the great high-festival of song and radiance, of light with light, joyful and gentle, joined in point of time and will, had stilled them, like eyes which must close and open together to the pleasure that stirs them, a voice came from the heart of one of the fresh lights that made me seem like the compass needle to the pole star, turning me towards it, and Bonaventura began: ‘The Love that adorns me, brings me to speak of the other leader, on whose account such noble words are spoken of my leader.

    It is right that wherever the one is, the other should be presented, so that, just as they fought side by side, their glory might shine together.’

    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105 Bonaventura speaks of Saint Dominic

    ‘Christ’s army, whose re-arming cost so dear, followed the standard slowly, fearfully and sparsely, when the Emperor, who reigns forever, of his own grace, and not because of that army’s worth, made provision for the soldiers who were in danger, and, as has been said, He came to the aid of his Bride, with two champions, at whose works and words, the scattered ranks re-grouped.
    In Spain, towards that region, where sweet Zephyr rises, to unfold the new leaves Europe sees herself re-clothed with, not far from the crash of the waves, behind which because of their vast reaches, the sun sometimes conceals himself from all people, Calahorra, the fortunate, lies, under the protection of the noble shield of Castile, on whose arms, in the left quarters, the lion is below the castle, and on the right above.

    There the loving servant of the Christian faith was born, the holy wrestler, kind to his followers and cruel to his enemies: and as soon as he was created his mind was so full of living virtue that in the womb it sent his mother a prophetic dream. When the marriage between him and the faith was completed at the holy font, where they dowered each other with mutual salvation, the lady, who gave the assent for him, saw, in her sleep, the marvellous harvest destined to issue from him and his heirs, and so that this might be known, in his very name, a spirit from above moved them to call him after the Lord, whose he was completely. Dominic, he was named: and I talk of him as I would of a labourer, whom Christ chose to nurture his orchard.

    He showed himself truly a companion and messenger of Christ, since the first love he showed was for the first counsel of Christ, that of Poverty. Often his nurse found him, on the floor, silent and wakeful, as if to say: It was for this I came. Truly his father was Felice, favoured, and his mother, Giovanna, graced by the Lord, if the interpretation of their names is valid!

    Soon, for love of the true manna, and not of the world, for whose sake men labour after Henry of Susa, Ostia’s bishop, and Taddeo Alderotti’s doctrines, he became a powerful teacher, so that he set himself to a circuit of the vineyard, which soon withers if the vine-dresser is at fault: and from the Apostolic See, that once was more generous to the rightful poor, not because it has altered in itself, but because of the one who holds it, degenerately, he demanded not a profit of a third or a half, not the grant of the next vacancy, not decimas quae sunt pauperum Dei, the tithe that belongs to God’s poor, but leave to fight against the heretical world for that seed from which these twenty-four plants en-leaf you.

    Then he went forward, teaching and will as one, with the blessing of the Apostolic Office, like a torrent driven out of a deep fissure, and his force struck the roots of heresy most fiercely where the resistance was most obstinate. Then many streams sprang from his, so that the Catholic garden is watered, and its shrubs achieve a fuller growth.’

    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145 Bonaventura names the spirits

    ‘If this was one wheel of the chariot in which Holy Church defended herself, and won her civil war in open battle, the excellence of Francis, the other, should be clear to you, about whom Thomas was so courteous, before I came to you. But the orbit, that touched the highest points of its circumference, is derelict, and now there is mould where there was once bread. His family, who walked directly in his footprints, have turned so that their toes strike his heel-prints, and soon the harvest of poor cultivation will be seen, when the tares will bemoan that the barn is closed to them.
    I accept in truth that those who search page after page of our book, might still find one page, reading: I am as I was, but it will not be one of Ubertino da Casale’s or Matteo d’Acquasparta’s, from whom men come to our discipline, by relaxing it, or making it more severe.

    I am the life of Bonaventura of Bagnoregio, who in the great offices always placed temporal cares behind. Illuminato and Agostino are here, who were Francis’s first poor shoeless brothers, who made themselves friends of God by the cord.

    Hugh of Saint Victor is here with them, Pietro Mangiadore, and Pietro Ispano, who gave Logic light, below there, in his twelve books; Nathan the Prophet, the metropolitan Chrysostom, Anselm, and that Donatus who deigned to set his hand to the first art of Grammar. Rabanus is here, and Joachim of Flora, the Calabrian abbot, imbued with prophetic spirit, shines by my side,

    The bright courtesy of brother Thomas, and his well-judged speech, stirred me to praise of so great a knight, and stirred this company with me.’

    Paradiso Canto XIII:1-51 Aquinas answers Dante’s second question

    Let him, who would grasp correctly what I now saw (and let him retain the image while I speak, as he holds a piece of rock) imagine fifteen of those stars, which, in various regions, vivify the Heavens, with such brightness as to pierce the interwoven air; let him also imagine Ursa Major, that rests on the breast of our sky, night and day, so that it is never absent from the polar circle; and let him imagine the mouth of that horn, Ursa Minor, that starts from the axle of the primal circling, all making two wreathes in Heaven such as Ariadne, Minos’s daughter made, when she felt the cold of death; and one ring of light, to lie inside the other, and both to revolve, in such a way that one leads and the other follows, and he will have only the shadow of the real constellation, and the twofold dance, that circled round the point where I was, since it goes as far beyond what we know, as the movement of the quickest sphere, exceeds our sluggish Chiana.
    There they sang, not Bacchus and the Paean, but three Persons in one Divine Nature, and It, and Human Nature, in one Person. The singing and circling had completed their measure, and those sacred flames turned their attention to us, rejoicing as they turned, from one care to another. Then amongst the harmonious divinities, the silence was broken by that light, in which the wonderful life, of the poor man of God, had been described to me, saying: ‘Since the one sheaf has been threshed, and its seed already stored, sweet love invites me to thresh the other.

    You know that whatever light human nature can receive was all infused, into that chest from which the rib was taken, to form the lovely face, for whose taste of the forbidden fruit all the world pays, and into that which, pierced by the lance, gave satisfaction for the Past and the Future, so as to weigh the scales against all Sin, by that same Power that made them both.

    And so you wonder at what I said before, when I said the good that was enclosed in the fifth light, Solomon, never had an equal. Now open your eyes to my answer, and you will see your belief and my words, hit the truth, like the centre of a target.’

    Paradiso Canto XIII:52-90 Creation and Emanation: Matter and Form

    ‘That which does not die, and that which can perish, is nothing but the glow of that Idea, which our Father engenders by Loving, since that living Light, which goes out from its source, in such a way that it does not separate from it, nor from the Love which makes Trinity with those two, through its own goodness, focuses its rays, as though reflected in nine emanations, eternally remaining One.
    So it descends to the lowest powers, down from act to act, becoming what forms the briefest of contingencies, by which I mean the things generated from seed, or seedlessly, by the moving Heavens. The wax, there, and what moulds it, is not in only one state, and so is more, or less, transparent, under the ideal seal, so that it happens that the same kind of tree fruits better or worse, and you are all born with varying genius. If the wax was moulded precisely, and the Heaven at its supreme point of Power, the light of the seal would be completely apparent: but nature always makes it imperfectly, acting in a similar manner to the artist, who has the skill of his art, but a trembling hand.

    Then, if warm Love places, and stamps, a clear vision of the primal Power, complete perfection is attained there. So your clay was once made worthy of utter physical perfection, and so the Virgin was made pregnant. From this I sanction your opinion that human nature never was, or will be, equal to those two persons. Now if I went no further’ ‘How then was he without equal?’ would still be your first words.’

    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142 Solomon’s choice: his Wisdom: Heretics

    ‘But so that you now see, what is not obvious, think who Solomon was, and what the motivation was, when he was told: ‘Choose’, to make his request. I have spoken so that you may see he was a king, who chose such wisdom as would make him an adequate king, not knowledge of the number of moving spirits here above; nor if a necessary premise, and a contingent premise, can ever give a necessary conclusion; nor whether we must accept a first movement, a primum motum; nor whether a triangle without a right angle in it can be constructed in a semicircle.
    So, if you note this, and everything I have said, it is royal prudence, worldly wisdom, that is the unequalled insight that the arrow of my intent strikes. And if you turn your clear eyes to achieved, you will see it only applies to kings, of whom there are many, and the good ones rare. Take my words, according to these distinctions, and then they will agree with what you hold concerning the first Father, and our Delight.

    And let this always weight your feet down with lead, and make you go slowly, like a tired man, approaching the yes or no you do not grasp, since he is truly down there among the fools, who affirms or denies without distinguishing between cases, so that it often happens that a quick opinion leans to the wrong side, and then Pride entangles the intellect. He leaves the shore less than uselessly, since he does not even return as he went, fishing for truth without the angler’s skill, and open proof of this in the world, are Parmenides, Melissus, Bryson, and the crowd who still went on, without knowing where.

    So did Sabellius and Arius, and those fools who were like gleaming swords applied to Scripture, in making straight faces crooked. Do not let people be too secure in their judgements, like those who count the ears of corn in the field before the crop ripens, since I have seen, all winter long, the thorn display itself, sharp and forbidding, and then on its summit bear the rose; and before now I have seen a ship run straight and sure over the sea for her entire course, and sink in the end, entering the harbour mouth. Do not let Jack and Jill think, that if they see someone steal or another make offering they therefore see them as Divine Wisdom does, since the one may still rise, and the other fall.’

    Paradiso Canto XIV:1-66 Solomon: The Resurrection

    The water in a rounded dish vibrates from the centre to the rim, or from the rim to the centre, depending on how it is struck, from inside or out. Just as the glorious spirit of Thomas fell silent, this thought suddenly came into my mind, because of the analogy that sprang from his discourse, and Beatrice’s, whom it pleased to begin speaking, after him: ‘This man has a need he has not told you, with voice or thought, namely to track another truth to its source.
    Say if the light, with which your substance blossoms, will remain yours as it is now, and if it will, say whether, when you are visible again, at the last day, it will not cloud your vision.’ As if pierced, and drawn out by excess joy, those who circle in the dance, immediately lift up their voices, and gladden their aspect, so, at this eager and devout request, the sacred circles revealed new joy in their whirling, and their marvellous sound.

    Whoever grieves that we must die here in order to live there, does not see, here, the refreshment from the eternal rain. Three times, each of those spirits sang that One and Two and Three who lives forever, and reigns in Three and Two and One, not circumscribed, but circumscribing all things, sang with such melody as is a just reward for every kind of merit.

    And I heard a modest voice, in the most divine light of the smaller circle, perhaps like Gabriel’s voice to Mary, replying: ‘Our Love will cast the rays of such a veil around us, as long as the festival of Paradise exists. Its brightness will match our ardour, our ardour our vision, as great as the grace of it exceeds our true worth.

    When the cloak of the glorious and holy flesh shall be taken on again, our person will be more pleasing by being fully complete. So that the undeserved brightness which the Supreme Good gives us, that light which allows us to see him, will grow: and then the vision must grow, and the ardour, also, which is lit by it, and the rays that leave it. But like the coal that gives out flame, and, by its own lively glow, shines through it, so that its own identity is maintained, so this glow which already veils us, will be penetrated by the glow of the flesh, which now the earth covers: and such intensity of light will not have strength to overpower us, since the body’s faculties will be strong enough to withstand everything that delights us.’

    The inner and outer choirs seemed so quick and eager to shout: ‘Amen’, that they indeed revealed desire for their dead bodies, not only for themselves, perhaps, but for their fathers, mothers, and others dear to them, before they became eternal flames.

    Paradiso Canto XIV:67-139 The Fifth Sphere: Mars: Fortitude

    Look around! A shining dawn, of equal brightness, beyond what was there, like a whitening horizon. And, as at twilight new things to see begin to appear, in the heavens, so that the vision seems real, and unreal, so, there, I began to see newly arrived beings, making a third circle, out beyond the other two rims. O true sparks of the sacred exhalation, how sudden and glowing, in front of my eyes, which, overcome, could not withstand it!
    But Beatrice showed herself so lovely and smiling to me, it must be left among those sights that my memory cannot follow. From that my eyes recovered their power to raise themselves, and I saw myself carried, along with my Lady, to a higher fortune. I saw clearly that I was lifted higher, by the burning smile of that planet, which seemed to me redder than usual.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 14, 77

    I made sacrifice to God, of my heart, and in that speech which is the same for all of us, as fitted this newly given grace: and the ardour of the sacrifice was not yet gone from my chest, before I knew the prayer had been accepted, and with favour, since splendours appeared to me, inside two rays, so radiant and red, that I exclaimed: ‘O Helios, who glorifies them so!’ As the Milky Way gleams between the poles of the Universe, decked with greater and lesser lights, so white as to set the very sages questioning, so those constellated rays made the ancient sign, in the depth of Mars, that crossing quadrants make in a circle.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 14, 96

    Here my memory outruns my ability, since Christ flashed out so on that Cross, that I can find no fitting comparison. But whoever takes up his cross and follows Christ, will forgive me for what I leave unspoken, when he sees Christ white within that glow. From cusp to cusp, from summit to base, there were lights moving, that sparkled intensely, in meeting one another, and passing. So we see, here, motes moving through a ray, that sometimes penetrates the shadow people contrive, with art and ingenuity, against the sunlight, straight, curved, fast or slow, long or short, changing in appearance.

    And as harp and viol, tuned in many-chorded harmony, make a sweet chime, to one who cannot separate the notes, so a melody enraptured me, from the lights that appeared, gathered along the Cross, though I could not follow the hymn. I clearly knew it was of high praise, since there came to me the words: ‘Rise and conquer,’ as to one who hears but does not understand. And I was so enamoured of it, there, that there had been nothing, till then, that tied me in such sweet chains.

    Perhaps it may be too bold to say so, as if it slighted the joy of those lovely eyes, gazing into which my longing finds rest, but he who recognises how those living seals of all beauty have ever greater effect the higher the region, and that I had not yet turned towards them, may excuse me from my self-accusation, and can see I speak the truth: for that sacred joy is not excluded here, that as it climbs grows purer.

    Paradiso Canto XV:1-36 Silence: Beatrice’s eyes

    The Benign Will, in which the Love that truly perfumes always distils itself, as greed does in the envious will, imposed silence on that sweet lyre, and stilled the sacred strings, that the right hand of Heaven plucks and loosens.
    How can those beings be deaf to just prayers, who agreed to silence, so as to give me the will to pray? It is right that they should mourn endlessly who deprive themselves of this love, eternally, for the love of what does not endure.

    As a meteoric flame flashes through the pure and tranquil sky, from time to time, disturbing steady vision, and seems like a star changing place, except that no star is lost from where it flamed, and it itself does not last, so, from the horn stretching to the right, a star of the constellation that shines there darted to the foot of the cross, and did not leave the arc but coursed along the radial line, like fire shining through alabaster. With such tenderness Anchises’s shade came forward when he saw his son Aeneas in Elysium, if our greatest Muse is to be believed.

    ‘O sanguis meus, O blood of mine, O superinfusa gratia Dei, O grace of God poured into you, sicut tibi, cui bis unquam coeli ianua reclusa, to whom was Heaven’s Gate ever opened twice, as to you?’ So the light spoke, at which I directed my attention to him. Then I turned my face towards my Lady, and on this side and on that was stunned, since such a smile was blazing in her eyes, I thought with mine I had reached the end, of my grace, and my Paradiso.

    Paradiso Canto XV:37-87 All things seen in God

    Then, gladdening sight and hearing, the spirit added words to his commencement that I did not understand, his speech was so profound: he hid himself from me, not out of choice, but of necessity, since his thought took place beyond the power of mortals. And when the bow of ardent love was so tuned that his speech descended towards the power of our intellect, the first words I understood were: ‘Blessed be thou, Three and One, who are so noble in my seed,’ and continued: ‘My son, in this light where I now speak to you, you have assuaged a dear, long-cherished hunger, induced by the reading of that great volume where black and white never change: thanks be to her who clothed you with wings for this high ascent.
    You believe that your thought finds its way to me, from the Primal Thought, as the numbers five and six issue from one, if seen correctly, and so you do not ask who I am, or why I seem to you more joyful than others in this festive crowd. You believe rightly, since in this life great and lesser spirits, gaze in the mirror, where, before you think, your thought is seen. But so that the sacred love, in which I watch with uninterrupted vision, setting me thirsting with sweet longing, can be better fulfilled, let your voice sound out your will, your longing, safely, boldly, and delightedly, to which my answer is already given.’

    I turned to Beatrice, and she heard me, before I spoke, and granted a sign to me that increased the wings of my desire. Then I began: ‘Love and intelligence became equal in weight to you, as soon as the Primal equality was visible to you, because the Sun, which warmed and lit you, with its heat and brightness, has in it such equality that all comparisons fall short. But for mortals, for reasons obvious to you, will and execution are unequally feathered wings. So that I, a mortal, feel the stress of this imbalance, and therefore only gave thanks with my heart, for your paternal greeting. But I can and do, beg you, living topaz, who are a gem of this precious jewel, to satisfy me with your name.’

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148 Cacciaguida

    ‘Oh, I was your root, my leaf, whom I delighted in, while only anticipating you,’ such were the opening words of his reply. Then he said: ‘He, the first Aligieri, from whom your family takes it name, and who has circled the Mount on the first terrace, for more than a hundred years, was my son, and your great-grandfather. It is fitting that you should lessen the long drawn-out labour, for him, with your works.
    Florence, lived in peace, sober and chaste, behind the ancient circle of wall, from which she still hears the Badia’s tierce and nones. There were no wreathes and gold-chains, no dressed-up women, no sash that set people staring at it, more than at she who wore it. The birth of a daughter did not yet dismay fathers since dowry and bride’s age were fitting, the one not too high the other not too low. There were no empty mansions. Sardanapalus had not yet arrived to show what might be done to make a room luxurious. The first sight of Florence, from Ucellatoio, did not yet surpass Rome’s from Montemalo, which will be surpassed in the fall, as well as the rising.

    I have seen Bellincion Berti dressed in leather, clasped with bone, and have seen his lady come from her mirror with her face unpainted. I have seen men of the Nerlo and Vecchio families, content with only clothing of skins, and their ladies themselves handling flax and spindle. Oh fortunate women! Each one certain of her burial place, and none deserted in their beds because of France. One kept watch over the cradle, and spoke in that soothing way, that is the first delight of fathers and mothers: another as she drew thread from the distaff, would tell her family about Troy, Rome, and Fiesole.

    Then a shrew like Cianghella, or a corrupt lawyer like Lapo Salterello, would have been as amazing then as a Cornelia or a Cincinnatus now. Mary, called on, with deep moans, gave me to such a restful, lovely life among the citizens, to such faithful citizenship, such sweet being, and in your ancient Baptistery, I became, in the one, moment, Cacciaguida and a Christian.

    Moronto and Eliseo were my brothers: my wife came to me from the valley of the River Po, and your surname was derived from hers, Alighiera. Then I followed the Emperor Conrad the Third, who made me a knight, since I advanced myself so greatly in his grace. I marched in his ranks, against the infamy of that religion whose infidel people usurp, shame on your pastors, that which is yours by right. There, by those wretched folk, I was disrobed of that deceitful world, whose love corrupts many a spirit, and came, from martyrdom, to this peace.’

    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45 Cacciaguida’s ancestry

    O our little nobility of the blood! If you make people glory in you down here, where our affection languishes, it will never make me wonder again, since I gloried in it there where appetite is uncorrupted, I mean in Heaven. Yet, you are indeed a cloak that shrinks, so that if nothing is added, day by day, time circles it with its shears. I began again with that voi, for you, that Rome first allowed for Julius, which her families persevere with least, at which Beatrice, who was a little apart from us, smiled and seemed like the Lady of Malehaut who coughed at Guinevere’s first indiscretion, as it is written.
    I began: ‘You are my father, you give me full authority to speak, you lift me so that I am greater than myself. My Mind is filled with joy from so many springs, it delights in itself that it can suffer it and not be destroyed. Tell me then, dear source of me, what was your ancestry, and what did the years record in your youth. Tell me about the sheepfold of Saint John, how great Florence was then, and who were the people worthy of highest places there.’

    As a coal bursts into flame at a breath of wind, so I saw that light shine out at my flattering words, and even as it grew more beautiful to my sight, so, in a voice sweeter and gentler, but not in this current dialect of ours, he said: ‘From the day that Ave was first spoken, to the day of my birth, when my mother, now a saint, unburdened herself of my weight, this burning planet returned to his own constellation of the Lion, five hundred and eighty times, to relight itself under his feet.

    My predecessors and I were born in the place where he who runs in the Corso, your annual race, first encounters the last sesto of Saint Peter. Let that be enough about my ancestors, silence about who they were and where they came from is more fitting than speech.’

    Paradiso Canto XVI:46-87 The growth of Florence

    ‘At that time, between the statue of Mars, at the Ponte Vecchio, and the Baptistery, all who were capable of bearing arms were only a fifth of those living now. But the citizenship saw itself as pure in blood, down to the humblest worker, that is now contaminated by the blood of Campi, Certaldo and Fighine, the towns of the Contado.
    O how much better it would be to have these people as your neighbours, and your boundary south at Galuzzo, and north at Trespiano, than to have them inside, and bear the foulness of that villain Baldo from Aguglion, or him of Signa, Fazio, whose eye is keen for abuse of office! Had that race, the most degenerate on earth, been benign, like a mother to her son, and not been a hostile stepmother to Caesar, one of those who is a Florentine now, merchant and moneychanger, would have been sent back to Simifonte, where his grandfather was a beggar. Montemurlo would still house the Conti, the Cerchi would still be in Acone’s parish, and the Buondelmonti perhaps still in Val di Greve.

    Confusion of people was always the source of the city’s sorrows, as mixed food is of the body’s. And a blind bull falls more heavily than a blind lamb, and one sword often cuts keener, and deeper, than five. If you look how the cities of Luni and Urbisaglia, are done for, and Chiusi and Sinaglia following them, it will not seem strange or difficult to understand how families destroy themselves, since even cities have an end.

    Everything of yours comes to an end, as you will, but in things that last a while, it is not noticed, because your lives are short. And as the turning of the lunar sphere covers and uncovers the shoreline, endlessly, so Fortune handles Florence, so that it should not seem remarkable when I speak of the noble Florentines, whose fame is buried by time.’

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154 The ancient families of Florence

    ‘I have seen the Ughi, seen the Catellini, the Filippi, Grechi, Ormanni and Alberichi, illustrious families already on the wane. And with Sannella, as great as ancient, I have seen Arca, Soldanieri, Ardhingi and Bostichi.
    Over the gate of Porta San Piero, which is now heavy with the Cerchi’s new crimes, that will soon lead to shipwreck, the Ravignani lived, from whom the Conti Guidi are descended, and those who have since taken noble Bellincioni’s name.

    The Della Pressa already knew how to govern, and Galigaio, in his house, already had the gilded hilt and pommel of knighthood. The vair column of the Pigli was already great, the Sacchetti, Giuochi, Fifanti and Barucci, the Galli, and the Chiaramontesi who blush for falsifying the measure.

    The stock the Calfucci sprang from was great already, and the Sizii and Arrigucci were already civic dignitaries. Oh how great I have seen them, those Uberti, now destroyed by pride! And the Lamberti’s device of the golden balls adorned Florence in all her great actions. So did their fathers, who, now, whenever the Bishop’s See is vacant stand guzzling in the consistory.

    The outrageous race, the house of Adimari, that is a dragon to those who flee it, and is as quiet as a lamb to those who show their teeth, or purse, was rising already, but from humble people, so that Ubertino Donati was not pleased when Bellincion his father-in-law made him a relative of them by marriage.

    Caponsacco had already come down from Fiesole to the marketplace, and Giuda and Infangato were already good citizens. I will tell you something unbelievable but true, the little circle of walls was entered by a gate, named after the Della Pera.

    Everyone who carries any of the fair device of the great Baron, Hugo of Brandenburg, whose name and worth is kept alive by the festival of Saint Thomas, derived knighthood and privilege from him, though the Della Bella who fringes it with gold, has now joined the party of the people.

    There were Gualterotti and Importuni already, and the Borgo Santi Apostoli would be a quieter place if they did not have the Buondelmonti for new neighbours. The house, the Amidei, from which, O Buondelmonte, your grief sprang, because of righteous anger which murdered you and put an end to your joyful life, was honoured, it, and its associates. How wrong you were to reject its marriage-rite at another’s prompting! Many would have been happy who are now saddened, if God had committed you to the small stream, the Ema, the first time you crossed it to reach the city. But it was fitting that Florence should sacrifice a victim to that mutilated stone of Mars, that guards the bridge, in her last time of peace.

    I saw Florence in such calm repose, with these men and others like them, that she had no reason for grief. I saw her people, so glorious and just, with these men to serve them, that her arms of the white lily were never reversed on the standard, nor the lily dyed red by division.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 16, 143

    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99 Cacciaguida unfolds Dante’s future

    As Phaethon, he who still makes father’s give grudgingly to their sons, came to his mother, Clymene, to receive reassurance, of what he had heard thrown back at him, so I: and so did I seem to Beatrice, and that sacred flame, who had already changed his position for my sake. At which my Lady said: ‘Emit the heat of your desire, so that it may flow, truly stamped with the internal seal, not so that our knowledge increases by your speaking, but so that you may learn how to speak of your thirst, so that men may quench it.’
    ‘Dear ground of myself, in which I am rooted, who are lifted up so high, that, gazing on that point, to which all time is present, you see contingent things, before they themselves exist, as earthbound minds see that two obtuse angles cannot exist in one triangle, heavy words were said to me, about my future, while Virgil accompanied me, descending through the dead world, and around the Mount that purifies souls: though I feel well set to resist Fortune’s blows, so that my mind would be content to hear what fate comes towards to me, since the arrow seen in advance arrives less suddenly.’ So I spoke, to that same light who had addressed me previously, and confessed my wish, as Beatrice wanted.

    That paternal love, revealed or hidden by its own smile, did not reply in dark prophecies that misled the foolish ancients, before the Lamb of God who takes away sin, was killed, but in clear words, and with precise statements: ‘Contingent things, which do not extend beyond your world of matter, are all outlined in the eternal gaze, though pre-determination does not follow from this, no more than a boat slipping downstream is driven by the eye in which it is reflected. From that, what is in store for you is visible to me, as a sweet harmony comes from an organ.

    You must be exiled from Florence, as Hippolytus was exiled from Athens, through the spite and lies of Phaedra, his stepmother. It is already willed so, and already planned, and will be accomplished soon, by Boniface who ponders it, in that place where, every day, Christ is sold. The cry will put the blame on the injured party, as is usual, but truth will bear witness to itself, by the revenge it takes.

    You will lose everything you love most dearly: that is the arrow that Exile’s bow will fire. You will prove how bitter the taste of another man’s bread is, and how hard it is to descend, and climb, another man’s stair. And what will bow your shoulders down will be the vicious and worthless company with whom you will fall into this abyss, since they will all be ungrateful, fierce and disrespectful to you: but not long after, their cheeks, not yours will blush for it. Their fate will demonstrate their brutishness, so that it will be to your credit to have formed a party of one.

    Your first refuge and first lodging will be by courtesy of the great Lombard, Bartolomeo della Scala, whose arms are the sacred eagle atop a ladder, since he will cast such a friendly gaze on you, that, between you, in request and fulfilment, that will be first, which between others comes last. With him will be Can Grande, the one who was so marked at birth by this potent planet that his actions will be notable.

    People have not yet taken due regard of him, because of his age, since these spheres have only revolved round him for nine years. But before Pope Clement the Fifth, the Gascon, has deceived the Emperor, Henry the Seventh, the gleam of his virtue will be apparent in his indifference to money or to hard labour. His generous actions will eventually be known, so that even his enemies will not be able to stay silent about them. Look to him and to his gifts. Many people will be changed by him their conditions altered, the wealthy and the poor: and you will carry it inscribed in your memory of him, but will not speak it’: and he told me many things incredible even to those who shall see them.

    Then he added: ‘Son, these are my comments on what has been said to you: see the difficulties hidden by a few rotations. But I would not want you to be envious of your neighbours, since you will live far beyond the punishment that will fall on their infamies.’

    Paradiso Canto XVII:100-142 He urges Dante to reveal his Vision

    When the sacred soul, by his silence, showed that he had finished passing the weft through the warp I had stretched out ready for him, I began, like a man who, doubting, longs for advice from one who sees straight, wills the right, and loves: ‘My father, I see clearly how time comes spurring at me, to give me such a blow, one heaviest to those who lose themselves, so that it is best for me to arm myself with foresight, so that if the dearest place is denied me, I do not lose all other refuge because of my writings.
    Down in the world, endlessly bitter, and around the Mount from whose summit my Lady’s eyes raised me, and, afterwards, through the Heavens from light to light, I have learnt things, that if I tell them again, will savour of acrid pungency to many: and if I am a shrinking friend to truth, I fear to lose life among those who will call this time ancient.’

    That light, in which my treasure, that I had found there, was smiling, first coruscated like a golden mirror in the sun’s rays, then answered: ‘A conscience darkened by its own shame, or another’s, will truly find your words harsh, but reveal all your Vision nonetheless, avoid all lies, and let them scratch if they find a scab, since though your words may be bitter at first tasting, they will still be vital food afterwards when they digest them.

    This outcry of yours, will do as the wind does, that strikes the highest summits hardest, and that will be no small cause of honour. So, only spirits known for their fame have been shown to you, in these spheres, along the Mount, and in the sad depths, since the souls of those who hear will not be content with, or truly believe in, examples that have unknown and hidden roots, nor any other obscure argument.’

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57 The Warriors of God

    That mirror of the blessed was already joying only in his own discourse, and I was tasting mine, tempering the sweet with the bitter: and that Lady who was leading me to God said: Change your thoughts, remember that I am near to Him, who disburdens us of every wrong.’
    I turned to the beloved voice of my comfort, and I forgo speaking here of what love I saw, in those sacred eyes: not merely because I am diffident about my words, but because of my memory which cannot climb again, so far beyond itself, unless another guides it. I can only say this much, about that moment, that as I gazed at her, my affections were free of any other desire, while the eternal joy that shone directly on to Beatrice, contented me with its reflection from her lovely face.

    Overcoming me with the light of her smile, she said to me: ‘Turn now, and listen, for not only in my eyes is Paradise.’ Just as we sometimes read affection, here, in a face, if it is so great that the whole mind is seized by it, so in the flaming of his sacred glow to which I turned, I knew the desire in him to speak to me still. He started: ‘In this fifth canopy of the tree, which takes life from its crown, and is always in fruit, never shedding leaves, are spirits, who are blessed, who had great names below, before they came to Heaven, so that every Muse would be made richer by them. So look at the horns of the cross, and he whom I will name, will there enact the lightning in a cloud.’

    I saw a light traced along the cross, as Joshua was named, and the word was not complete for me before the action. And at the name of the great Maccabeus, I saw another light move, revolving, and delight was like the whip to the spinning-top. So for Charlemagne and Roland, two more, followed by my keen gaze, as the eye follows a hawk in flight. Then William of Orange, Renard his brother-in-law, Duke Godfrey of Bouillon, and Robert Guiscard. At that the soul, Cacciaguida, who had spoken with me, moving, to mingle there, with the other lights, displayed the quality of his art to me, among Heaven’s singers.

    I turned to my right to know my duty, from Beatrice, indicated either by speech or sign, and I saw her eyes, so clear, so glad, that her appearance exceeded all previous form, even the last.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:58-99 The Sixth Sphere: Jupiter: Justice

    As a man sees that, day by day, by feeling more delight in achieving good things, his virtue increases, so I saw that my circling, with the Heavens, had increased its orbit, while I watched the miraculous vision becoming more adorned. And the change that quickly crosses a lady’s white face, when she throws off a weight of shame, was offered to my eyes, when I turned, because of the white radiance of Jupiter, the sixth, temperate planet, that had received me. In that joyous torch I saw the sparkle of the love inside it, signing letters, of our language, to my eyes.
    And, as birds, rising from the river-bank, make flock in wheeling or extended shapes, as if they were delighted by their pastures, so the sacred beings in the lights sang, flying, and formed now d or i or l. First they moved to the note they were singing, then, as they shaped one of these letters, would stop for a moment and stay silent. O Muse, Goddess of the fount of Pegasus, who makes intellect glorious, and gives it enduring life, as it, with your help, does cities and countries, illuminate me with yourself, so that I can show their figures in relief, as I hold them in mind: let your power be shown in these brief words.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 18, 70

    Then they showed themselves in thirty-five vowels and consonants, and I took note of the letters, as they appeared one by one to me: diligite justitiam: love righteousness, was the first verb and noun, of the whole vision: qui judicatis terram: you judges over earth, was the last.

    Then they remained, ordered, in the m of the fifth word, so that Jupiter seemed silver in that region, pricked out with gold: and I saw other lights descending where the summit of the m was, and come to rest there, singing, I think, of the good that moves them towards Himself.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:100-136 The lights form an Eagle

    Then, as innumerable sparks rise from a blow to a burning log, from which foolish people make auguries, more than a thousand lights rose, it seemed to me, and some ascended steeply, some a little, just as the Sun, that lit them, ordained: and when each one had come to rest in place, I saw an eagle’s neck and head outlined by that pricked out fire.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 18, 120

    He who depicts it, has no one to guide him, but he himself guides, and from him that power flows into the mind, that builds the eagle’s nest: the other beatitudes, who seemed at first content to entwine the m with lilies, by a slight motion, in-filled the outline. O sweet planet, how great the quality and quantity of jewels, which made clear to me, that our justice is an effect, of that Heaven you bejewel!

    So that I beg the Mind in which your motion and your power has source, to gaze at the place from which smoke rises to vitiate your light: and that the anger be roused once more, against the buying and selling, in the Temple, whose walls were built by miracle and martyrdom. O soldiers of Heaven, whom I see, pray for those who have gone awry on earth, following bad examples. It was custom once to war with the sword, now it is done by holding back spiritual bread, here and there, that the tender Father denies to no one: but you, Boniface, who only write in order to cancel out the lines, think that Paul and Peter are living still, who died for the vineyard you destroy. Though indeed, you may say: ‘I have so fixed my desires on him, en-coined, the Baptist, who lived a solitary life, and was dragged to martyrdom to serve Salome’s dance, that I do not know Paul or the Fisherman.’

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 19, 1

    Paradiso Canto XIX:1-90 Divine Justice

    The marvellous image, which those entwined spirits made, joying in their sweet fruition, appeared in front of me, with outstretched wings. Each soul appeared like a ruby, in which the sun’s rays burn, so lit as to refract light to my eyes. And what I must tell now, pen never wrote, voice never spoke, nor was it ever known by imagination, since I saw and heard the eagle’s beak speaking, saying in its voice, I and Mine, when, in its form, it was We and Ours.
    And it began: ‘I am exalted here to this glory, which does not allow itself to be overcome by longing, through being just and pious, and I have left a memory on Earth, so constituted that even the evil approve it, though they do not follow its path.’ As we feel one glow from many coals, so there came a single sound, out of the image, from those many points of love.

    At which I said quickly: ‘O perpetual flowers of eternal delight, you who make all your perfumes seem like a single one to me, relieve, as you breathe, the great fast which has held me hungering, for a long time, because I found no food to eat on Earth. I know, in truth, that whatever other realm, of Heaven, Divine Justice takes as its mirror, your realm comprehends it without a veil. You know how eagerly I ready myself to listen: you know what the question is, which has caused my fast to be so enduring.’

    As the hawk divested of its hood shakes itself and claps its wings, demonstrating its will and beautifying itself, so I saw that symbolic eagle, woven from the praise of Divine Grace, with the songs that are known to whoever rejoices there. Then it began: ‘He who drew the compass round the edges of the Universe, and marked out, inside it, so much that is shown and hidden, could not impress his greatness on all the Universe without his Word being infinitely beyond us. And this is attested by Lucifer, that first proud being, who was a pinnacle of creation, falling abortive, because he could not wait for enlightenment: and so it appears that every minor nature is too small a vessel to hold that Good which is endless, and measures itself by itself.

    So our vision which must be one of the rays of that Mind by which all things are filled, cannot have such great power, without its origin seeing far beyond that which it itself can see. Therefore such perception as your world has, is lost with depth as our vision is in the ocean, since though it sees the seafloor by the shore, it cannot reach it in the open water, even though it is there, and the depth has hidden it. There is no light unless it comes from that Serenity which is never troubled: the rest is darkness, or the shadow of the flesh, or its poison.

    Now the labyrinth is open enough for you, that labyrinth that hid the living justice from you, which you have questioned so incessantly: since you said: “A man is born, on the banks of the Indus, and there is no one to speak to him about Christ, or read or write of Him, and all that man’s will and action are good, as far as human reason can tell, without sin in speech or life. He dies un-baptised, and without the faith. Where is the justice, in condemning him? Why is it his fault, that he is void of faith?”

    Now, who are you, to sit on the judge’s seat, a thousand miles away, with sight that sees a short span? Certainly, to him who trades subtleties with me, it would be wonderful if there were no doubts, if the Scriptures were not set above them. O earthly creatures, O coarse minds! The Primal Will, which is goodness itself, never abandons its own self, which is the supreme good. All that is in harmony with it is Just: no created goodness draws It, to itself, but It, by shining out, gives rise to it.’

    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148 The Christian Kings

    As the stork sweeps over her nest when she has fed her chicks, and as the ones she fed look up at her, so did that eagle-form of the blessed, which moved its wings powered by so much wisdom, and so I raised my forehead. Wheeling it cried, and said: ‘As my cries are to you, who do not understand them, such is eternal judgement to you mortals.’
    When those glowing lights of the Holy Spirit were still, though still in the form of that insignia which gained the Romans the world’s reverence, it began again: ‘No one ever rose to this region, who did not believe in Christ, not before he was nailed to the tree, nor after. But see, many call out: “Christ, Christ” who shall be further from Him at the Judgement, than those who do not know of Christ: and the Ethiopians will condemn such Christians when the two crowds part, the one rich in eternity, the other naked. What would the Persians say to your kings, when they see that volume opened in which all their ill deeds are recorded?

    Amongst the actions of the Emperor Albert, that one will soon set the pen in motion, that will make Prague’s kingdom of Bohemia a desert. There will be read the sorrow that Philip the Fair is bringing to the Seine, by falsifying the coinage, he who will die by a wild boar’s wound.

    There the pride will be seen that parches, and makes the Scots and Edward’s English mad, so that they cannot keep the proper borders. The lechery and effeminate life of Ferdinand of Spain, will be seen, and that of Wenceslaus of Bohemia, who never knew or willed anything of worth. For Charles the Second, ‘the Cripple’, King of Jerusalem will be seen marked with a ‘One: I’ against virtue, whereas a ‘Thousand: M’ sins will score the contrary charge.

    The baseness and avarice of Frederick who holds Sicily, the Isle of Fire, where Anchises ended his long life, will be visible, and in order to understand the magnitude of his baseness, his record will be kept in tiny writing, to fit a great deal in a little space. And the foul deeds of his uncle, James of the Balearic Isles, and his brother, James of Aragon, will be shown clearly to all, who have bastardised a great nation and two crowns.

    And Dionysius of Portugal, and Hakon of Norway, shall be recorded there, and Stephen of Serbia, who sadly saw the coin of Venice only to counterfeit it. O happy Hungary if she no longer allows Andrew to maul her! And happy Navarre, if she could protect herself, with the Pyrenees, that border her! And all should know, as a warning to her, that Nicosia and Famagusta already moan, and cry, by reason of their beast, Henry of Lusignan, who cannot be separated from the rest.’

    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72 The Eagle celebrates the Just

    When the Sun, that illumines all the world, descends so far below our hemisphere that day vanishes on every side, the sky, that was only lit by him before, now reappears in many lights, in which the one light shines. And this effect in Heaven came to mind when the insignia of the world and its leaders, closed its eagle’s beak: because all those living lights, shining far brighter, began to sing things which must slip and fall from my memory.
    O sweet Love, mantled in a smile, how ardent you seemed in those flutings, breathed out only in sacred thoughts!

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 20, 10

    When the dear, lucid stones with which I saw the sixth Heaven gemmed, had rendered silent those angelic chimes, I seemed to hear the murmuring of a river which falls from rock to rock, and reveals the copiousness of its source. And as the sound takes form from the lute’s neck, or the wind that enters from the unstopped pipe, so, the delay of anticipation over, the eagle’s murmur rose through its neck, as if it were hollow. There it became a voice and issued out of its beak, in the form of words, that the heart waited for, on which I wrote them.

    It began to speak to me: ‘That part of me that sees and in mortal eagles endures the sun, must now be gazed at intensely, since the fires with which the eye in my head sparkles, are the most important, of all the crowd of those from which I construct my shape. He who shines in the middle, as the pupil does in the eye, was David, the singer of the Holy Spirit, who carried the ark from city to city. Now he knows the value of his song, in as much as it was produced by his own judgement, through the reward that matches it.

    Of the five who make the arch of the profiled eyebrow, he who is closest to the beak is Trajan who consoled the widow for her son. Now he knows how dearly it costs not to follow Christ, from his experience of this sweet life and its opposite. And he who follows on the arch I speak of, on its upper arc, is Hezekiah who delayed death by his true penitence. Now he knows that the eternal judgement is not altered, when a pious prayer seems to delay today’s event until tomorrow. Constantine, the next who follows, with a good intention that produced evil consequences, made himself, the laws, and my Imperial self, Greek, in order to give way to the Shepherd. Now he knows that the evil flowing from his good action does not harm him, even though the world is destroyed by it.

    And him you see on the downward slope of the arc, is William, of Sicily and Naples, which countries deplore his loss, while grieving that Charles and Frederick are alive. Now he knows how Heaven loves a righteous king, and he makes it visible still, by the appearance of his radiance.

    Who would believe, down in the world of error, that the Trojan Ripheus is in this sphere, fifth of these holy lights? Now he knows much about the Divine Grace, that the world cannot see, although his sight does not reach the end of it.’

    Paradiso Canto XX:73-148 Trajan and Ripheus: Predestination

    Like to the lark ascending, in the air, first singing and then silent, content with the final sweetness that sates her, so that image of the imprint of eternal pleasure, seemed to me, by which, in longing for it, each thing becomes what it is. And though I was to my doubt, like the transparent glass is to the colour it surrounds, it would still not wait and bide its time in silence, but it thrust ‘What are these things?’ from my mouth by its own pressure, at which I saw great sparkles of joy. Then immediately, the insignia, blessed and with its kindling eye, replied to me, so that it would not keep me in amazed suspense: ‘I see you believe in these things because I tell you, but do not see the how, so that they are obscure, though still believed in. You are like him who knows the thing by name, but cannot see its quiddity, its whatness, unless someone else brings it to light.
    Regnum Coelorum, the Kingdom of Heaven, suffers the force of hot love and living hope, which overcomes the Divine Will, not in the sense in which man overcomes man, but overcomes that Will, because it wishes to be overcome, and once overcome, in turn overcomes, with its own kindness. The lives of the first and fifth lights, along the eyebrow, cause you to marvel, because you see them decking this region of the Angels. They did not leave their bodies as Gentiles, but as Christians, with firm belief in those pierced feet, that to the first would suffer, and to the other had already suffered. Since the first, Trajan, came back to his bones from Hell, where no one ever returns to the true will, and this was the reward for living Hope: the living Hope which added power to Gregory’s prayers to raise him, so that His will might have the power to be moved. That glorious soul, of which we speak, returning to the flesh where it lived a while, believed in Him who had the power to help, and, believing, kindled so great a flame of true Love, that it was worthy of coming here, to this rejoicing, on its second death.
    Ripheus, the fifth light, set all his Love below on righteousness, by that grace which wells from so deep a fount that no creature ever set eyes on its last depth, so that God, going from grace to grace, opened his eyes to our redemption yet to come: and he believed in that, and from that time did not suffer the mire of Paganism, and reproved the stubborn peoples. Those three ladies, the Virtues, whom you saw at the right wheel, of the chariot, stood as sponsors at his baptising, more than a thousand years before baptism.

    O Predestination, how remote your roots are from our vision that cannot see the First Cause totally! And you mortal creatures, keep yourselves from judging, since we who see God do not yet know all those who will be elected, and such defective sight is sweet for us, because our good is refined by this good, that what God wills we also will.’

    So sweet medicine was given me, by this divine image, to correct my short sight. And as a good harpist matches the quivering chord to a good singer, so that the song gives added pleasure, so, while he spoke, I remember that I saw those two sacred lights, make their fires quiver at the words, just as two eyes blink, together.

    Paradiso Canto XXI:1-51 The Seventh Sphere: Saturn: Temperance

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 21, 1

    My eyes were already fixed on my Lady’s face once more, and my mind with them, free of every other intent, and she did not smile, but said: Were I to smile, you would be like Semele, turned to ashes, since my beauty which burns more brightly, as you have seen, on the steps of the eternal palace, the higher we climb, if it were not moderated, glows so much, that your human powers, at its lightning flash, would be like the leaves the thunder shatters.
    We have risen to Saturn, the seventh planet, which beams downwards, in the breast of Leo, the fiery Lion, mingling with its power. Fix your mind in your eyes, and make them mirrors, to the figure that will be shown to you, in this mirror.’ Whoever knows how my sight was fed by her blessed aspect when I changed to a different concern, would know how great a joy it was to me to obey my heavenly guide, weighing contemplation’s joy against the joy of obedience.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 21, 28

    Inside the crystal planet, coloured like gold that reflects the ray, which, as it circles the world, carries the name of Saturn, its illustrious ruler, in whose Age every wickedness died, I saw a ladder erected so far upward my sight could not follow it. And I saw so many splendours descending the rungs that I thought every light that shines in Heaven had been poured downwards there. And as, according to their nature, the rooks set out in a flock, at dawn, to warm their cold feathers, and then some flap away, without returning, others come back to where they started, and the rest wheel in flight, it seemed to me that was also the way among that glittering of spirits, that came in a crowd, as soon as they reached a particular rung, and the spirit that landed nearest to me, became so bright in my thoughts, that I said: ‘I clearly see the Love you signal to me. But She from whom I wait for the how, and when, of speech and silence, pauses, and therefore I ask no questions, counter to my own wishes.’ At which She who sees everything, saw my silence in his look, and said: ‘Let free your burning desire.’

    Paradiso Canto XXI:52-142 Peter Damian

    And I began: ‘My lack of worth does not make me worthy of a reply, except for her sake who allows me to make the request: O life, blessed, who live, hidden in gladness, tell me the reason why I am placed near you, and say why the sweet symphony of Paradise is silent here, when it sounded below through the other spheres, so devotedly.’ He replied: ‘You have mortal hearing, as you have mortal sight: there is no song here for the same reason that Beatrice does not smile. I have descended so far, on the steps of the sacred ladder, only to give you joy with words, and with the light, which mantles me: nor did greater love make me swifter: since more and greater love burns higher there, as the flaming made clear to you, but the deep love, that keeps us, as ready servants to the wisdom that controls the world, assigns me here, as you see.’
    I said: ‘Yes I see how love, freely, in this court, is sufficient to make you follow the eternal providence, but it is this which seems hard to me to understand: why you alone among your peers was predestined to this role.’ I had not reached the last word before the light made a centre of its mid-point, and whirled itself around like a rapid millstone. Then the love that was inside it answered: ‘Divine Light focuses itself on me from above, penetrating that in which I am involved: which power, joined to my vision, lifts me so far beyond myself, that I see the supreme essence from which it is extracted. From there comes the joy I flame with, equalling the clarity of my sight with the brightness of my flame. But neither the most illuminated soul in Heaven, nor the Seraph with eyes most fixed on God, can satisfy you as to your question, because the thing you ask lies so deep in the abyss of the eternal law that it is hidden from created sight. And, when you return to the mortal world, report this: that it should no longer presume to set its feet towards so great a goal.

    The Mind, that shines here, on earth is clouded, so think if it could have that power there, below, if it does not when Heaven takes it to itself.’ His words put such constraint on me I left the question, and restricted myself to asking, humbly, who he was himself.

    ‘Between Italy’s two coasts, the Apennine mountains rise, not far from your native place, and so high that the thunder sounds far lower down, and make a hump called Catria, beneath which a monastery was consecrated, which used only to be given over to prayer.’ So he began his third speech to me, and then continued: ‘There I became so rooted in God’s service that I treated heat and cold lightly, ate Lenten-fare cooked with olive-oil, was satisfied with contemplative thought. That hermitage once yielded fruitfully to Heaven, and now is barren, so that before long it must be exposed.

    I was Peter Damian in that place, and was Peter the Sinner, in the house of Our Lady on the Adriatic shore. Little of mortal life was left to me, when I was called and drawn to the cardinal’s hat, which passes now from bad wearer to worse. Saint Peter, Cephas, came, and Saint Paul, the great vessel of the Holy Spirit, lean and unshod, taking their food from any place. Now the modern shepherds have to be buttressed on both sides, and have someone to lead them, they are so fat and heavy, and someone to support them from behind. They cover their ponies with cloaks, so that two creatures go under one hide: O patience that endures so much!’

    At his voice, I saw more flames descend, gyring, from rung to rung, and every gyration made them more beautiful. They came and rested, and made a sound so deep, that there is nothing here to compare it to, and I did not understand its meaning: its thunder overcame me so.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:1-99 Saint Benedict

    I turned, oppressed by stupor, to my guide, like a little child who always goes for help where he has most confidence, and She, like a mother who, with her voice, which sets him right, quickly aids her pale and breathless child, said, to me: ‘Do you not know you are in Heaven? And do you not know that Heaven is wholly sacred, and that which is done here is done from righteous zeal? Now you can understand how the song, and my smiling, have transmuted you, since, that cry has so moved you, in which the vengeance you shall see taken, before you die, would already be known to you, had you understood their prayers.
    The sword from above does not strike hastily, or reluctantly, except to his perception, who waits for it with longing, or in fear. But turn now to the others: since you will see many renowned spirits, if you direct your look according to my words.’ I turned my eyes, as her wish commanded, and saw a hundred smaller spheres, which were made more beautiful by their collective rays.

    I stood, like someone who represses the stirrings of desire in himself, who does not presume to ask, because he fears to exceed due bounds. And the greatest and most lustrous of these pearls came forward, to satisfy my wish about him, Then I heard, inside there: ‘If you could see, as I can, the love which burns among us, your thought would have been spoken, but so that you do not miss the goal, by delay, I will answer only the thought which you were so cautious about.

    That mountain, Monte Cairo, on whose slopes lies Monte Cassino, was once thronged by deceived and wrongly-directed worshippers of the Pagan gods. And I am Benedict, who first carried His name up there, He who brought that Truth, which raises us up so high, and such great grace shone over me, that I weaned the surrounding villages from the impious cults that seduced the world.

    These other flames were all contemplatives, lit by the warmth that bears sacred fruits and flowers. Here is Maccarius, here is Romoaldus, here are the brothers who stayed inside the cloisters and kept their hearts intact.’ And I to him: ‘The love you show, by speaking with me, and the benign aspect I see, and note, in all your fires, has increased my confidence as the Sun expands the rose, when it opens as far as is within its power, so that I beg to know, assure me father, as to whether I might receive such grace as to see your unveiled form.’

    At which he said: ‘Brother, your noble desire, will be fulfilled in the last sphere, the Empyrean, where I, and all the rest, find fulfilment. There every desire is perfect, full and ripe: in it alone every part is where it always was, since it is not in space, and has no poles, and our ladder reaches it at last, vanishing out of sight. The patriarch Jacob saw its upper rungs stretch up there, when he saw it filled with Angels. But no one leaves Earth to climb it now, and my rule, down there, remains a waste of parchment. The walls, that used to be a House of Prayer, are dens, and the cowls are sacks full of mouldy grain.

    But even gross usury is not as contrary to God’s wishes as the fruit, which maddens the monks’ hearts. Since what the Church holds, in its keeping, belongs to the people who pray to God, not to kin, or to other viler uses. The flesh of mortals is so easily seduced, that down there, a good beginning does not last the time from the oak’s sprouting to the acorn harvest. Peter began his flock, without gold or silver, I mine with prayers and fasting, and Francis his with humility. And if you gaze at the start of each order, and look again at where it has failed, you will see the white darken.

    But Jordan being rolled back, and the Red Sea separating when God willed, would be a less marvellous sight than alteration here.’ So he spoke to me, and then returned to his companions, and the companions drew close together, then were all gathered upwards in a whirlwind.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154 Dante enters Gemini

    The sweet Lady drove me, behind them, up the ladder, merely with a gesture, her power so conquered my nature: and motion was never so quick down here, where we climb and fall by nature’s law, as to match my flight.
    O Reader, I swear by my hopes of ever returning to that sacred triumph, for which I, many a time, regret my sins, and beat my breast, you would not have put your finger in the fire, and drawn it back, in so short a time as it took me to see the sign of Gemini, that follows Taurus, and to be inside it.

    O glorious stars, O light pregnant with great power, from which I derive all my genius, whatever of it there is, He who is father of every human life, was rising and setting in your sign, when I first felt the air of Tuscany: and then, when grace was granted me, to enter the distant sphere where you revolve, your region was assigned to me.

    To you my soul breathes, devoutly, to gain the strength for the difficult passage, which draws her towards itself. Beatrice began to say: ‘You are so near the highest blessedness, that your eyes should be sharp and clear. So, before you make your way deeper into it, look down, and see how great a world I have placed under your feet: in order that your heart may be presented, as joyfully as it can to the triumphant crowd which comes, delightedly, through this ethereal sphere.’

    I turned my gaze back through each and every one of the seven spheres, and saw this globe, so that I smiled at its pitiful semblance, and I approve that wisdom greatest which considers it least: since he whose thoughts are directed elsewhere may be called truly noble.

    I saw the Moon, Artemis, daughter of Latona, lit without that shadow which gave me reason before to consider her rare or dense. I endured the face of Helios, your son Hyperion, and saw how Mercury, son of Maia, and Venus, daughter of Dione, move around and near him. Next, Jupiter appeared, moderate between Saturn his father’s cold, and Mars’s his son’s heat, and the changes in their position were clear to me. And all the seven were revealed to me, how large, how fast they are, and how distant from each other in orbit.

    The threshing-floor that makes us so fierce, appeared to me from mountains to river-mouth, as I revolved with the eternal Twins: then I turned my eyes to the lovely eyes again.

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:1-48 The Vision of Christ

    Like a bird among the beloved leaves, who has brooded over the nest of her sweet chicks, in the night that hides all things from us, and who, prematurely, takes to the open branch, eager to see their longed-for aspect, and to find food to feed them, waiting the sun with ardent love, watching fixedly for the dawn to break, so was my Lady, standing, erect and ready, turned towards the region of the south where the sun moves slowest, so that as I looked at her in her anticipation and longing, I became like him, desiring, who wishes something new, and delights in hope.
    But the time between one when and the next, for fixing my attention I mean, and for seeing the Heavens grow brighter and brighter, was short. And Beatrice said: ‘See the procession of Christ’s triumph, and all the fruits gathered by the wheeling of these spheres.’ Her face seemed alight, and her eyes so full of joy, that I have to pass it by, without description.

    As Diana Trivia in the calm of full moons, smiles among the eternal nymphs who clothe the Heavens in every space, I saw one Sun, above a thousands lights, firing each and all, as our own sun does the things we see above: and the glowing substance shone so brightly through the living light that my vision could not endure it. O Beatrice, sweet, dear guide! She said to me: ‘Nothing has defence against what overpowers you. Inside are the wisdom and the power that opened the path between Heaven and Earth, for which there had been such great desire before.’

    Even as fire is released from cloud, because it expands so that there is no space inside, and rushes down to earth against its nature, so my mind, expanded by these feasts, issued out of itself, and cannot remember what it became…. ‘Open your eyes, and look at what I am: you have seen things that have made you strong enough to endure my smile.’

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:49-87 The Virgin and the Apostles

    When I heard that gift, worthy of great thanks, that can never be erased from the book that records the past, I was like someone who returns to himself, from an unremembered dream, and tries vainly to recall it to mind. If all of those tongues that Polyhymnia, and her sister Muses, enriched with their sweetest milk, sounded, the sound would not reach, to a thousandth part of the truth, in helping my singing of the sacred smile, and how it brightened her sacred face.
    And so the sacred Poem must take a leap, in describing Paradise, like someone finding his way obstructed. But whoever thinks about the weighty theme, and the human shoulder that has burdened itself with it, will not cast blame if the shoulder trembles beneath it. It is not a path for a little boat, that my bold keel cuts as it goes, nor a pilot who spares himself.

    Beatrice spoke: ‘Why does my face so entrance you that you do not turn to the lovely Garden that flowers below the rays of Christ? There is the Rose, in which the Divine Word made itself flesh: there are the Lilies within whose perfume the good way was taken.’ And I, who was eager for her wisdom, surrendered again to the struggle of my weak vision.

    As I have seen, before now, a meadow filled with flowers, under the sun’s rays, shining pure through broken cloud, themselves covered in shadow, so I saw many crowds of splendours, shone on from above by ardent rays, not seeing the source from which the glow came. O benign Power that so forms them! You had risen yourself, to make space for my vision that lacked strength.

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:88-139 Gabriel: The Redeemed: The Apostles

    The name of that lovely flower which I invoke, always, morning and night, drew my mind to gaze at the greatest flame, And when the quality and might of the living star, that overcomes there as it did down here, had been pictured in both my eyes, an encircled flame, formed like a coronet, fell from the Heavens and clothed her, and surrounded her.
    Whatever melody sounds sweetest here, and draws the spirit most towards itself, would seem the thunder from a torn cloud, compared to that lyre, to whose sound the lovely sapphire was crowned, who en-sapphires the brightest Heaven. The circling melody named itself: ‘I am Gabriel, the Angelic Love, who circles the noble joy, that takes breath from the womb, that was the Inn of our Longing: and Lady of Heaven, I will circle, until you follow your Son, and render the Highest Sphere more divine, by entering it.’ Then all the other lights rang out with the name of Mary.

    The Primum Mobile, that royal mantle of all the folds of the Universe, that burns brightest, and is most alive, with the breath and manner of God, had its inner shore so far above us that its appearance was not yet visible to me. So my eyes had not the power to follow the crowned flame as She climbed after her own Child. And like the babe, who stretches his arms up towards his mother, when he has suckled, because his mind flames out in external gesture, so each of those fires tapered its flame, so that the deep love they had for Mary was made clear to me. Then they rested there, in my sight, singing Regina Coeli: Queen of Heaven, so sweetly, that the delight has never left me.

    O how great the wealth is, filling those rich coffers, spirits, which, on earth, were good sowers of its seed! Here they have life and joy, even from that treasure that was earned, weeping, in Exile, in Babylon, where gold was rejected. Here he triumphs, with the ancient and the new synod, under the noble Son of God, and Mary, that Peter who holds the keys to such great glory.

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:1-51 Saint Peter

    O company, elected to the great feast of the Blessed Lamb, who feeds you in such manner that your hunger is always sated, if, by the grace of God, this man tastes what falls from your table before death has determined his time, take heed of his immeasurable yearning, and sprinkle him a little, you who always drink at the fountain, from which flows that on which his thought is fixed.’ So Beatrice spoke: and those joyful souls, made spheres, of themselves, with fixed axes, flaming out like comets.
    And as wheels, in harmonious clockwork, turn so that the first seems still, to whoever inspects it, but the last to fly, so these dancers with their various gyres, fast or slow, made me consider their riches. I saw a blissful flame shoot from the one I thought most beautiful, such that none brighter remained: and it swept three times round Beatrice, with a song so divine that my imagination cannot repeat it, and my pen passes on, and I do not write, since our thought, and speech, is too grossly coloured to trace such folds.

    ‘O my holy sister, who begs us, so devotedly, you free me from this lovely sphere by your glowing love.’ As soon as the blessed flame had rested, the breath that spoke the words I wrote, turned to my Lady. And she replied: ‘O eternal light of that great man to whom our Lord left the keys of this marvellous joy, which he brought to earth, test this man here on the points of faith, lesser or greater, as you choose, the faith that enabled you to walk the waves. Whether he loves well, and hopes truly, and believes, is not hidden from you, since you have sight of that place where everything is brought to light. But since this kingdom has made its citizens from those of true faith, it is fitting that he should be allowed to speak of it, to give it glory.’

    Even as the student equips himself, but does not speak until the master sets out the question, to sanction it, and not decide it, so I armed myself with every thought, while she spoke, so that I might be ready for such questioning and response.

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:52-87 Faith: Saint Paul

    ‘Speak, good Christian, reveal yourself: what is Faith?’ At which I raised my forehead to the light that breathed those words: then turned to Beatrice, and she eagerly signed to me to pour out the water of my inner fountain. I began: ‘May the grace that allows me to confess myself to the noble fore-runner, make my thought achieve expression!’ And I went on: ‘As the true pen of your dear brother, Paul, who with you set Rome on the better path, wrote for us: Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen: and this I take to be its essence.’ Then I heard: ‘You understand it truly, if you understand why he placed it among the substances, and then cited it as evidence.’ And I to that: ‘The deep things which grant me the privilege of appearing, in front of me, here, are hidden from the sight of those below, so that their existence is only a belief, down there, on which is built a high hope: and so it justifies the meaning of substance. And from this belief we need to reason, without any further insight: so it satisfies the meaning of evidence.’
    Then I heard: ‘If everything that is learnt down there by teaching, were understood so clearly, there would be no room left for sophistry.’ So it breathed out from that burning love: then it added: ‘This coin’s weight and alloy has been well tried: but tell me if you have it in your purse.’ At which I said: ‘Yes, I have it there, so bright and round, that there is no perhaps for me in its stamp.’

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:88-114 The Source of Faith

    Then this issued from the deep light that was burning there: ‘From where did that dear gem, on which all virtue is founded, come to you?’ And I: ‘The profuse rain of the Holy Spirit which is poured over the Old and the New pages, is the reasoning that brought it to so clear a conclusion for me, so that compared with it, all argument seems coarse to me.’ Then I heard: That Old and New proposition, which leads to your conclusion, why do you take it for Divine discourse?’ And I: ‘The proof which reveals the truth to me, is in the miracles that followed, which nature never heated the iron for, or struck the anvil.’
    The answer was: ‘Tell me, who assures you that these miracles took place? The writing, that seeks to be the proof of itself, no other, attests to them.’ I answered: ‘If the world turned to Christianity, without miracles, that would be such a miracle that the others would not rate a hundredth of it, since you entered, poor and hungry, on the field, to sow the plant that was once a vine, and is now a thorn.’

    So ending, the high sacred court rang out a Dio laudamo: We praise God, through the spheres, with that melody that is sung up there.

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:115-154 Dante’s Belief

    That spirit, who had drawn me from branch to branch with his questioning, now we were near to the topmost leaves, began again: ‘The grace, which holds loving speech with your mind, has opened your mouth, till now, as was appropriate, so that I sanction what emerged: but now you must say what you believe, and how it was offered to your belief.’
    I began: ‘O holy father, you spirit, who see now, what you once so believed, that you outstripped younger feet in entering the sepulchre, you would have me declare the form of my eager faith, and also ask the source of it: to which I answer: I believe in one God, sole and eternal, who moves all the Heavens with love and desire, Himself unmoving. And I do not merely have physical and metaphysical proofs for such belief, but it is shown me also by the truth that flows from it, through Moses, the Prophets and the Psalms, through the Gospel, and through you, who wrote, when the ardent Spirit had made you holy. And I believe in three Persons, eternal, and I believe they are One essence, and Threefold, in such a way as to allow are and is to be joined.

    My mind is stamped more than once, by the evangelic teaching, with the profound Divine condition of which I speak. This is the Source: this is the spark which then expands to living flame, and shines in me like a star in Heaven.’ Like the Master who hears what please him, and so clasps the servant, thanking him for his news, when he falls silent: so the apostolic light at whose command I had spoken circled me three times, blessing me as it sang, as soon as I had ceased, I pleased him so with my words.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:1-63 Saint James and Saint Peter

    If it should ever come to pass, that the sacred poem, to which Heaven and Earth have set their hand, so that it has made me lean through many a year, conquers the cruelty that bars me from the lovely fold, where I used to sleep as a lamb, enemy of the wolves that war on it, I will return a poet, now, with altered voice and fleece, and will assume the wreath at my baptismal font, since it was there I entered the faith which makes souls visible to God, and afterwards Peter, for its sake, so encircled my brow. After which a light moved towards us, from the sphere out of which the first fruits of the vicars left by Christ on earth came. And my Lady, full of joy, said to me: ‘See! See! Behold James, the Saint for whose sake, down there, they search out Galicia.’
    As a dove, taking his perch next to his companion, pours out his love for the other, billing and cooing, so I saw one great and glorious prince received by the other, praising the food that feasts them there. But when the greeting was over, each one rested, silently, coram me:in my presence, so fiery, that they overcame my gaze. Then Beatrice, smiling, said: Noble life, by whom the generous gifts of our court were recorded, let Hope be sounded in this altitude: you know it, who described it all those times, when Jesus gave greater light to you three.’

    ‘Lift your head, and reassure yourself, since whatever comes here from the mortal world must ripen in our rays.’ Such comfort came to me from the second flame, at which I lifted up ‘mine eyes unto the hills’, which had been bowed before with excessive weight. The second light continued: ‘Since our Emperor, by his grace, wishes you to be confronted with his Saints, in his most secret court, before you die, so that having seen its truth, you might increase the hope in yourself and others, which makes people on earth love the good, say what Hope is, and how your mind is en-flowered by it, and say from where it comes to you.’

    And that gentle one, Beatrice, who guided my feathered wings to so high a soaring, anticipated me in speaking, saying: ‘The Church militant does not have a child more full of hope, as it is written in the Sun who shines on all our host, so it was granted to him to come out of Egypt to Jerusalem, to gaze on her, before the proper end of his struggle. Those two points, of hope and love, asked about not so that you might learn anything, but so that he can take back word of how much they give pleasure to you, I leave to him, since they will not be difficult for him, or a matter of boast: so let him answer to them, and may God’s grace allow him this.’

    Paradiso Canto XXV:64-96 Hope: Saint James

    Like a pupil following after his teacher, in what he is expert in, pleased and eager, for his knowledge to be shown, I said: ‘Hope is the certain expectation of future glory, the product of Divine Grace and previous worth. This light comes to me from many stars: but David, the highest singer of the highest leader, first distilled it in my heart. Let those who know your name, hope in you, he says in his divine song, and who does not know it, if they have my faith? You then rained it on me, with his rain, in your Epistle, so that I am drenched and pour your shower again over others.’
    While I was speaking, a sudden flash like lightning trembled in the living heart of that flame. Then it breathed out: ‘The love, with which I am still on fire for virtue, that followed me to the palm of martyrdom and the leaving of the field of life, wills me to breathe on you who delight in her, and it is my further wish that you tell of what it is hope promises to you.’ And I: ‘The Old and the New scriptures display the sign, that points me once more to the thing itself. Isaiah says that, of the souls that God has made his friends, each one will be robed with double robes, in its own land, and its own land is this sweet life. And your brother John sets out this revelation for us, more clearly worked through, where he treats of the white robes.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:97-139 Love: Saint John

    And not long after the ending of these words, ‘They hope in you’ rang out above us, to which all the singers responded: then a light flashed out from among them, so that if Cancer, the sign of the Crab, contained a star like it, winter would have one month with unbroken daylight. And as a joyful virgin rises, and goes to join the dance, not from wrong motives, but only to honour the bride, so I saw that illumined splendour join the other two, who were turning in a ring, in such a manner as fitted their ardent love.
    There it entered their song and its words, and my Lady fixed her gaze on them like a bride, silent and motionless, and my Lady said: ‘This is John, who at the last supper leaned on the breast of Christ, the Pelican, who chose him from the cross, and committed Mary to his care.’ So she spoke, but no more moved her eyes, from their fixed intent, afterwards than before.

    Like one who strains and gazes at the sun’s brief eclipse, who loses his sight by looking, so was I at this last flame, until a word came: ‘Why does it dazzle you to see that which has no place here? My body is earth in the earth, and there it will be with the others, until our time suits the eternal purpose. Only the two lights which rose, Christ and the Virgin, wear both robes in this blessed cloister, and this you can take back to your world.’

    The inflamed circle quieted itself at this voice, together with the sweet harmony made by the sound of that triple breath, as oars, striking the water until, then, all pause at the whistle’s sound, so as to stave off weariness or danger.

    O, how I was stirred in my mind, turning to search for Beatrice, whom I was blind to, though I was near her, and in the world of bliss!

    Paradiso Canto XXVI:1-69 Dante blinded temporarily speaks of Love

    While I was doubtful of my darkened sight, I was made attentive by a breath that came from the glowing flame that had darkened it, saying: ‘Until you regain the sense of sight you have spent on me, it would be well to compensate for it by speaking. Begin then, and say on what your mind is focused, and be assured that your vision is dazzled, and not destroyed: since the Lady who leads you through this divine region has the power to heal it, in her gaze, that Ananias had in his hands.’
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 26, 7

    I said: ‘Let help come sooner or later, at her wish, to these eyes that were the gates where she entered with the fire I always burn with. Love, the good, that satisfies this court, is the Alpha and Omega of all the scriptures which Amor reads to me, shallowly or deeply.’ That same voice which had erased my fear at the sudden dazzling, set my mind again to speech, and said: ‘Truly, you must strain through a finer sieve: you must tell me what it was that aimed your bow at such a target.’

    And I replied: ‘Such love must stamp itself on me, by philosophical arguments, and by authority that descends from them, since good, as good, in my understanding, lights the fire of love, and the more so, the more excellence it finds in itself. So the mind, of whoever sees the truth, on which this proof depends, must move, in love, towards that Essence, which has such advantage, that whatever is found good outside it, is nothing but a ray of its own light. And this same truth is made known, to my intellect, by Aristotle, who shows me the primal love, of all eternal beings. It is made known to me by the voice of that true Author who says to Moses, speaking of himself: I will cause thee to see all worth. It is made known to me by you as well, where you open the noble Revelation, that cries out the secrets of this place, to Earth, beyond all other speech.

    And I heard: ‘Keep the highest of your loves for God, as urged by human reason, and by the authorities that concur with it, but tell me if you feel other strings drawing you towards Him, and say how many teeth this love grips you with.’ The sacred purpose of Christ’s eagle was not hidden but rather I saw in which direction he wished to lead my statements. So that I began again: ‘All those bitings that have power to make the heart turn towards God, work together on my love, since the world’s being and my own being, the death that He suffered so that I might live, and what each believer hopes, as do I, together with the living consciousness I spoke of, have drawn me out of the sea of the perverse, and set me on the shore of true love. I love the leaves with which the whole Garden of the eternal Gardener is leafed, as greatly as good has been offered to them, by Him.’

    As soon as I fell silent, the sweetest song resounded through the Heavens, and my Lady cried: ‘Holy, Holy, Holy,’ with them all.

    Paradiso Canto XXVI:70-142 Dante regains his sight: Adam

    And as a man wakes from sleep at a bright light, because his spirit of sight runs to meet the glow, that pierces veil after veil of the eye, and he, waking, confuses what he sees, his sudden vision being so clouded, until thought comes to its aid, so Beatrice made the scales fall from my eyes, with the rays from hers, that would cast their glow a thousand miles, so that I saw more clearly afterwards than before, and, almost stupefied, I questioned as to a fourth light that I saw with us. And my Lady said: ‘In those rays, Adam, the first soul that the primal Power ever made, holds loving converse with his Maker.’
    As the branch bows its head when the wind passes over it, and then lifts itself by its own strength that holds it up, so I did, all dazed, while she was speaking, and then was re-collected by a desire to speak, with which I burned, and I began: ‘O ancient Father, who has a daughter and a daughter-in-law in every bride, you, the only fruit of the harvest created fully mature, I beg you, devoutly as I can, to speak to me: you see my wish, and I do not say it, so that I can hear you sooner.’

    Sometimes a creature struggles under a cloth, so that its intent is visible, because what covers it follows its movement: and similarly that primal soul made the joy, with which it came to serve my pleasure, apparent through its surface. And from it breathed: ‘Though you do not say it, I see your will, more clearly than you see what you are most certain of, because I view it in the true Glass, who makes Himself the Mirror of all things, and makes nothing which completely reflects Him.

    You wish to know how much time has passed since God set me in the exalted Garden in which She prepared you for this long stairway, and for how long its delights endured my presence, and the true cause of the great wrath, and about the language that I used, and made myself.

    Know my son that it was not the eating of the Tree that was the cause, in itself, of such harsh exile, but solely the going beyond the bounds set. In that place, Limbo, from which your Lady sent Virgil to you, my longing for these courts lasted four thousand three hundred and two revolutions of the sun, and I had seen him pass through all the stars along his track nine hundred and thirty times, while I was on Earth. The language, I spoke, was spent, long before the tower, that was never completed, was built, by Nimrod’s people: since the products of Reason never last forever, because of human taste, that alters with the movement of the skies. It is nature’s doing that Man should speak, but nature allows you to do it this way or that, as seems best to you.

    Before I went down to infernal anguish, Jah was the name on earth of that Supreme Good, from which the delight comes, that clothes me: He was called El thereafter, and that is fitting, since mortal usage is like the leaf on the twig, that falls, and another opens.

    In life, pure, and then disgraced, I was on the Mount, rising furthest from the sea, from the first hour to that which follows the sixth hour, when the sun changes quadrant.’

    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66 Saint Peter denounces the Popes

    ‘Glory, to the Father, to the Son, to the Holy Spirit,’ began through all of Paradise, so that the sweet song intoxicated me. I seemed to see the Universe’s smile: so that my drunkenness entered sight and hearing.
    O joy! O ineffable happiness! O life of love and peace combined! O safest riches that are beyond longing! The four torches stood burning in front of my eyes, and the first one, that had neared me, began to grow more intense: and became like Jupiter, if he and Mars were birds, and exchanged plumage, his silver-white for Mars’s warlike red.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 27, 1

    The Providence which assigns roles and offices there, had imposed silence on the choir of the blessed, on every side, when I heard: ‘Do not wonder if I transform the colour of my light, since you will see all these others do the same, as I speak.

    He who, on Earth, usurps my place, my place, my place, vacant in the presence of the Son of God, has made my burial-ground a sewer for that blood and filth whereby the perverse Angel who fell from above, is placated down there.’ Then I saw Heaven tinged with that colour which paints the clouds at dawn or evening, from the opposing sun, and like a modest woman, who is certain of herself, but feels fear only at the hearing of another’s fault, so Beatrice changed in appearance, and such, I take it, was the eclipse in Heaven, when the Supreme Power suffered.

    Then his speech continued, in a voice so far altered from itself, that even his appearance had not altered more greatly, saying: ‘The Church, the spouse of Christ, was not fed on my blood, and that of Saints Linus and Cletus, so that she might be used to acquire gold: but it was to gain this joyful life that Sixtus, Pius, Calixtus and Urban gave their blood after many tears.

    It was not our purpose for one part of Christianity to sit on the right side, and the other on the left of our successors; or that the keys given in trust to me should become the insignia on a banner making war on the baptised; or that I should become the head on that seal which stamps false and mercenary privileges, at which I often blush and shoot out flames. From above, here, the ravening wolves are seen, dressed as shepherds, in all the pastures. O Help to God, why are you down? Gascons and Cahorsines prepare to drink our blood. O good beginning, what evil end must you fall to! But the high Providence, that defended the glory of the world for Rome, in Scipio, will soon bring aid, I think. And you, my son, who will return below, because of your mortal heaviness, open your mouth, and do not hide the things I do not hide.’

    Paradiso Canto XXVII:67-96 Dante’s view of Earth

    As our air snows down frozen moisture in flakes when the horn of Capricorn, the heavenly Goat, is touched by the sun, so I saw the ether clothe itself and snow the flakes, of the triumphant lights that had rested with us, upwards. My vision was tracing their form, and followed them, until excess of space inhibited its power to see further. At which the Lady who saw me free now of straining upwards, said to me: ‘Look down, and see how you have orbited.’
    I saw that, since the hour when I had first looked down, I had moved through the whole quadrant, which Gemini, in the upper part of the first clima, or division of latitude, makes from noon to evening, so that I could see beyond Cadiz that foolish track Ulysses took, and, on this side, at evening, the near shore where Europa became the bull’s sweet burden.

    And the site of the threshing-floor would have been unfolded further to me, except that the sun was in advance under my feet, separated by a sign, Taurus, and more from me. My enamoured mind, which always held loving speech with my Lady, burned, more than ever, to bring my eyes back to her, and whatever food art, or nature, makes, to captivate the eyes, and so possess the mind, whether in human form, or in paintings, all brought together would seem nothing, compared to the divine delight which shone on me, when I turned towards her smiling face.

    Paradiso Canto XXVII:97-148 The Primum Mobile: Time: Degeneracy

    And the power which that look gifted me with, plucked me out of Leda’s fair nest, of the Twins, and thrust me into the swiftest Heaven. Its regions, highest and most alive, are so alike, that I cannot say in which one Beatrice chose to place me. But She, who saw my longing, began to speak, smiling, so delightedly that God seemed shining in her face: ‘The nature of the universe which keeps the centre fixed and moves the rest around it, begins here, as if from its goal.
    And this heaven has no other place than in the Divine Mind, in which the Love that moves it is fired, and the Power that it disperses. Light and Love clasp it in one circle, as it does all the other spheres, and only He who embraces it, understands this embrace. Its movement is not measured by any other: but all the rest are measured by it, as ten by halves and fifths. And it may now be clear to you how Time has its roots in this same sphere, and its leaves in the rest.

    O Greed, that so corrupts mortals below, that not one of them has strength enough to draw his eyes away from your depths! It is true that human will is still strong: but the continuous rain turns ripe plums to cancerous growths. Faith and innocence are only found in little children: then both vanish before the cheeks are downy. Many a lisping babe keeps the fast, who when his tongue is free, afterwards, eats any food, in any month: and many a lisping babe loves and listens to its mother, who when his speech is entire, afterwards, longs to see her buried.

    So, at the first appearance, the white skin blackens, of the lovely daughter, of Him who brings the dawn, and leaves us evening. And you, lest you wonder at it, consider: there is no one governing on earth, so the human household wanders from the path.

    But before January is all un-wintered, by that hundredth of a day in the calendar year, ignored on earth, these upper spheres shall roar, so that the fated season, long awaited, will reverse stem to stern, so that the fleet can sail true: and ripe fruit will follow the flower.’

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:1-57 The Angelic Circles

    When the truth had been revealed, by her who emparadises my mind, a truth in opposition to the present life of miserable humanity, my memory recalls that, gazing on the lovely eyes, from which Love made the noose to capture me, I saw, as a candle flame lit behind a man, is seen by him in a mirror, before it is, itself, in his vision or thought, so that he turns round, to see if the glass spoke true, and sees them agreeing, as song-words to their metre: and when I turned, and my own eyes were struck by what appears in that space, whenever the eyes are correctly fixed on its orbiting, I saw a point that beamed out a light so intense, that the eye it blazes on, must be closed to its fierce brightness, and whatever star seems smallest from down here, would be a moon if it were placed alongside it, as star is placed alongside star.
    Perhaps as near as a halo appears to be to the light that generates it, when the vapour in which it glows is thickest, at such a distance as that, round that point, a circle of fire revolved so quickly, it exceeded the speed of the fastest sphere, that surrounds the universe, and this circle was surrounded by another, that by a third, the third by a fourth, the fourth a fifth, the fifth a sixth.

    After it the seventh followed, already so broad in its reach that if Juno’s rainbow messenger were complete it would be too small to contain it. And so the eighth and ninth, and each one moved more slowly as its number was further from unity: and the one from which the pure light source was least distant, had the clearest flame, because, I believe, it is more embedded in the light’s truth.

    My Lady, who saw me labouring in profound anticipation, said; ‘Heaven and all Nature hangs from that point. Look at the circle which is most nearly joined to it, and learn that its movement is so fast because of the burning love which it is pierced by.’ And I to her: ‘If the universe was ordered in the sequence I see in these circlings, then I would be content with what I see in front of me. But, in the universe of the senses, we see the spheres as more divine the further they are distant from Earth, the centre. So, if my desire is to find its goal in this marvellous, angelic Temple, that only has love and light as its limits, I must hear why the copy and the pattern are not identical in form, since, myself, I cannot see it.’

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:58-93 Beatrice reconciles the two orders

    ‘And if your fingers are not skilled in untying such a knot, it is no wonder, it has become so difficult to achieve, from never being tried.’ So my Lady spoke, and said: ‘If you wish to be satisfied on this, take what I tell you, and wrap your mind around it.
    The earth-centred circles are wide or narrow, according to how much virtue spreads through their region. Greater excellence has power to work greater benefit: and greater benefit is conferred, by the largest sphere, if all parts of it are equally perfect. So the sphere, that sweeps with it all the rest of the universe, corresponds to the circle that loves and knows most. Therefore, if you take your measure from the virtue, not the appearance, of the substances which appear to you in these circles, you will see a marvellous correspondence between greater and more, smaller and less, between every Heaven and its angelic Intelligence.’

    As the hemisphere of air, shines serenely when Boreas blows a north-easterly, from his gentler cheek, so that the layer that covered it is purged and dissolved, and the sky laughs with the beauties of all its regions, so I, when my Lady had replied to me with her clear answer, and the truth was seen as a star is in the sky.

    And when her words ceased, the circles glittered as iron shoots outs sparks when it is poured, and every scintillation followed their fire, and the quantity of sparks were thousands more than the doubling of the chessboard at every square.

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:94-139 The Angelic Hierarchies

    I heard Hosanna sung from choir to choir, towards the fixed point, which holds, and will hold them forever, to the where, in which they have ever been: and She who saw the questions in my mind, said: ‘The first circles have shown you the Seraphs and the Cherubs. They follow their loops so fast so that they can identify themselves as closely with the point as possible, and they succeed according to their sublimity of vision.
    Those other Loves which circle round them are called Thrones of the Divine Aspect, because they bring the first triplet of circles to completion. And you must know that they all take delight, according as their vision sinks more deeply into the truth where every mind is stilled. So you can see how being blessed is founded on the act of seeing, not of loving, which follows from it: and the extent of vision is measured, by the merit that grace, and the right will, create: and so it goes from rank to rank.

    The second triplet which flowers like this, in this eternal Spring, that Aries, by night, does not despoil, as it does in our autumnal and wintry skies, perpetually sing Spring’s Hosannas, with three melodies that sound in the three ranks of joy, by which it is triply formed. In that hierarchy are the three divinities, the Dominations and Virtues, and the third order, Powers.

    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 28, 80

    Then in the two penultimate dance-circles the Principalities and Archangels whirl: and the last consists all of Angelic play. These orders all gaze upwards, and have such all-conquering power downwards, that all are drawn towards God, and in turn draw. And Dionysius set himself to contemplate these orders with such longing, that he named them and separated them as I do. But Gregory afterwards differed from him, such that when he opened his eyes in this Heaven, he smiled at himself.

    And if such hidden truth was uttered by a man, on Earth, do not wonder at it, since Paul, who saw it here, revealed it to him, with other truths about these circles.

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:1-66 The Creation of the Angels

    When Apollo and Artemis, the Sun and Moon, the children of Latona, one in Aries the Ram, the other in Libra the Scales, make the horizon their circle, and the zenith is the point from which both hang, till one rises, the other sets, removing themselves from that zone’s scales, both changing hemispheres, so long as that did Beatrice keep silent, with a smile pictured on her face, gazing intensely at the point whose light overcame me. Then she began to speak: ‘I do not ask, I say, what you wish to hear of, since I have seen the point of Creation, on which every where and when is focused.
    In his Eternity beyond time, past all others’ understanding, the eternal Love showed himself, in new love, as he desired: not to gain any good for Himself, since that cannot be, but so that his reflected light, shining, might say: I am. He did not lie there, as if sleeping, before Creation: God’s movement over these waters was not a process of before or after. Form and matter, pure and conjoined, issued into being without flaw, like three arrows from a triple-strung bow, and as a ray of light shines in glass, amber or crystal, so that no time passes between its entry and the illumination, so the triple effect of the Lord shone out instantly into being, without a separate beginning.

    Order was co-created, and interwoven with substance: and they were the crown of the universe, in whom pure act was produced: potentiality held the lowest place: in the middle potentiality formed such a knot with act, as can never be untied. Jerome wrote for you about the vast stretch of time in which the created Angels existed, before the rest of the Universe was formed: but the contrary truth I speak is written on many pages of the writers of the Holy Spirit, and you will become aware of it if you look closely: and Reason also sees it in some degree, which cannot allow that the movers of the spheres should exist so long without their spheres’ perfection.

    Now you know where and when these Loves were elected, and how, so that three flames of your longing are quenched already. Before one could count twenty, some of the Angels fell, stirring the foundation of your elements. The rest remained, and began the art you see, with such delight, that they never leave their circling. The source of the fall was the cursed pride of Satan, him you saw imprisoned by the whole weight of the universe. Those you see here were humble, recognising themselves as being from that same excellence that made them so quick in understanding: so that their vision was exalted by illuminating grace, and their own virtue, so that they have their will free and entire. And I want you to be certain, and not doubtful, that it is a virtue to receive grace, by opening the affections to it.’

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:67-84 The Angels’ Faculties

    ‘Now, if my words have been absorbed, you can contemplate much of this court without further help. But I will go on, because, in your schools, it is taught, that the Angelic nature is such as understands, remembers and wills, and I wish you to see, in its purity, the truth that is confused down there, by the equivocations in such lectures.
    These Angelic substances, since they first gathered joy from God’s face, have never turned their eyes from that, from which nothing is hidden, so that their vision is never disturbed by any new object, and there is no need to recall anything to memory, because of divided thoughts. So humans dream, down there, when not asleep: certain that they speak the truth, or uncertain: and there is greater error and shame in the latter.’

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:85-126 Ineffectual teaching and remission

    ‘You do not follow a single track when you philosophise down there: love of display, and the thought it produces, delights you so. But even this is tolerated here with less indignation than when Divine Scripture is twisted or discarded. They forget how great the cost was in blood to sow its seed in the world, and how much he pleases, who keeps it by him, in humility.
    Everyone strains his wits to make a display and show his inventiveness: the priests discuss these things, and the scriptures are left silent. One says the moon reversed when Christ suffered, and blocked the sun’s light from shining below, and others that the light vanished by itself: so that the same eclipse occurred for Spain and India, as it did for the Jews. Florence does not have as many Tom, Dick, and Harry’s as this sort of story, proclaimed, each year, from the pulpits here and there: so that the sheep, knowing nothing, return from the pasture fed on air, and not to know their loss is no excuse.

    Christ did not say: ‘Go and preach nonsense to the world,’ to his first gathering, but gave them the true foundation: that, and only that, was on their lips: so that they made the Gospels lance and shield in their fight to light the faith. Now a man goes to preach with jokes and grimaces, and if there is loud laughter, his cowl swells, and nothing else is needed. But such a devil is nesting in the hood, that if the crowd could see it, they would know what remission they were trusting in: and from this the foolishness has increased so much, on earth, that people would go with any promise, without proof of evidence. So that the pigs of Saint Anthony, and others more swinish than they, are fattened, by the gains of this false coinage.’

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:127-145 The Number and Diversity of Angels

    ‘But, since we have wandered enough, turn your eyes back, now, to the true path, so that our time and journey may shorten. This Angelic nature has such deep-numbered ranks, that mortal speech and thought have never extended so far: and if you look at what Daniel reveals, you will see that determinate number is lost among his thousands.
    The primal light that shines, above it all, is received by it in as many ways as the reflected splendours, with which it pairs. And since affection follows the act of conception, the sweetness of Love is warm, or hotter in them, in various ways. See, now, the breadth and height of Eternal Value, since it has made so many mirrors of itself, in which it is reflected, remaining itself One, as it was before.’

    Paradiso Canto XXX:1-45 Dante and Beatrice enter the Empyrean

    Noon blazes, perhaps six thousand miles from us, and this world’s shadows already slope to a level field, when the centre of Heaven, high above, begins to alter, so that, here and there, a star lacks the power to shine to this depth: and as the brightest handmaiden of the sun advances, so Heaven quenches star after star, till even the loveliest are gone. In the same way, that Triumph, which always plays around the point that overcame me, appearing to be embraced by that which it embraces, faded, little by little, from my vision: so that my seeing nothing, and my love, forced me to turn my eyes towards Beatrice. If that which is said of her, above, were all condensed into one act of praise, it would be too little to answer to this case. The beauty I saw is beyond measure, not only past our reach, but I truly believe that only He, who made it, joys in it completely.
    At this time, I hold myself more utterly vanquished, than ever his theme’s weight overcame comic, or, tragic poet. Since, like the sun, in trembling vision, so the memory of the sweet smile, cuts off my memory, from my deepest self. From the first day, in this life, when I saw her face, until this sight, my song has never failed to follow, but now my way must cease the tracking of her beauty through poetry, as every artist must at his furthest reach.

    So, as I leave her, to a greater fanfare than my sounding brass, which sounds the close of its arduous subject, she began again to speak, with a leader’s alert gestures and voice, saying: ‘We have issued from the largest sphere, into the Heaven that is pure Light, intellectual Light, filled with Love, Love of true Goodness, filled with Joy, Joy that transcends every Sweetness. Here you will see the Redeemed, and the Angelic, soldiers of Paradise, and the former in their forms that you will see at the Last Judgement.’

    Paradiso Canto XXX:46-96 The River of Light

    As a sudden flash of lightning destroys the visual powers, so as to rob the eye of strength to realise even the clearest objects, so a living light shone round me, leaving me bathed in such a veil of its brightness, that nothing was visible to me. ‘The Love, that stills Heaven, always accepts spirits, into itself, with such a greeting, to fit the candle for its flame.’
    As soon as these few words entered me, I felt I surmounted my normal powers, and blazed with such new-created sight that there is no unalloyed light that my eyes could not hold their own with. And I saw brightness, in the form of a river, shining, amber, between banks pricked out with miraculous Spring. Living sparks flashed from this river, and fell into the blossoms on all sides, like gold-set rubies. Then they plunged themselves, again, into the marvellous vortex, as if drunk with the perfumes, and as one entered, another issued out.

    ‘The high desire that burns and urges you now to acquire knowledge of the things you see, pleases me more the more it intensifies. But you must first drink of this water, before so great a thirst in you can be satisfied.’ So my eyes’ sun spoke to me, then added: ‘The river and the topazes that enter it and exit, and the smile of the grasses, are the shadowy preface to their reality. Not because the things are crude in themselves, but the defect is in you, because you do not have such exalted vision yet.’

    Never did infant turn so quickly towards the milk, waking much later than usual, as I did then, bending to the waters that are formed so that we may better ourselves, to make still truer mirrors of my eyes. And my eyelids’ rims no sooner felt it, than their length seemed to alter into roundness. Then the flowers and the sparks changed in front of me into a fuller joyousness, as people, masked, seem other than before if they remove the image that hid them, not their own, and I saw both courts of Heaven, made manifest.

    Paradiso Canto XXX:97-148 The Ranks of the Blest

    O splendour of God, through which I saw the high Triumph of the kingdom of truth: give me the power to say what I saw.
    There is a light, up there, that makes the Creator visible to the creature, who only in seeing him finds its peace: and it extends so far in a circle, that its rim would loosely contain the sun’s light. It whole appearance is formed of rays reflected from the surface of the Primum Mobile, which draws its life and power from them. And as a hillside reflects itself in the water at its foot, as if to view its own beauty, rich in grass and flowers, so, rising above the light, around, around, I saw all of us who have won their way back up there, casting their reflection in more than a thousand ranks.

    And if the lowest level attracts so great a light inside it, what of the intensity of the rose’s outer petals? My sight was not lost itself in the height and breadth, but grasped the quality and quantity of joy. Near and far do not add or subtract there, since where God rules without mediation the laws of nature have no relevance.

    Beatrice drew me, a man silent, who would speak, into the yellow glow of the eternal Rose, that rises layer on layer, and exudes the perfume of praise, towards the Sun, that makes eternal Spring, saying: ‘Marvel at the vastness of the white-robed gathering! Our City, see how wide its circle! See our thrones, filled, so that few spirits are still awaited there.

    The soul, an imperial one on earth, of Henry the Seventh, shall sit on that high seat, that you fix your eyes on because of the crown you already see placed over it, before you yourself dine at this wedding feast: he, who will come to set Italy straight before she is ready for it. Blind greed that mazes you has made you like a little child that chases away its nurse while dying of hunger: and he, Clement, who will be Pope then in the court of divine things, will be such as will not tread the same path as him, openly or in secret. But God will not suffer him long in that sacred office, since he will be forced down where Simon Magus is, for his reward, and push Boniface, him of Anagna lower still.’

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:1-27 The Rose

    That sacred army, that Christ espoused with his blood, displayed itself in the form of a white rose, but the Angel other, that sees and sings the glory, of him who inspires it with love, as it flies, and sings the excellence that has made it as it is, descended continually into the great flower, lovely with so many petals, and climbed again to where its love lives ever, like a swarm of bees, that now plunges into the flowers, and now returns, to where their labour is turned to sweetness.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 31, 1

    Their faces were all of living flame, their wings of gold, and the rest of them so white that snow never reached that limit. When they dropped into the flower, they offered, to tier on tier, the peace and ardour that they acquired with beating wings: and the presence of such a vast flying swarm between the flower and what was beyond it, did not dilute the vision or the splendour: because the Divine Light so penetrates the Universe, to the measure of its Value, that nothing has the power to prevent it. This kingdom, safe and happy, crowded with ancient peoples and the new, had sight and Love all turned towards one point.

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:28-63 Saint Bernard

    O triple Light that glitters in their sight, a single star, and so contents them: look down on our tempest! If the Barbarians, coming from those countries that Callisto, the Bear, spans every day, orbiting with her son, Arcas, the little Bear, whom she longs for, if they were stupefied on seeing Rome and her great works, at the time when her palaces exceeded mortal things, what then of me, who had gone to the divine, from the human, to the eternal, from time, and from Florence to a true and just people? With what stupor must I be filled! Truly, what with it, and with my joy, my wish was to hear nothing, and be dumb.
    Like a pilgrim who renews himself, by gazing, in the Temple of his vows, and already hopes to retell how it looks, so I led my eyes, crossing the living light, along the levels, up and down, and then around them, circling. I saw faces persuasive of Love, graced by another’s light and their own smile, and with gestures adorned with all honour. My gaze had already taken in the general form of Paradise in its completeness, and my sight had not rested on any one part, and I turned, with re-illumined will, to ask my Lady about things with which my mind was concerned. I intended that, but another sight answered mine: I thought that I would see Beatrice, but I saw an old man dressed like the glorious folk. His eyes and cheeks were full of gentle joy, with kindly gestures as fits a tender father.

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:64-93 Beatrice crowned in Heaven

    And I suddenly said: ‘Where is She?’ at which he replied: ‘Beatrice brought me from my place to lead your desire to its goal: and if you look up at the third circle from the highest level, you will see her again, on that throne her merit has marked out for her.’ I raised my eyes without answering, and saw her, making a crown for herself, by reflecting the eternal light from her person.
    Gustave Doré Illustration – Purgatorio Canto 31, 64

    No human eye is further from the highest vaults of the thunder, though plunged to the sea’s depths, as my sight was from Beatrice, but that did not affect me, since her image came to me undiluted by any medium.

    ‘O Lady, in whom my hope has life, and who, for my salvation, suffered to leave your footprints in Hell, I recognise the grace and virtue of all I have seen, through your power and your goodness. You have brought me from slavery to freedom, by all those paths, by all those ways that you had power over. Guard your grace, in me, so that my spirit, which you have made whole, may be acceptable to you when it leaves my body.’ So I prayed: and she, far off though she appeared, smiled, and gazed at me, then turned towards the Eternal Fountain.

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:94-142 The Virgin

    And the holy man said: ‘Let your eyes fly around this Garden, so as to consummate your journey perfectly, the mission for which prayer and sacred love sent me: since gazing at it will better fit your sight to climb through the divine light. And the Queen of Heaven, for whom I burn wholly with love, will grant us all grace, because I am her loyal Bernard.’
    Like one who comes from Croatia perhaps to see our cloth of Veronica, and is not sated with looking because of its ancient fame, but, as long as it is visible, says, in thought: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, true God, was this then your face?’ such was I gazing at the living love of him, who in this world tasted of that peace in contemplation.

    He began: ‘Son of grace, this joyful being will not become known to you, merely by keeping your gaze down here at the foot, but look at the circles, to the very farthest, until you see the enthroned Queen of Heaven, to whom this kingdom is subject, and devoted.’

    I lifted my eyes, and as, at dawn, the eastern space of the horizon conquers that space where the sun declines, so, as if raising my eyes, from a valley to the mountain, I saw a space, at the edge, exceed all the rest of the ridge in light. And as down here that place where we expect the chariot, that Phaethon failed to guide, is most glowing, and the light is cut away on either side, so was She, that flame of peace, quickened in the centre, tempering the blaze on all sides. And at the mid-point I saw more than a thousand Angels, joying, with outstretched wings, each Angel distinct, in glow and function.

    I saw there, a Beauty that was delight, in the eyes of all the other saints, smiling at their dances and their songs. And if I had words as rich as my imagination, I would still not dare to attempt the smallest part of her delightfulness.

    Bernard turned his eyes to her, with so much love, when he saw my eyes fixed and attentive gazing towards the source of his own light, that he made mine more eager to gaze again.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36 The Two Halves of the Rose

    He, the contemplative, with his Love fixed on his Delight, freely assumed the office of a teacher, and began these sacred words: ‘The wound, that Mary sealed and anointed, is that which Eve, who is so lovely, at her feet, opened and pierced. In the order, made by the third level, Rachel with Beatrice, sits below her, as you see. Even as I go down the rose, petal by petal, naming their proper names, you can see, descending from level to level, Sarah, Rebecca, Judith, and Ruth, her from whom came David the singer, third in descent, who cried out, from grief at his sin: “Miserere mei: Pity me.’ And down from the seventh, and beyond, again the Hebrew women, separating the flower’s tresses, since they are the wall, that parts the sacred stairway, according to how faith in Christ was realised.
    On this side, where the flower is full-blown, in all its petals, those, who believed in Christ to come, are sitting. On the other side, where there are empty seats among them, are the semi-circles of those whose eyes were turned towards the Christ who had come. And as the glorious throne of Heaven’s Lady, and the seats below her, make such a partition, so, next to her, does that of the great Baptist, John, who, ever holy, suffered the desert and a martyr’s death, and then Limbo, for two years space, until Christ came there: and, below him, the separating line, assigned to Francis, Benedict, Augustine, and the others from circle to circle, down to here.’

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:37-84 The Children

    ‘Now marvel at the depth of Divine provision, since both aspects of the faith will fill this Garden equally. And know that, down from the level that cuts across the two divisions, the spirits have their places not because of their own merit, but another’s, given certain conditions, since these are all souls freed before they had exercised true choice.
    You can see it by their faces, and their voices, those of children, if you look carefully and listen. Now you doubt, and are silent in your doubting: but I will untie the difficult knot for you, in which your subtle thoughts are entangling you. No chance point has place in all this kingdom, no more than sadness, thirst, or hunger do, because what you see is established by Eternal Law, so that the ring corresponds exactly to the finger.

    The ordering of these children, swiftly come to the true life, according to greater or lesser excellence, is not sina causa: without reason. The King, by whom this kingdom rests in such great love, such great delight that the will dares nothing more, when he creates minds, in his joyous sight, of his grace and at his pleasure, grants them diversity: and let the effect suffice as proof. And this is marked, clearly and expressly, in Holy Writ, concerning those twins who struggled in anger in Rebeccah’s womb.

    So the Supreme Light must wreathe them worthily, according to the colour of the tresses of such grace. Therefore they are placed at different levels, without regard for the externals, differentiated only by their primal keenness in seeing Him.

    So, in ancient times, the parents’ faith alone, combined with innocence, was enough to reach salvation. When those first ages were complete, males needed to gain power in their innocent wings, through the rite of circumcision. But when the time of grace came, then, lacking Christ’s perfect baptism, such innocence was held, there, below.’

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:85-114 Gabriel

    ‘Now see the face that is most like Christ’s, since its brightness, and no other, has the power to equip you to see Christ.’
    I saw such gladness, borne in the sacred Angelic minds created to fly through that altitude, rain down on that face that nothing, I had seen before, seized me with such dumb admiration, or so revealed the semblance of God. And that Love which first came down to Her, singing: ‘Ave, Maria, gratia plena: Hail, Mary, full of grace,’ now spread his wings in front of her. The Divine Canticle was responded to on every side by the court of the blest, so that every face found peace in it.

    ‘O holy Father, you who accept being here below for my sake, leaving that sweet place, where you sit by eternal sanction, who is that Angel who looks our Queen in the eyes with such joy, so enamoured he seems all on fire?’ So I turned again to his teaching, he who gathered beauty from Mary, as the morning star does from the sun. And he to me: ‘The greatest exultation and chivalry that exists in Angel or in spirit, is all in him: and we would wish it so, since it is Gabriel who brought the palm down to Mary, when the Son of God willed that He should take on our burden.’

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:115-151 The Noble Souls

    ‘But now let your eyes come travel, even as I speak, and note the great noble souls, of this most just and pious empire. Those two who sit up there, most blest by being nearest to the Empress, are like two roots of this Rose. Her neighbour on the left is Adam, that father, through whose audacity in tasting the fruit, the human race tastes such bitterness. On the right is Peter, that ancient father of Holy Church to whom Christ entrusted the keys of this beloved flower. And John, sits by his side, who, before he died, saw all the dark prophetic seasons of that fair Bride, who was won with lance and nails: and by Adam’s side, Moses, that leader, rests, under whom the ungrateful, fickle, and mutinous people were fed with manna.
    See Saint Anne, sitting opposite Peter, so content to look at her daughter, that she does not remove her gaze to sing Hosanna. And opposite Adam, the greatest father of our family, sits Lucy, who stirred your Lady, when you were bending your brow downwards to ruin.

    But since the time of your vision flees, here let us stop, like the careful tailor who cuts the garment according to the cloth, and let us turn our eyes towards the Primal Love, so that gazing at Him, you might penetrate as far as possible into his brightness. Truly grace needs to be acquired by prayer (so that you do not by chance fall back as you beat your wings), grace from Her who has power to help you: and follow me with such affection that your heart is not separated from my words.’ And he began this sacred prayer.

    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:1-48 The Prayer to the Virgin

    ‘Virgin mother, daughter of your Son, humbled, and exalted, more than any other creature, fixed goal of the Eternal Wisdom; you are She who made human nature so noble, that its own Maker did not scorn to become of its making. The Love, beneath whose warmth this flower has grown, in eternal peace, flamed again in your womb. Here you are the noonday torch of Love to us, and down there, among mortal beings, you are a living spring of hope.
    Lady you are so great, and of such value, that if any who wishes for grace fails to resort to you, his longing tries to fly without wings. Your kindness not only helps those who ask it, it often freely anticipates the request. In you is tenderness: in you is pity: in you is generosity: in you whatever excellences exist in the creature, combined together.

    Now he, who has seen the lives of souls, one by one, from the deepest pool of the universe, even to here, begs you, of your grace, for enough strength to lift his eyes, higher, towards the final bliss: and I, who was never so on fire for my own vision, as I am for his, offer you all my prayers, and pray they may not be wanting, asking that, for him, you might scatter every cloud of his mortality, with your prayers, so that supreme joy might be revealed to him.

    And more I beg you, Queen, who can do the things you will: after he has seen so deeply, keep his affections sound. Let your protection overcome human weakness: see Beatrice, with so many saints, folding her hands to pray with me.’

    Those eyes, loved by God, and venerated, fixed on the speaker, showed us how greatly devout prayers please her. Then they turned themselves towards the Eternal Light, into which, we must believe, no other creature’s eye finds its way so clearly. And I, who was drawing near the goal of all my longing, quenched as was fitting the ardour of my desire, inside me.

    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:49-145 The Final Vision

    Bernard made a sign to me, and smiled, telling me to look higher, but I was already doing as he asked me, because my sight, as it was purged, was penetrating deeper and deeper, into the beam of the Highest Light, that in itself is Truth.
    My vision then was greater than our speech, which fails at such a sight, and memory fails at such an assault. I am like one, who sees in dream, and when the dream is gone an impression, set there, remains, but nothing else comes to mind again, since my vision almost entirely fails me, but the sweetness, born from it, still distils, inside my heart. So the snow loses its impress to the sun: so the Sibyl’s prophecies were lost, on light leaves, in the wind.

    O Supreme Light, who lifts so far above mortal thought, lend to my mind again a little of what you seemed then, and give my tongue such power, that it might leave even a single spark of your glory, to those to come: since by returning to my memory, in part, and by sounding in these verses, more of your triumph can be conceived.

    I think that I would have been lost, through the keenness of the living ray that I suffered, if my eyes had turned away from it. And so, I remember, I dared to endure it longer, that my gaze might be joined with the Infinite Value. O abundant grace, where I presumed to fix my sight on the Eternal Light, so long, that my sight was wearied!

    In its depths I saw in-gathered, and bound by Love into one volume, all things that are scattered through the universe, substance and accident and their relations, as if joined in such a manner that what I speak of is One simplicity of Light. I think I saw the universal form, of that bond, because, in saying it, I feel my heart leap, in greater intensity of joy. A single moment plunged me into deeper stillness, than twenty-five centuries have the enterprise, that made Neptune wonder at Argo’s shadow.

    So my mind gazed, fixed, wholly stilled, immoveable, intent, and continually inflamed, by its gazing. Man becomes such in that Light, that to turn away to any other sight is beyond the bounds of possibility. Because the Good, which is the object of the will, is wholly concentrated there, and outside it, what is perfect within it, is defective.

    Now my speech will fall further short, of what I remember, than a babe’s, who still moistens his tongue at the breast. Not that there was more than a single form in the Living Light where I gazed, that is always such as it was before, but by means of the faculty of sight that gained strength in me, even as it altered, one sole image quickened to my gaze.

    In the profound and shining Being of the deep Light, three circles appeared, of three colours, and one magnitude: one seemed refracted by the other, like Iris’s rainbows, and the third seemed fire breathed equally from both. O how the words fall short, and how feeble compared with my conceiving! And they are such, compared to what I saw, that it is inadequate to call them merely feeble.

    O Eternal Light, who only rest in yourself, and know only yourself, who, understood by yourself and knowing yourself, love and smile! Those circles, that seemed to be conceived in you as reflected light, when traversed by my eyes, a little, seemed to be adorned inside themselves, with our image, in its proper colours, and, to that, my sight was wholly committed.

    Like a geometer, who sets himself to measure, in radii, the exact circumference of the circle, and who cannot find, by thought, the principle he lacks, so was I, at this new sight: I wished to see how the image fitted the circle, and how it was set in place, but my true wings had not been made for this, if it were not that my mind was struck by lightning, from which its will emerged.

    Power, here, failed the deep imagining: but already my desire and will were rolled, like a wheel that is turned, equally, by the Love that moves the Sun and the other stars.

    Index

    Abati, Bocca degli

    Bocca, though a Ghibelline, fought on the Guelph side at Montaperti in 1260 when the Florentine Guelphs went down to defeat. The battle turned on an incident where Bocca cut off the hand of the Florentine standard bearer at the critical moment.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Abati, Buoso degli

    A noble Florentine, and a thief.
    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. He mutates into a serpent. (It may be Buoso de’ Donati who is intended. See Blake’s Watercolour ‘Buoso Donati attacked by the Serpent’, Tate Gallery, London.

    Abbagliato

    Bartolommeo de’ Folcacchieri, nicknamed Abbagliato, ‘the foolish’.
    He was a member of the Brigata Spendereccia, the Spendthrift Brigade, a club founded by twelve wealthy Sienese, in the second half of the thirteenth century, who vied with each other in squandering their money on riotous living.

    Inferno Canto XXIX:121-139. He is in the tenth chasm.

    Abel

    The son of Adam and Eve. His brother is Cain. See the Bible, Genesis iv. Abel is the type of the righteous brother.
    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. Christ takes his spirit from Limbo into Paradise.

    Abraham

    The Patriarch, from whom the Children of Israel derived. The father of Isaac by his wife Sarah. The type of faith, witness his preparedness to sacrifice his son Isaac. See the Bible,Genesis xi 25.
    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. Christ takes his spirit from Limbo into Paradise.

    Absalom

    King David’s Gilonite counsellor from Giloh, Ahitophel, see Second Samuel xv-xviii, conspired with David’s son Absalom against the King, and subsequently hanged himself when his counsel was not followed. Absalom was killed at the battle in the wood of Ephraim, and David mourned for him, saying ‘O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!’
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:112-142. He is mentioned.

    Accorso, Francesco d’

    Francesco d’Accorso (1225-1293) a distinguished lawyer and professor, of Bologna, son of Accorso da Bagnolo, also a famous lawyer. He lectured at Oxford.
    Inferno Canto XV:100-124. He is in Hell for sodomy.

    Achan

    He was stoned and burned for disregarding Joshua’s decree that the treasure from the capture of Jericho should be consecrated to the Lord. See Joshua vi 19 and vii.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Achilles

    Son of Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis. Prince of the Myrmidons of Phthia in Thessaly in north-eastern Greece. The Greek hero of Homer’s Iliad who avenges the death of Patroclus by killing Hector, and dies from an arrow wound inflicted by Paris in his vulnerable heel. Offered the choice of glory or a long life he chose fame and a brief existence. Ulysses (Odysseus) meets his soul in Hades (Odyssey XI).
    Inferno Canto V:52-72. He is a carnal sinner in Limbo, for his love of Polyxena, that brought about his death, according to later versions of the Trojan myths.

    Inferno Canto XII:49-99. He was tutored by Chiron the Centaur.

    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84.Purgatorio Canto IX:34-63. Ulysses discovered Achilles hiding on Scyros, where his mother Thetis had concealed him, at the court of Lycomedes, and took him to the Trojan War. Deidamia fell in love with him, and bore him a son, and died of grief when he left. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIII 162. For his amazement, see Statius Achilles i 247.

    Inferno Canto XXXI:1-45. Peleus’s spear was given to him by Chiron the Centaur. It was cut from an ash on Mount Pelion. Hephaestus forged its blade, and Athene polished the shaft. At Troy Achilles wounded Telephus with it. He was a king of Mysia and the son of Hercules and the nymph Auge. Rust from the spear, rubbed on the wound, cured it. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XII 112 and XIII 171.

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:76-136. The subject of Statius’s unfinished epic the Achilleid.

    Acquasparta, Matteo da

    Matteo, one of Boniface’s cardinals, Minister-General of the Franciscan Order from 1287, who relaxed the observances, and as Papal Legate interfered in the affairs of Florence in 1300-1301, with disastrous consequences.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is mentioned.

    Adam

    The first man, see Genesis ii. The Fall made Adam the father of evil, and the sinful human race, as Eve was its mother.
    Inferno Canto III:100-136. The dead souls are ‘the evil seed of Adam’.

    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. Christ takes his spirit from Limbo into Paradise.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:1-33. He is referred to, as the vessel of human infirmity.

    Purgatorio Canto XI:37-72. His flesh, the flesh of mortality, is a burden.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:58-102. According to Eusebius, Adam was on earth for 930 years and in Limbo for 4302 years, making more than five thousand years in all.

    Paradiso Canto VII:1-54. In Adam the whole human race fell.

    Paradiso Canto XXVI:70-142. Adam’s exile was due to disobedience. His Life in Paradise endured only to the seventh hour. His existence on Earth, in exile, and in Limbo was more than five thousand years: see above.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:115-151. He sits at the left hand of the Virgin.

    Adamo, of Brescia

    Induced by Guido, Alessandro, and Aghinolfo the Conti Guidi of Romena, Master Adam of Brescia counterfeited the Florentine gold florin, stamped with the figure of St John the Baptist. He was burnt to death for the crime in 1281, on the Consuma, the pass that leads out of the Casentino towards Florence. The Conti Guidi escaped punishment. Conte Giudo was dead by 1300, but the other two were still alive. Fonte Branda, the spring, is not the more famous one near Siena, but a lesser one near the castle of Romena, near where Adamo died.
    Inferno Canto XXX:49-90. He is in the tenth chasm.

    Inferno Canto XXX:91-129. He exchanges blows with Sinon.

    Adimari

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI. Filippo Argenti belonged to one branch of the family. Ubertino Donati, the ancestor of Dante’s wife Gemma, had married one of the daughters of Bellincion Berti, a sister of Gualdrada, and strongly objected to his father-in-law giving the hand of a third daughter to one of the Adimari. A fourth daughter may have been the wife of Dante’s great-grandfather Alighiero I.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned. Hostile to Dante.

    Adrian V, Pope (Ottobuono de’ Fieschi)

    Ottobuono de’ Fieschi of Genoa, sent to England while a Cardinal as Papal legate in 1268, was elected Pope as Adrian V on 12th July 1276, and died on August 18th. The Fieschi were Counts of Lavagna, taking their name from a little river that flows into the Gulf of Genoa between Sestri Levante and Chiavari. One niece was Alagia wife of Moroello III Malaspina.
    Purgatorio Canto XIX:70-114. He is among the avaricious.

    Aeneas

    Inferno Canto I:61-99. The legendary ancestor of the Roman people. The son of the Goddess Aphrodite and Anchises. See Iliad XX. A Trojan noble he escaped the sack of Troy and sailed via Carthage (where he was loved by Dido but abandoned her) to Italy. His wife was Creüsa, daughter of Priam by whom he had Ascanius (Iulus). His son is Silvius (Ascanius, or Iulus) in Inferno II. His visit to the underworld in Aeneid VI inspired Dante. Aeneas is the symbol of the Roman Empire achieved from the ruins of Troy, and the virtuous victor of the Wars in Latium against Turnus etc. As the ancestor of Rome’s founder Romulus, he is Dante’s Imperial founder also.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. He is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84. The Trojan War indirectly led to the founding of Rome, and the origin of the Roman people.

    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142. He cremated his old nurse Caïeta in Italy (at modern Gaeta, in Campania). See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIV157, 443 and XV 716, and Virgil’s Aeneid vii 1-4.

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:112-145. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. Dido’s love for him wrongs Creüsa’s memory.

    Paradiso Canto XV:1-36. He saw his father’s shade in the underworld. Aeneid vi 679.

    Aeolus

    The god of the winds, the son of Hippotas, and father of Alcyone and Athamas, who kept the winds imprisoned in a cave in the Aeolian Islands between Sicily and Italy. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses- various references.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:1-51. He is mentioned as loosing the Sirocco, the south east wind, whose notes are heard in the pine-forests of Ravenna, on the Adriatic shore, at Chiassi, the Classis of the Romans, who used it as a naval station and harbour. There was a later fortress there. See Byron’s ‘Don Juan’ iv 105.

    Aesop

    The quasi-historical author of the Fables. He may have been a Phrygian slave, Babrius, living about the 6th century BC, at the time of Croesus. He was supposed to have been thrown over a cliff at Delphi for his ugliness, offensiveness or perhaps rectitude. Around his name a set of tales gathered, and were loosely attributed to him.
    Inferno Canto XXII:124-151. Dante quotes the Frog and the Mouse, in which the Mouse, living on land (Alichino?) is tied to the frog who offers to carry him over the stream (Ciampolo?), and who then leaps into the water, drowning the mouse. A hawk (Calcabrina?) then spies the mouse and snatches it up, snatching up the frog as well. Dante no doubt knew a variant that fitted the situation more closely.

    Agamemnon

    The King of Mycenae, son of Atreus, brother of Menelaus, husband of Clytemnestra, father of Iphigenia, Electra and Orestes. The commander-in-chief of the Greek forces at Troy.
    He was told by an oracle to sacrifice his daughter, and vowed to do so, in order to gain favourable winds, when the Greek fleet was waiting at Aulis, to sail to Troy. He did so and brought down destruction on his house. See Aeschylus’s Oresteian trilogy, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses XII 30.

    Paradiso Canto V:1-84. He is mentioned as an example of the danger of rash vows.

    Agapetus I, Pope

    Pope 535-536 AD. He induced Justinian to depose Anthimus, Bishop of Constantinople, because of Anthimus’s Monophysite leanings, and the other heads of the sect were likewise excommunicated. The Monophysite’s accepted only the divine and not the human nature of Christ.

    Agathon

    The Greek tragic poet (c448-400BC).
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Aghinolfo of Romena

    See Guido Conte

    Aglauros

    The daughter of Cecrops who envied her sister Herse because of Mercury’s love for her. She was punished for treachery, when Pallas Athene (Minerva) sent the hag Envy to torment her, and changed to stone by Mercury. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses II 740, 752, 820.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:124-151. She is the second of the voices, signifying envy.

    Agli, Lotto degli

    Inferno Canto XIII:130-151. Possibly the speaker is Agli, a judge who hanged himself after giving a false sentence for money, or Rocco de’ Mozzi.

    Agnello, See Brunelleschi

    Agostino, Friar

    He entered the Franciscan Order in 1210, and died on the same day as Francis after a vision of Francis ascending into Paradise.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Aguglione, Baldo da

    A lawyer who deserted the Whites from the Blacks in 1302. Baldo was a prior in 1298 and 1311, in which year he drew up the decree recalling the exiles, but expressly excluding Dante. In 1299 he had been convicted of tampering with the public records of the Courts. See Note to the Purgatorio.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:46-87. He is mentioned.

    Ahasuerus

    Ahasuerus, the Persian King, enriched Haman, until he was accused by Esther of intending to take the life of Mordecai. Haman was executed in Mordecai’s place. See Esther iii-viii.
    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39. He is mentioned.

    Ahitophel

    King David’s Gilonite counsellor from Giloh, see Second Samuel xv-xviii, who conspired with David’s son Absalom, and subsequently hanged himself when his counsel was not followed.
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:112-142. He is mentioned as an evil counsellor.

    Alagia, see Malaspina

    Alardo, Erard de Valéry

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:1-21. In 1268, at Tagliacozzo, Charles of Anjou defeated Conradin, Manfred’s nephew, using reserve troops, on the advice of Erard.

    Alberichi

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Alberigo, Friar

    Alberigo Manfredi of Faenza, one of the Frati Gaudenti, the Jovial Friars, avenged a blow from his younger brother Manfred, in 1284, by inviting him, and his son, to a banquet in 1285, and at a given signal ‘Bring the fruits’ Manfred and his son were murdered. Le male frutta (the evil fruit) di Frate Alberigo became a proverb. He was still alive in 1300, the date of the Vision.
    Inferno Canto XXXIII:91-157. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Albero of Siena

    Griffolino of Arezzo obtained money from Albero by pretending he could teach him how to fly. On discovering the deceit, Albero induced the Bishop of Siena to have Griffolino burned as an Alchemist.
    Inferno Canto XXIX:73-99. Griffolino is in the tenth chasm.

    Albert of Hapsburg, King of the Romans

    Albrecht I of Hapsburg, King of the Germans, and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (1298-1308), the son of the Emperor Rudolph (1273-91). To Dante, Albert represented both the invader of Italian soil, and the preserver of the Empire. As an absentee landlord, Dante berates him. He was murdered ultimately, as Dante predicts, by his nephew, John Parricida.
    See Ciacco’s prophecy and Inferno Canto VI:64-93 for an indirect reference.

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. Dante inveighs against the state of Italy and Albert’s indifference to its plight.

    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. Albert carried out an aggressive campaign against Bohemia in 1304, confiscating it as an expired fief of the crown. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Alberti, Alberto, Alessandro and Napoleone degli

    Alessandro and Napoleone, the two sons of Count Alberto degli Alberti, who held Vernia and Cerbaia in the Val de Bisenzio, quarrelled over their inheritance and killed each other, sometime after 1282.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:40-69. They are in the Caïna in the Ninth Circle.

    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. Count Orso, the son of Napoleone was murdered by Alberto the son of Alessandro in the continuing vendetta. He is among the late-repentant.

    Albertus Magnus

    Albertus of Cologne (1193-1280), the ‘Universal Doctor’, one of the two great lights of the Dominican order. Albertus, with Thomas Aquinas his pupil, ‘christianised’ Aristotle adapting his philosophy and making him a treasury of pagan learning.
    Paradiso Canto X:64-99. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Alcmaeon

    The son of Amphiaräus and Eriphyle. She was bribed with the necklace of Harmonia to betray the hiding place of her husband, who was compelled to go to the Theban War where he was killed. At the father’s request the son Alcmaeon killed his mother, and was pursued by the Furies, and was eventually killed himself. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IX 408.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Paradiso Canto IV:64-114. He is mentioned as someone who grappled with conflicting duties.

    Aldobrandesco, Guglielmo and Omberto

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. The Aldobrandeschi, Ghibelline leaders, held Santafiora in the Sienese Maremma for almost five centuries. They warred with the commune of Siena until 1300 when a treaty was agreed.
    Purgatorio Canto XI:37-72. Omberto, Count of Santafiora, in the Sienese Maremma, was put to death at Campagnatico near Grosseto, by the Sienese in 1259, who resented the arrogance of the family with whom they had long been at war.

    Aldobrandi, Tegghiaio

    A Florentine Guelph who, with Guido Guerra, tried to dissuade his party from the conflict that led to the Guelph disaster at Montaperti in 1260. See Farinata. He fought courageously and took refuge at Lucca with other defeated Guelphs.
    Inferno Canto VI:64-93. Dante asks after him.

    Inferno Canto XVI:1-45. He is in the seventh circle for sodomy.

    Alessandro of Romena

    See Conte Guido.

    Alexander the Great

    The son of Philip the Second of Macedonia (Philip ruled 359-336 BC) who ruled from 336 to 323 BC. He created an Empire from Greece and Egypt in the west, to India in the east, proclaiming himself king of Asia, and burning Darius’s Persian capital of Persepolis in 330BC. He married Roxane. He killed the historian Callisthenes, a nephew of Aristotle his former tutor, and Clitus, a friend of his youth, in a fit of rage. He died of fever, aged 33, in 323BC, while preparing for campaigns against Carthage and the Western Mediterranean.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is placed in the seventh circle, in the ring of tyrants, unless the reference is to Alexander of Pherae.

    Inferno Canto XIV:1-42. Dante’s source may have been Albertus Magnus’s De Meteoris, which describes the apocryphal letter, popular in the Middle Ages, in which Alexander the Great sends an account of such marvels to Aristotle his tutor. The soldiers warded off the flames with their clothes.

    Alexander of Pherae

    The Thessalian tyrant who was killed by his own wife in 323BC.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is placed in the seventh circle in the ring of tyrants, unless the reference is to Alexander the Great.

    Alfonso III, King of Aragon

    He succeeded his father Peter III of Aragon, and died in 1291.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is in Purgatory.

    Ali, the Caliph

    Ali (born c597AD) a cousin and son-in-law of Mohammed, was his fourth successor, and moved the capital to Kufa after conflict with Mohammed’s widow A’isha (First Islamic Civil War). He won the ‘camel-battle’ of Basra. He was murdered in 661AD after the indecisive battle of Siffin (657) and the arbitration of Adhroh (658).
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:22-54. He is in the ninth chasm of the eighth circle as a schismatic within Islam.

    Alichino, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:97-123. He allows Ciampolo too much freedom.

    Inferno Canto XXII:124-151. He and Calcabrina quarrel.

    Alighieri, Alighiero son of Cacciaguida

    Dante’s great-grandfather. His mother was Cacciaguida’s wife, Alighiera, of the Aldighieri family of Ferrara.
    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. The derivation of Dante’s name.

    Alighieri, Bella, Dante’s mother

    Amata

    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39. Queen Amata, wife of King Latinus, who hanged herself through anger at the death of the hero Turnus, to whom her daughter Lavinia was originally betrothed, Lavinia being destined then to marry Aeneas. The fate of Lavinia was part of the reason for the Wars in Latium. See Aeneid xii 595.

    Amidei

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI. Buondelmonte broke his betrothal oath with a daughter of the family and his murder in retaliation was the root of the factional split within Florence.

    Amphiaraüs

    A Greek seer, one of the heroes at the Calydonian Boar Hunt. He was the son of Oecleus, and father of Alcmaeon. His wife Eriphyle betrayed him for the golden necklace Aphrodite gave to Harmonia, wife of Cadmus, and he enjoined on his son the duty of punishing her. Alcmaeon killed her, and was pursued by the Furies. In the War of the Seven against Thebes, Amphiaraüs was one of the seven champions, and fled along the banks of the river Ismenus in his chariot. He was on the point of being killed when Zeus cleft the earth with a thunderbolt, and he vanished from sight, chariot and all, and now reigns alive among the dead. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VIII 317, IX 407-410.
    Inferno Canto XX:31-51. He is in the eighth circle.

    Amphion

    The son of Jupiter and Antiope, and husband of Niobe. He built the walls of Thebes aided by the magical music of his lyre. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 176 and XV 427. He killed himself through grief at the loss of his sons.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:1-39. He is mentioned.

    Amyclas

    The fisherman who was unawed by Caesar’s summons and indifferent to the tumult of the times, secure in his poverty. See Lucan’s Pharsalia v 520-531.
    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He is mentioned.

    Ananias, husband of Sapphira

    He and his wife Sapphira sold possessions but kept back part of the price when other followers of Christ sold everything and gave everything into common ownership, to allow distribution according to need. They were rebuked by Peter for hypocrisy and died. See Acts iv 32-37 and V 1-11.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXVI:1-69. The Ananias of Damascus who gives sight to the blind Saul of Tarsus (Paul), see Acts ix 10-18 is mentioned.

    Anastagi

    A Ghibelline family of Ravenna, virtually extinct by 1300. They were prominent in the latter half of the thirteenth century due to their strife with the Polentani and other Guelphs of Ravenna.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. They are mentioned.

    Anastasius, Pope

    Pope Anastasius II (469-498), who censured the non-dogmatic doctrines of Origen, is here confused, by medieval writers before Dante, with the Byzantine Emperor Anastasius (491-518), noted for his tolerance, who was induced by the deacon of Thessalonica, Photinus, to adopt the Acacian (Acacius, Patriarch of Constantinople) formula, which was an attempt to reconcile the Monophysite doctrine that Christ appeared as a man but not with human nature and substance, with the Chalcedonian definition of Christ as known in two natures, one human, and that without confusion, and in one person.
    Inferno Canto XI:1-66. Anastasius is with the heretics in the Sixth Circle.

    Anaxagoras

    The pre-Socratic Greek philosopher, born at Clazomenae in Asia Minor about 500BC, and a Persian citizen who went to Athens in the year of Salamis 480/79 BC. He taught the young Pericles, and was later brought to trial by Pericles’s opponents, charged with impiety. He retired to Ionia where he settled at Lampsacus. He taught a doctrine of divisible particles of all types that individually combine together in proportions to produce unique wholes, ‘in everything there is a portion of everything’. His primal force is Mind ( Nous) present in all living things, and is present ‘there where everything else is, in the surrounding mass’ and this concept is his main contribution to philosophy.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Anchises

    Inferno Canto I:61-99. The father of Aeneas, who carried him from burning Troy on his shoulders.
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:112-145. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XV:1-36. Aeneas saw his shade in the underworld.

    Aeneid vi 679.

    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He died and was buried at Drepanum in Sicily, the Isle of Fire because of Mount Aetna. See the Funeral Games episode in Aeneid V 40 et seq. and Anchises’s death at III 700.

    Andalo, Loderingo degli

    See Loderingo.

    Andrea, Giacomo (Jacomo) da Sant’

    A Paduan, who wasted his own and other people’s fortunes, employing arson and other extraordinary methods. He appears to have been executed by Ezzelino da Romano in 1239, presumably after courting death.
    Inferno Canto XIII:109-129. He is in the seventh circle.

    Andrew III, King of Hungary

    He ruled Hungary in 1300, having usurped the crown that belonged to Carobert the son of Charles Martel.
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Annas

    The father-in-law of Caiaphas, the high priest among the Pharisees, see John xi 47-53, who said: ‘it is expedient for us that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation should perish not’. Annas sent Christ bound to Caiaphas. See John xviii 24.
    Inferno Canto XXIII:82-126. He is in the eighth circle.

    Anne, Saint

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:115-151. The mother of the Virgin. She sits near her, and opposite Saint Peter in Heaven.

    Anselm, Saint

    St Anselm (1033-1109) Archbishop of Canterbury, who wrote treatises on the Trinity and the Incarnation. He is known as the second father of Scholasticism, Scotus Erigena in the ninth century being the first. Both tried to show the coincidence of natural reason and revealed truth.
    Paradiso Canto VII:55-120. Beatrice’s argument follows Anselm’s Cur Deus homo. Adam’s disobedience injured himself not God, and what was demanded was not a propitiation, but restoration. Man was required to give back what he owed, to match what he had taken that he did not own, but could not since he owes everything and owns nothing. Therefore God who owes nothing and owns everything had to become Man to achieve restoration. See Cur Deus homo passim, and specifically Bk i, chapter 15.

    Paradiso Canto VII:121-148. Again Anselm’s argument is used: that since God made Adam and Eve flesh directly, man’s body will be restored at the Last Judgement when redemption is complete for the saved.

    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Anselmo della Gherardesca

    See Ugolino della Gherardesca.

    Antaeus

    One of the Giant sons of Earth and Tartarus. He is unchained in Hell because he kept out of the battle against the gods of Olympus. The details of him Dante takes from Lucan’s Pharsalia iv 593-660. Hercules lifted him in the air, whereby he lost his strength as he no longer touched the earth, and crushed him. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IX 184. As an enemy of Hercules he is an enemy of Rome, since Hercules is Rome’s protector, see Virgil VIII 108 et al.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. He sets the poets down in the Ninth Circle.

    Antenor

    The Trojan, who, according to medieval tradition betrayed Troy to the Greeks. (See Dictys Cretensis, Dares Phrygius, and the later Roman de Troie) He escaped to Italy after the fall of Troy and founded Padua, see Aeneid i 242 et seq.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123. The Antenora is named after him.

    Anthony, Saint

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:85-126. Saint Anthony (251-356). His symbol was the pig, and he was therefore the patron of the pigs that infested Florence, and its neighbourhood, belonging to the monks. They were fed on the fraudulent gain made from selling remissions (indulgences).

    Antigone

    The daughter of Oedipus, by Jocasta, and sister of Eteocles and Polynices. See Sophocles’s Antigone.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. She is in Limbo. One of the people celebrated by Statius in his epic poetry.

    Antiochus

    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87. Antiochus IV, ruler of the Seleucid Empire (175-164BC), whose self-conferred title was Theos Epiphanes, the evident God. He accepted a bribe from Jason to make him high-priest of Judea.

    Antiphon

    The Greek tragic poet, praised by Aristotle and Plutarch.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Apollo

    The son of Jupiter and Latona (Leto), born on the island of Delos. The sun-god and god of art and music, prophecy and healing, the archer’s bow, and the lyre. He was present at the battle with the Giants. He is called Thymbraeus from his temple at Thymbra in the Troad. Artemis-Diana was his sister.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Paradiso Canto I:1-36. He equates to the Sun, as the sun-god, and to Christ and the Father as the Divine presence. Dante believed that the Muses occupied one peak of Mount Parnassus, and Apollo the other, which Dante calls Cirra.

    Apollo flayed Marsyas for challenging his skill in music, and Dante asks for the inspirational breath with which Apollo played on that occasion. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 382.

    Apollo loved Daphne, the daughter of the river-god Peneus, who was changed into a laurel-tree by the river-god, as Apollo pursued her. He then adopted her laurel as the sacred tree whose leaves would crown his lyre etc. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses I 452-548.

    Paradiso Canto II:1-45. Apollo guides the poet.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:1-51. His name as God of Healing, and the religious hymn of praise in his honour.

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:1-66. The sun.

    Arachne

    A Lydian girl, the daughter of Idmon, famous for her weaving, who
    challenged Pallas Athene to a contest, was defeated, and was changed by Pallas into a spider. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 42 etc.

    Inferno Canto XVII:1-30. Geryon’s body is adorned with more decoration than her weaving.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. She is depicted on the roadway.

    Arca, dell’

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Arcas

    The son of Callisto or Helice, an Arcadian nympth, a favourite of Artemis-Diana, raped by Jupiter. Diana expelled her from her company, and she was changed by Juno into a bear, and hunted by her son. Jupiter placed her in the sky as the constellation of the Bear, Ursa Major, and Arcas as the constellation of the little Bear, Ursa Minor, at the pole, towards which the ‘pointers’ Dubhe and Merak, of the Great Bear, or Plough, point as it circles on Polaris the pole-star. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses II 409-528
    Paradiso Canto XXXI:28-63. Circles over the northern latitudes.

    Ardinghi

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Arethusa

    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. A nymph of Elis, one of Diana’s maidens, who was loved by the river-god Alpheus. She was pursued by him, and was turned into a fountain. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses V 572.

    Argenti, Filippo (Adimari)

    A Florentine noble who appears with Ciacco in Boccaccios’s Decameron IX 8. He was notorious for his fierce temper and overbearing conduct. He and the Adimari family may also have been hostile to Dante.
    Inferno Canto VIII:31-63. He is rent by the people in the mud.

    Argia

    The wife of Polynices, sister of Deiphyle, and daughter of King Adrastus of Argos.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. She is in Limbo. One of the people celebrated by Statius in his epic poetry.

    Argogliosi, Marchese degli

    One of the Argogliosi or possibly the Ordelaffi family of Forlì, who was Podestà of Faenza in 1296. When told that he was always drinking he replied that he was always thirsty.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:1-33. He is among the gluttonous.

    Argus

    Purgatorio CantoXXIX:82-105. The monstrous son of Arestor, set by Juno to guard Io (transformed to a heifer). He had a hundred eyes, but was lulled to sleep by Mercury, and killed. Juno set his eyes in the peacock’s tail. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses I 624-723.
    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. Mercury lulled him by telling the tale of Syrinx.

    Ariadne

    The daughter of Minos, King of Crete, who helped Theseus kill her half-brother the Minotaur, and was then abandoned by him on Naxos. Dionysus rescued her and married her, setting Thetis’s crown on her head, which was later made a constellation, the Corona Borealis, or Northern Crown, thrown by Dionysus (Bacchus) into the sky to mark their nuptials. The constellation consists of an arc of seven stars between Hercules and Bootes. Dante follows the myth that makes the constellation Ariadne herself, set there after her death.
    Inferno Canto XII:1-27. She helped Theseus escape the labyrinth.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:1-51. Her crown.

    Aristotle

    The Greek philosopher, 384-322 BC, the philosopher par excellence for Dante and the medieval period. Aristotle was born at Stageira in Chalcidice near Salonica. His father was a doctor. He became a member of Plato’s Academy at Athens, though he was later to differ from Plato in his thinking. He was Alexander the Great’s ‘tutor’ and founded the Lyceum at Athens, and his teaching while walking in the garden, the Peripatos, led to its being called the ‘Peripatetic Philosophy’. On a wave of anti-Macedonian feeling after Alexander’s death, Aristotle retired to his mother’s property at Chalcis where he died.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He leads the philosophers in Limbo.

    Inferno Canto XI:67-93. Virgil refers to his Nichomachean Ethics. See VII i ‘….those qualities of character to be avoided, which may be taken as three in number, and we call them incontinence (=lack of self-control), brutishness or bestiality(= violence) and vice (=fraud).’ (My bracketed expansion). See also VII vi ‘…it is thought more excusable to follow the natural impulses, which all men feel, than those which are peculiar to certain persons….bestiality is a lesser evil than vice.

    Inferno Canto XI:94-115. Virgil refers to Aristotle’s Physics II ii ‘.. if Art mimics Nature.’

    Purgatorio Canto III:1-45. The pagan philosophers cannot hope to understand the ‘why’ of God’s works, and are condemned to an unsatisfied desire for supreme knowledge. (Aquinas: ‘the one demonstrates by means of the cause and is called propter quid…. the other by means of the effect and is called the demonstration quia.)

    Paradiso Canto IV:64-114. Dante follows Aristotle’s theory of the dual will, an absolute will that does not consent to evil coupled with a practical will that chooses the lesser of two evils. The former may remain intent on its goal, while the latter compromises, and that is a failing. See Aristotle’s Ethics III, where the example of Alcmaeon is also mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Dante refers to Aristotelian logic, where the propositions that this is so, and this is not so, cannot both be true in the same sense at the same time. Related propositions are termed contradictories e.g. if ‘some swans are not white’ is true, then ‘all swans are white’ is false, since a black swan would be white, and not white, if both statements were true simultaneously.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. Aristotle taught that human society requires varied conditions and qualifications amongst its members. In the Politics he shows that the individual is not self-sufficient but a part of a whole, and a State is a group of citizens providing all the necessary variety for a complete life. Functions and duties are distributed so that the State can be self-sufficient where the individual is not.

    Paradiso Canto XXVI:1-69. He taught that God is the supreme object, towards whom the Heavens yearn. In the Metaphysics the Prime Mover is the object of longing or of intellectual apprehension.

    Arius

    The presbyter of Bishop Alexander of Alexandria (early 4th Century). The Arian heresy denies that the incarnate Son is one substance with the transcendent First Cause of creation, though differing in Person. The heresy created dissension until the end of the fourth century.
    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142. He is mentioned.

    Arnaut Daniel

    The Provençal poet. He flourished between 1180 and 1200 and Richard Coeur de Lion was among his patrons. (See Ezra Pound’s poem ‘Near Perigord’ in his collection Lustra). Arnaut was a master of form, the trobar clus or hidden style, inventing the sestina form, and it was for this above all that Dante and others regarded him so highly, rather than his sentiment.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:112-148. He is among the lustful. In the Provençal poem Dante invents for him, he refers to the style that hides, and is here open, and reminds Dante to consider his own punishment to come, for Lust, as Dante himself goes onward.

    Arrigo, de’ Fifanti(?)

    His family is uncertain. He is said to have been one of Mosca de’ Lamberti’s accomplices in the murder of Buondelmonte de’ Buondelmonti, that initiated the Guelf and Ghibelline factional alignments in Florence.
    Inferno Canto VI:64-93. Dante asks after him.

    Arrigucci

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Artemis, Diana, Delia

    The daughter of Jupiter and Latona, and twin sister of Apollo, born on the island of Delos (hence Delia). She is a moon-goddess, and goddess of the chase.
    Purgatorio Canto XXV:109-139. She expelled Callisto (Helice) from her company, after Callisto was raped by Jupiter. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses II 409-528.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:61-81. Paradiso Canto X:64-99. She has a rainbow-coloured girdle (the Moon’s halo) in her Moon incarnation.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The moon-goddess and daughter of Latona.

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:1-48. Called Diana Trivia by the Romans, identifying her with Hecate, as an underworld aspect of the Triple-Goddess, worshipped where three ways meet. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses II 416.

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:1-66. The moon.

    Arthur, King of Britain

    The mythical King of Britain, after the Roman withdrawal, around whose name medieval legends gathered. See Malory’s ‘Le Morte D’Arthur’.
    Mordred his nephew and son, attempted to usurp his kingdom. In the last battle Arthur pierced Mordred with his lance, at the same time receiving his own death-wound. According to an Old French version of the theme, which differs from Malory’s version ‘after the lance was withdrawn a ray of sunlight passed through the wound…’

    Inferno Canto XXXII:40-69. He is mentioned in the Ninth Circle.

    Aruns

    The Etruscan seer who in Lucan’s Pharsalia i 584-638 prophesied the Civil War in Rome that ended in Julius Caesar defeating Pompey the Great.
    Inferno Canto XX:31-51. He is in the eighth circle.

    Asciano, Caccia de’ Cacciaconti

    See Caccia.

    Asdente

    A shoemaker of Parma. Asdente, ‘the toothless’, whose real name was Benvenuto, practised as a soothsayer. He died c1284.
    Inferno Canto XX:100-130 He is in the eighth circle.

    Athamas

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. Juno was angered because of Jupiter’s adultery with Semele, whom she punished, and took vengeance on the house of Cadmus of Thebes, her father. She pursued Ino, Semele’s sister by driving her husband Athamas mad. He killed their son Learchus, and drove Ino to throw herself over a cliff, with their son Melicertes. Ino and Melicertes became sea-gods, namely Leucothea, the White Goddess, and Palaemon. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 261 and IV 519.

    Athene, Minerva, Pallas

    Pallas Athene (the Roman Minerva), the daughter of Jupiter, sprung from his head, and the goddess of wisdom, intelligence, technical skill, and women’s arts. The olive was her gift to mankind. Often depicted as a warrior goddess. Present at the battle with the Giants.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. She is depicted on the roadway.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:49-81. The olive is sacred to her. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 335, VIII 275 and 664.

    Paradiso Canto II:1-45. Minerva breathes intellectual inspiration into the poet.

    Atropos

    The third of the three Fates, or Moerae, in Greek myth. They were begotten by Erebus on Night. Their names are Clotho,’ the spinner’, Lachesis, ‘the measurer’, and Atropos, ‘she who cannot be avoided or turned’. Clotho spins the thread of a life, Lachesis measures it out, and Atropos cuts the thread. Moera means a phase, and they are yet another incarnation of the triple Moon-goddess.
    Inferno Canto XXXIII:91-157. She is mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33. The other two are mentioned.

    Attila

    Attila the Hun, the scourge of God (flagellum dei), king of the Huns (433-453) who advanced into the Eastern Roman Empire, and on to the west, but was turned back at Chalôns in the Battle of the Catalaunian Fields in 451. He retreated to Hungary (the plains of Tisza) and died there.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is in the seventh circle.

    Inferno Canto XIII:130-151. The historians, and Dante, confused him with Totila, the leader of the Goths, who reputedly sacked Florence. Totila gained Italy (542-552) excluding Ravenna, and resisted Belisarius from 544 to 549, but died fighting Narses at Tadinae.

    Augustine, Saint

    Augustine of Hippo (354-430), Christian Saint and influential theologian. The Bishop of Hippo in North Africa, and one of the four Latin (western) fathers of the Church with Jerome, Gregory, and Ambrose. He was born at Tagaste in Numidia, and was given religious instruction by Monica, his mother. He wrote the famous Confessions, and The City of God.
    Paradiso Canto X:100-129. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:115-154. Dante echoes Augustine, that the conversion of the world without miracles, would have been a greater miracle than any recorded, attesting to their reality.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. He is seated below John the Baptist in Heaven.

    Augustus, Caesar

    Inferno Canto I:61-99. Generally known as Octavian (Octavius) until 27BC when he became the Roman Emperor Augustus. The adopted son of Julius Caesar. The founder of the Imperial system and first Roman Emperor who was Caesar from 31BC to AD14. Virgil lived in his reign.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:1-39. He ordered Virgil’s remains to be brought from Brindisi to Naples, after Virgil’s death in 19BC, and interred there.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:106-132. His Triumph is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Aurora

    Purgatorio Canto II:1-45. The goddess of the dawn, daughter of the Titan Pallas, and wife of Tithonus, for whom she won eternal life but not eternal youth..

    Averroës

    Ibn Rushd, 1128-1198 AD. An Arabian physician and commentator on Aristotle. He espoused a sceptical philosophy, and as ‘the Commentator’ in Latin translation c. 1250 made Aristotle’s philosophy supreme in the Middle Ages.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Purgatorio Canto XXV:1-79. He taught, in error, that the human intellect being potential not actualised, discursive rather than intuitive like the angels, could not have its seat in the actual organs in the way that animals have intelligence, and so existed independently of physical form. He does however make self-consciousness a characteristic of the rational or intellectual soul, as life is of the vegetable soul, and sensation of the animal soul. ‘The action of the intellect is likened to a circle, because it turns round upon itself, and comprehends itself.’

    Avicenna

    An Arabian physician and commentator on Aristotle 979-1037 AD. He codified Galen with smatterings of Hippocrates, and was translated into Latin, for European use, by Gerard of Cremona c. 1180.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Azzo, see da Este

    Azzo, see Ugolino d’Azzo degli Ubaldini

    Azzolino (Ezzelino)

    Ezzellino III da Romano, the tyrant (1194-1259), lord of Verona, Vicenza and Padua, called ‘the son of the devil’, imperial vicar under Frederick II. Pope Alexander IV declared a crusade against him, and he was defeated at Cassano on the Adda, and subsequently died. He was the head of the Ghibellines in Northern Italy.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is in the seventh circle, first ring.

    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66. His mother dreamed she had given birth to a firebrand that scorched the land. Cunizza was his sister.

    Bacchus

    The god of the vine, the son of Jupiter and Semele, was worshipped ecstatically at Thebes in Boeotia (See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 528). The banks of the neighbouring rivers, Ismenus and Asopus, were crowded with worshippers, when the midnight rituals were enacted, that were designed to ensure the fruitfulness of the crop. The worship of Bacchus (Dionysus) was introduced into Greece from Asia Minor.
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:76-111. The rites are mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:1-51. He is mentioned in the context of the shouts of praise cried out at his rites.

    Barbariccia, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:1-30. The sinners hide from him.

    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75. He protects Ciampolo from the other demons so that Virgil can speak to him.

    Inferno Canto XXII:124-151. He is left rescuing Calcabrina and Alichino from the boiling pitch.

    Barbarossa, see Frederick I, Emperor

    Barucci

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Battifolle, see Federigo Novello of

    Beatrice, daughter of Raymond Berenger

    The daughter of Raymond Berenger, and wife of Charles I of Anjou.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. She is mentioned.

    Beatrice, d’Este Visconti

    Beatrice d’Este, daughter of Obizzo d’Este II of Ferrara, married Nino de’ Visconti by whom she had a daughter Giovanna, voted a pension by the Guelphs in 1328. After Nino’s death Beatrice married Galeazzo Visconti of Milan, a separate branch. The Milanese Visconti suffered misfortune in 1302. Giovanna married Riccardo da Cammino of Treviso. The arrangements for Beatrice’s marriage were in progress at Easter 1300, and the wedding took place in the June.
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:46-84. She is mentioned.

    Beatrice, of Anjou

    The youngest daughter of Charles the Lame, Charles I of Anjou. She married Azzo VIII d’Este in 1305.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. She is mentioned.

    Beatrice, = divine philosophy

    A personification, but also the real Beatrice, whom Dante first saw as a child of eight, in May 1274, when he was nine years old. His love for her inspired the Vita Nuova and the Divine Comedy. She was Bice, or Beatrice, Portinari daughter of Folco de’ Portinari who died in 1288. She died young in June of 1290. (See Rossetti’s painting Beata Beatrix – Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery, England)
    Inferno Canto I:61-99. Virgil says she will be Dante’s guide in Paradise.

    Inferno Canto II:43-93. She asks Virgil to aid Dante.

    Inferno Canto X:94-136. She will, through Cacciaguida, reveal Dante’s future to him.

    Purgatorio Canto VI 25-48. Virgil tells Dante he will see her again, when they reach the summit of the Mount of Purgatory.

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:1-48. Her Divine philosophy goes beyond Virgil’s human philosophy, entering into matters of Faith.

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:49-75. As Divine Philosophy she takes Freewill to be the noble virtue.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:1-45. Dante must pass through the purifying fire to reach her.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:1-48. She appears to Dante, wreathed in the olive sacred to Pallas Athene-Minerva, dressed in the white, green and red of Faith, Hope and Charity. Line 48 is a translation of Virgil’s Aeneid iv 23 ‘Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae: I recognise the tokens of the ancient flame.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:91-145. For Beatrice’s attributes, note Vita Nuova xxi the sonnet: ‘My lady bears Love in her eyes,’ and Convito III vv 55-58 of the canzone: ‘Her aspect shows the joy of Paradise, seen in her eyes and in her smiling face: Love brought them there as to his dwelling-place.’ Beatrice’s first beauty, her eyes, is that of the cardinal virtues, her seconda bellaza, her second beauty, her smile, is the beauty of the theological virtues.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57. Beatrice employs Christ’s words to his disciples. See John xvi 16.

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:64-93. Dante sees Beatrice crowned in Heaven, and his final prayer to her.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. She, Divine Philosophy, sits with Rachel (Contemplation) in Heaven, in the third rank, below the Virgin.

    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:1-48. She prays, with Bernard, to the Virgin, that Dante finds the strength to persevere in his affections.

    Beccaria, Tesauro de’ Beccheria

    Tesauro de’ Beccheria of Pavia, Abbot of Vallombrosa, and Legate of Pope Alexander IV in Florence, plotted against the Guelphs, after the Ghibellines had been expelled in 1258 and was executed.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Bede, The Venerable

    Bede (c673-735) the English Ecclesiastical historian who died in Jarrow.
    Paradiso Canto X:130-148. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Belacqua

    A Florentine maker of musical instruments, a friend of Dante’s, noted for his laziness.
    Purgatorio Canto IV:88-139. He is among the late-repentant.

    Belisarius

    Belisarius (c505-565) restored the authority of the Empire in Italy by his campaigns against the Ostrogoths. He fell into disfavour, and, according to legend, beggary. See Robert Graves’ historical novel ‘Count Belisarius.’
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. He is mentioned.

    Bella, Giano della

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Bellincion, Berti de’ Ravignani

    The father of ‘ the good Gualdrada’ one of the honoured knights of ancient Florence.
    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. The Conti Guidi were descended from him through Gualdrada.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned as marrying one of his daughters to one of the Adimari.

    Bello Alighieri, Geri del

    A first cousin of Dante’s father, who was killed for sowing discord among the Sacchetti family, and was not revenged until thirty years after the vision, when Geri’s nephews, the sons of Messer Cione del Bello Alighieri killed one of the Sacchetti in his own house. The families were reconciled in 1342.
    Inferno Canto XXIX:1-36. He is in the ninth chasm.

    Belus

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. King Belus of Sidon, the Phoenician, father of Dido.

    Benedict, Saint

    The Christian Saint (c480-543) the founder of the oldest Western monastic order, the Benedictines. He was born at Nursia in Umbria, and went to Rome to study. He lived as a hermit for several years near Subiaco. He founded the famous monastery at Monte Cassino on a mountain between Rome and Naples, a spur of Monte Cairo, a few miles from Aquino in the north of Campania. It was once crowned by altars to Apollo and Venus-Aphrodite. The Rule of his Order demanded poverty, chastity and obedience, manual labour, and irrevocable vows. He was remembered for his many acts of healing.
    Paradiso Canto XXII:1-99. He is manifest in the seventh sphere.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. He is seated below John the Baptist in Heaven.

    Benincasa of Arezzo

    Benicasa da Laterina, judge to the Podestà of Siena. He condemned a relative of Ghin di Tacco, a highwayman, to death, and Ghino took his revenge by murdering him while he was sitting as a magistrate in Rome.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. He is among the late-repentant.

    Berenger, Raymond Count of Provence

    His daughter Margaret married Louis IX of France, Eleanor married Henry III of England, Sancha married Richard of Cornwall, and Beatrice married Charles of Anjou, bringing Provence as her dowry, after her father’s death.
    Paradiso Canto VI:112-142. Danter refers to the fable of his chamberlain, Romeo of Villeneuve.

    Bernard of Quintavalle

    A wealthy citizen of Assisi who gave up his possessions to follow Saint Francis, and became his first disciple.
    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He is mentioned.

    Bernard, Saint

    Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153) the Cistercian monk and theologian, son of a noble Burgundian family, who founded the great monastery at Clairvaux in France and was Abbot there till his death. He had a particular devotion to the Virgin, expressed in his De Laudibus Virginis matris and his nine sermons for the feasts of the Purification, Assumption, Nativity etc. He opposed the celebration of her Immaculate Conception. He dedicated all the monasteries of the Cistercian Order to her. He is the type of contemplation.
    Paradiso Canto XXXI:94-142. He guides Dante to the final Vision.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:37-84. Bernard is made to express the orthodox view that the unbaptised child must remain in Limbo (See Inferno IV), where spirits live ‘without hope, in longing’. However Bernard himself in his treatise addressed to Hugh of Saint Victor, holds back from this terrible conclusion. ‘We must suppose that the ancient sacraments were efficacious as long as it can be shown that they were not notoriously prohibited. And after that? It is in God’s hands. Not mine be it to set the limit.’

    Bernadin di Fosco

    His father was a field labourer. Bernadin distinguished himself at the siege of Faenza against the Emperor Frederick II in 1240. He was a Guelph, and died c1250 having become one of the nobility of Faenza.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Bernadone, Pietro

    The father of Saint Francis, to whom Francis gave all his worldly possessions, in order to pursue Poverty.
    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He is mentioned.

    Bertrand de Born

    Bertrand (c1140-1215), The Lord of the Castle of Hautefort (Altaforte), near Périgord, who spent his life in feudal warfare, ended it in the Cistercian monastery of Dalon, nearby. He was one of the most individual of the Provençal troubadours. One of his finest poems (‘Si tuit li dohl elh plor elh marrimen’) is his song of lament on the death of Prince Henry Plantagenet, the elder brother to Richard Coeur de Lion, and named the ‘Young King’, the son of Henry II of England, and twice crowned in his father’s lifetime. Bertrand was accused of stirring up the strife whereby Henry II refused to grant the sovereignty of England or Normandy to his son, and which lasted until the Young King’s death in 1183. (See Ezra Pound’s poem ‘Near Périgord’ from Lustra, and his translation of the lament ‘Planh for the Young English King’ in Personae: also his translation of ‘Dompna pois de me no’us cal’ in Lustra, where Bertrand makes ‘a borrowed lady’, ‘una dompna soiseubuda’ or ‘una donna ideale’, out of the best characteristics of the noble women he knows, and its companion piece ‘Na Audiart’ in Personae.)
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:112-142. He is in the ninth chasm of the eighth circle, as a ‘stirrer up of strife’.

    Bocca, see Abati, Bocca degli

    Boëthius

    Anicius Manlius Torquatus Severinus Boëthius (c475-525), Roman consul and philosopher who was condemned to death by Theodoric, at Pavia. He wrote the Consolation of Philosophy while in prison, defending the virtuous life and the ways of God. He stressed philosphical truth, and the earthly life, and though a Pagan with Christian connections was accepted as a Christian teacher. He argued the timelessness of God’s view of existence, and the validity of Human Freewill. Cieldauro (Golden Ceiling) is St. Peter’s Church in Pavia where he was buried. Since his opponents were Arian heretics, he is claimed as a Catholic martyr.
    Paradiso Canto X:100-129. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Bonatti, Guido

    The private astrologer to Guido da Montefeltro. He came from Forlì and was a tiler by trade. He wrote ‘Liber Introductorius ad Judicia Stellorum’ (c1170) and was credited with aiding Guido’s victory over the French Papal forces at Forlì in 1282.
    Inferno Canto XX:100-130. He is in the eighth circle.

    Bonaventura, Saint

    Giovanni Fidanza, the Franciscan ‘Seraphic Doctor’ Saint Bonaventura (1221-1274). He was born at Bagnoregio near Bolsena. He was a friend and colleague of Thomas Aquinas, and minister-general of the Franciscan Order from 1256. He wrote the official life of Saint Francis, and shortly before his death was made a Cardinal and Bishop of Albano by Pope Gregory X.
    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36. He is in the fourth sphere of the Sun.

    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. His extended speech to Dante.

    Boniface VIII, Pope

    Benedetto Gaetani who succeeded Celestine V in 1294, and imprisoned him after his abdication until his death. His political manoeuvres are the background to the critical three years of Dante’s political life, leading to his exile from Florence, and described in Ciacco’s prophecy. For Dante, he represented the corrupt Papacy, placed in Hell for his vindictiveness; falsity; profligate simony; an ultramontane sacerdotalism, that saw the Empire as subordinate to the Church, with only a derived authority; and his destructive policies that led to French control of Florence. Boniface died in October 1303, and was succeeded by Benedict XI. Boniface is therefore the Pope at the time of the Vision in 1300.
    See Ciacco’s prophecy and Inferno Canto VI:64-93 for an indirect reference.

    Inferno Canto XV:100-124. He is mentioned, indirectly, regarding his translation of Andrei dei Mozzi from Florence to Vicenze in 1295.

    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87. His place in Hell is reserved for him in the eighth circle with the Simonists.

    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136. He persuaded Guido da Montefeltro to leave his religious retreat in order to advise him on the razing of Palestrina, giving him absolution in advance, which Dante explicitly rejects, as unacceptable, logically and morally. (Acre is mentioned as the last possession of the Christians in the Holy Land, lost to the Saracens in 1291.)

    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. In the name of Philip IV, the Fair, Sciarra Colonna and William de Nogaret seized Boniface at Anagni his birthplace, forty miles south east of Rome, in September 1303 and treated him with such cruelty that he died at Rome, a month after his release from their hands, on October 11th 1303.

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. His indifference to the fate of Acre and the Holy Land is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto IX:127-142. His reign has caused the abandonment of the study of the Gospels, for the study of the law-books, the Decretals, since that study brings preferment.

    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105. The ideal of Poverty has been abandoned by the Holy See.

    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. He engineered Dante’s exile.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:100-136. Dante deems him in love with the gold coins of Florence that carried the figure of the Baptist, as well as the lily, the florins, that he has forgotten the meaning of his office.

    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. He is denounced as a corrupt usurper of the Papal Office.

    Paradiso Canto XXX:97-148. When Clement V arrives in Hell (1314), Boniface will be pushed further down.

    Bonifazio, de’ Fieschi, Archbishop of Ravenna

    Archbishop of Ravenna from 1274 to 1295. Dante refers to the ornamental rook like a chess-piece set at the top of the ancient pastoral staff of the Archbishops of Ravenna.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:1-33. He is among the gluttonous.

    Bonturo, see Dati

    Boreas

    The north wind personified as a god. The north-westerlies are classically cloud-bearing winds, the north-easterlies sky-clearing winds.
    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:58-93. He is mentioned.

    Borsiere, Guglielmo

    A retired purse-maker who entered the aristocracy. There is a story about him in Boccaccio’s Decameron I, 8 where he is noted for refinement, and eloquence. He died shortly before 1300.
    Inferno Canto XVI:46-87. He is in the seventh circle for sodomy.

    Bostichi

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Botaio, Martino

    One of the elders of Lucca.
    Inferno Canto XXI:31-58. He is in Hell.

    Brennus

    Chief of the Sennonian Gauls who sacked Rome in 390BC.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Briarius, Briareus

    One of the Giant sons of Earth and Tartarus who fought against the gods of Olympus. See Virgil’s Aeneid x 565-568, where he is described as having fifty heads and a hundred arms. See also Statius Theb. ii 596.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. He helps guard the central pit.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Brigata, Nino della Gherardesca

    See Ugolino della Gherardesca.

    Brosse, Pierre de la

    The surgeon and afterwards chamberlain of King Philip III of France. Mary of Brabant was accused by Pierre and others of having murdered Louis, Philip’s son by his first wife, with poison, in 1276. She destroyed Pierre by falsely accusing him of an attempt on her honour, and of treasonable correspondence with Alfonso X of Castile, Philip’s enemy. Pierre was hanged for this in 1278.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. He is with the late-repentants.

    Brunelleschi, Agnello

    A Florentine noble, and a thief.
    Inferno Canto XXV:34-78. He merges with Cianfa as a serpent.

    Brunetto, see Latini

    Brutus, Junius, who expelled Tarquin

    The type of a noble Roman of the Republic. Lucius Junius Brutus conquered Tarquinius Superbus, whose son had raped Lucretia, Collatine’s wife, in 510 BC. (See Shakespeare’s Rape of Lucrece)
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. He is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Brutus, Marcus, who assassinated Julius Caesar

    Marcus Junius Brutus, who with Gaius Cassius plotted to assassinate Julius Caesar, fearful of Caesar’s increasing power, and the death of the Republic. Caesar, who had loved Brutus’s mother Servilia, according to Suetonius, so that Brutus was perhaps his own child, was murdered on the Ides of March in 44BC, in the Hall of Pompey where the Senate were due to meet. One of the Casca brothers struck the first blow, with a sweep of his dagger just below the throat. Twenty-three dagger thrusts went home, and it was said that when he saw Brutus about to deliver the second blow, Caesar reproached him in Greek, saying: ‘You too, my child?’ In the ensuing Civil War, Octavian, later Augustus Caesar, and Mark Antony, defeated Brutus at the Second Battle of Philippi in 42BC. Brutus’s head was sent to Rome to be thrown at the foot of Caesar’ divine image. Dante holds him in special opprobrium, because of his murder of the founder of the Roman Empire, and because no doubt of the close relationship between Brutus and Caesar, making the betrayal more bitter.
    Inferno Canto XXXIV:55-69. He is tormented in one of Satan’s mouths.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Bryso, Bryson

    The Greek philosopher, considered by Aristotle an example of the powers of false-reasoning.
    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142. He is mentioned.

    Buiamonte, Giovanni

    Inferno Canto XVII:31-78. A knight of the Bicchi family of Florence, still alive in 1300 at the time of the Vision. His arms were ‘three eagles’ beaks or on field azure’.

    Buonaccorsi, Pinamonte

    The Brescian Counts of Casalodi held Mantua in 1272 but were unpopular and threatened with expulsion. Pinamonte de Buonaccorsi, obtained control, by advising Alberta da Casalodi to banish the powerful nobles, as a source of trouble. He then took over, massacred any opponents, expelled Alberta, and held Mantua until 1291.
    Inferno Canto XX:52-99. Mentioned regarding Mantuan history.

    Buonagiunta, Orbicciani

    Bonagiunta Orbicciani degli Overardi, a notary and poet, of Lucca, who died between 1296 and 1300. Jacopo da Lentino ( il Notaio, the Notary), Guittone del Viva known as Fra Guittone, of Arezzo (1230-1294: one of the Frati Gaudenti) in his first poetic period, and Bonagiunta were prominent members of the Sicilian school of Poetry, continued in Central Italy, based on Provençal traditions. Their style lacked the spontaneity and sweetness of the dolce stil nuovo developed by Guido Guinicelli of Bologna, Guido Cavalcanti and Dante.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:1-33. He is among the gluttonous.

    Buonconte, see Montefeltro

    Buondelmonti, Buondelmonte de’

    See Mosca. Buondelmonti was betrothed to a daughter of the Amidei, but broke faith at the instigation of Gualdrada Donati. In the debate as to whether he should be killed Mosca said the evil word, ‘A thing done has an end.’ Buondelmonte was murdered, at the foot of the statue of Mars, on the Ponte Vecchio, in 1215. The family divisions created the Guelph and Ghibelline factional conflicts.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:46-87. They are mentioned among the ancient Florentine families.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. The family originated from Valdigreve and settled in the Borgo Saint Apostoli. To reach Florence they would have crossed the small stream called Ema.

    Buoso, see Donati

    Caccia de’ Cacciaconti of Asciano

    A member of the Brigata Spendereccia, the Spendthrift Brigade, a club founded by twelve wealthy Sienese, in the second half of the thirteenth century, who vied with each other in squandering their money on riotous living.
    Inferno Canto XXIX:121-139. He is in the tenth chasm.

    Cacciaguida

    Dante’s great-great-grandfather, whose son was Alighiero I. Cacciaguida’s wife was Alighiera of the Aldighieri family of Ferrara.
    He took part in Saint Bernard of Clairvaux’s crusade of 1147 under Emperor Conrad III, and was killed. His brother’s name Eliseo suggests a connection with the Elisei family.

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. He is in the Fifth sphere of Mars.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45. He was born, according to Dante in August of 1091, under the sign of Leo, calculated from the period of Mars orbit, 687 days, multiplied by the 580 orbits mentioned. He was then fifty-six when he joined the Crusade.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He leaves Dante to rejoin the other spirits, in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    Caccianimico, Venedico de’

    His father Alberto was head of the Bolognese Guelphs. He himself was a leading Guelph, exiled in 1289, and a follower of Marquis Obizzo II d’Este of Ferrara. He assisted the Marquis in the seduction of his own sister, Ghisola, who later married Niccolò de Fontana of Ferrara in 1270. Dante met him in exile, possibly in Florence.
    Inferno Canto XVIII:40-66. He is in the eighth circle, first chasm, of pimps, go-betweens, and panders.

    Cacus

    The three-headed shepherd, son of Hephaestus and Medusa. He lived in a deep cave in the Aventine forest. He stole two of Hercules’s prize bulls, and four heifers, after Hercules had taken the cattle of King Geryon in his Tenth Labour. Hercules battered him to death. Dante follows Livy i. 7, and Virgil Aeneid viii 193-267, where Virgil calls him semihominis, leading to Dante confusing him with the Centaurs, who guard the Violent higher up, in the seventh circle.
    As an enemy of Evander and Hercules he is an enemy of Rome.

    Inferno Canto XXV:1-33. He is in the eighth circle, with the thieves.

    Cadmus

    The son of the Phoenician King Agenor, who searches for his sister Europa, stolen by Jupiter in the form of a bull. He sows the serpent’s teeth, and founds Thebes, but offends the sacred Serpent of Mars. He and his wife Harmonia are ultimately turned into snakes. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IV 563 et al.
    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. Mentioned, as an example of mutation.

    Caecilius

    Caecilius Statius the comic poet (d. 168 BC)
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Cagnano, Angelo or Angiolello da

    See Carignano

    Cagnazzo, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:97-123. He does not trust Ciampolo.

    Caiaphas

    The high priest among the Pharisees, see John xi 47-53, who said ‘it is expedient for us that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation should perish not’. His father-in-law was Annas, see John xviii 13.
    Inferno Canto XXIII:82-126. He is in the eighth circle.

    Cain

    The son of Adam and Eve, who killed his brother Abel. He was expelled from Eden to the land of Nod. See Genesis iv.
    Inferno Canto XX:100-130. Paradiso Canto II:46-105. The Man in the Moon in popular superstition, was Cain carrying a bundle of thorns as he went to sacrifice.

    Purgatorio Canto XIV:124-151. He is the first of the voices, signifying envy.

    Calboli, Fulcieri da

    The grandson of Rinieri, and Podestà of Milan, Parma, and Modena, but notorious for his tenure at Florence, from January to November 1303, by favour of the Blacks, when he proved a bitter enemy of the Whites.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:28-66. He is mentioned, adversely.

    Calboli, Rinieri da

    Rinieri a Guelph of Forlì, was Podestà of Faenza in 1247, Parma in 1252, and Ravenna in 1265 and 1292. He attacked Forlì in 1276 but had to retire to Calboli in the valley of Montone, where he surrendered to Guido da Montefeltro, the Captain of Forlì, who razed the stronghold. When Rinier was re-elected Podestà of Faenza in 1292 Mainardo Pagano was Captain. The citizens opposed a tax levied on them by the Count of Romagna, and successfully opposed him. In 1294 the da Calboli were expelled by the Ghibellines, but returned with other Guelphs in 1296, when their enemies were away fighting against Bologna. Shortly after this the Guelphs were routed again and expelled by the Ghibellines, and the aged Rinier was killed.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:1-27. He is among the envious.

    Calcabrina, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:124-151. He and Alichino quarrel.

    Calchas

    The Greek augur, the brother of Leucippe and Theonoë. At Aulis, where the Greek ships waited for a favourable wind to sail to Troy, Calchas interpreted the appearance of a snake that killed a sparrow and her eight fledglings, and then was turned to stone. It signified that Troy would be taken in the tenth year after a long struggle. He also prophesied that they must pacify Artemis by sacrificing Agamemnon’s daughter, Iphigenia. After that the north-east wind dropped and the fleet was able to set sail for Troy.
    Inferno Canto XX:100-130. He is mentioned in the eighth circle.

    Calfucci

    An ancient Florentine family, a branch of the Donati. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Calliope

    The Muse of Epic Poetry, the mother of Orpheus, and the eldest sister of the Muses (see the fuller entry under Muses). She took the lead in the competition with the Pierides.
    Purgatorio Canto I:1-27. Dante asks her to accompany his words.

    Callisto, or Helice

    An Arcadian nympth, a favourite of Artemis-Diana, raped by Jupiter. Diana expelled her from her company, and she was changed by Juno into a bear, and hunted by her son Arcas. Jupiter placed her in the sky as the constellation of the Bear, Ursa Major, and Arcas as the constellation of the little Bear, Ursa Minor, at the pole, towards which the ‘pointers’ Dubhe and Merak, of the Great Bear, or Plough, point as it circles on Polaris the pole-star. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses II 409-528.
    Purgatorio Canto XXV:109-139. She is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:28-63. The Great Bear, circling over the northern latitudes.

    Callixtus I, Saint and Pope

    Saint Callixtus I, Pope (217-222AD).
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. He died for the faith.

    Camiccione

    See Pazzi.

    Camilla

    Inferno Canto I:100-111. A virgin warrior, the Roman version of an Amazon, whose death is described in Aeneid XI.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. She is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Camino, Gaia da

    The daughter of Gherardo da Camino. The reference to her is unclear, and may refer to her virtue or her lack of it.
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:97-145. She is mentioned.

    Camino, Gherardo da

    Captain-General of Treviso from 1283 till his death in 1306 when he was succeeded by his son Riccardo. Gerard’s daughter Gaia died in 1311. The allusion to her is not understood.
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:97-145. He is mentioned.

    Camino, Riccardo da

    The brother of Gaia, and husband of Giovanna Visconti, who was treacherously murdered at Treviso where the rivers Sile and Cagnano meet, in 1312.
    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66. His death is prophesied.

    Cancellieri, Focaccia de’

    One of the Cancellieri family of Pistoia, who fomented an internal feud in which many of his kinsmen died. This feud was the source of the Blacks and Whites, the Neri and Bianchi factions, introduced into Florence also.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:40-69. He is in Caïna, in the Ninth Circle.

    Capaneus

    Inferno Canto XIV:43-72. An Argive chief in the war of the seven against Thebes who scaled the wall, and was struck down by Jupiter’s lightning bolt. He was a symbol of pride. (See Aeschylus: Seven against Thebes)
    Inferno Canto XXV:1-33. Cacus outdoes him in pride and arrogance.

    Capet, Hugh

    King of France (987-996) here confused with his father Hugh the Great (Duke of the Franks, Count of Paris, died 956) who was the supposed son of a butcher. When Louis V died in 987, and the Carlovingian Dynasty ended it was Hugh who succeeded, and founded the Capetian Dynasty, not his son and successor Robert I. On Louis V’s death, his uncle Duke Charles of Lorraine, son of Louis IV, was the only survivor of the Carlovingian line. He was captured by Hugh and imprisoned till his death in 991. He was not a monk, and Dante may have confused him with the last of the Merovingians Childeric III who was deposed by Pepin le Bref in 751 and compelled to become a monk. Between 1060 and 1300 four Philip’s (I-IV) and four Louis’s (VI-IX) ruled France between them.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. He is among the avaricious.

    Capocchio

    A Florentine alchemist, known to Dante, burnt alive at Siena in 1293.
    Inferno Canto XXIX:121-139. He is in the tenth chasm.

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. He is attacked by Gianni Schicci.

    Caponsacco

    An ancient Florentine family.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Capulets, the Cappelleti of Verona

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. Feuded with the Montagues, see Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet for a fictitious re-creation of the feuding.

    Carignano, Angiolello da

    Malatestino Malatesta of Rimini, the ‘one-eyed traitor’, ‘the young mastiff’, obtained possession of Fano, and added it to Rimini. He invited the two chief nobles Guido del Cassero, and Agniello to meet him at La Cattolica on the Adriatic between Fano and Rimini. Their boat was intercepted and they were drowned off the headland of Focaro, between Fano and La Cattolica. The headland was notorious for its dangerous winds, so much so that sailors made vows and prayers for safe passage.
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:55-90. Their death is prophesied.

    Carlino, see Pazzi

    Carpigna, Guido da

    Renowned for his liberality. A member of a noted family near Montefeltro. He died between 1270 and 1289.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Casalodi, Alberta da

    The Brescian Counts of Casalodi held Mantua in 1272 but were unpopular and threatened with expulsion. Pinamonte de Buonaccorsi, obtained control, by advising Alberta to banish the powerful nobles, as a source of trouble. He then took over, massacred any opponents, expelled Alberta, and held Mantua until 1291.
    Inferno Canto XX:52-99. Mentioned regarding Mantuan history.

    Casella

    A musician of Florence or Pistoia, and a personal friend of Dante’s, whose poetry he set to music, including perhaps this second canzone which Dante annotated in the Convivio. He died between 1283 and 1300. He gathers with the dead souls who are not condemned to the Acheron, at Rome, the portal of salvation. Since the Jubilee, which began on Christmas day 1299, all those who have wished for grace have been carried to Purgatory, by the Angel.
    Purgatorio Canto II:79-114. He is entering Purgatory.

    Cassero, Guido del

    Malatestino Malatesta of Rimini, the ‘one-eyed traitor’, ‘the young mastiff’, obtained possession of Fano, and added it to Rimini. He invited the two chief nobles Guido, and Agniello da Carignano to meet him at La Cattolica on the Adriatic between Fano and Rimini. Their boat was intercepted and they were drowned off the headland of Focaro, between Fano and La Cattolica. The headland was notorious for its dangerous winds, so much so that sailors made vows and prayers for safe passage.
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:55-90. Their death is prophesied.

    Cassero, Jacopo del

    A Guelph from Fano, in the mark of Ancona, between Romagna and the Kingdom of Naples, ruled by Charles II of Anjou. He was Podestà of Bologna in 1296. He frustrated the designs on the city of Azzo VII d’Este, Marquess of Ferrara, incurring Azzo’s wrath, and exchanged his office for that of Milan, in 1298. He was murdered on Azzo’s orders at Oriaco, near the River Brenta, between Venice and Padua, and died in the marshes there, while fleeing to La Mira would have taken him to drier land. The Paduans are called Antenori from their founder Antenor. Riccardo da Camino was one of the assassins.
    Purgatorio Canto V:64-84. He is one of the late repentants.

    Cassius

    With Marcus Junius Brutus, Gaius Cassius plotted to assassinate Julius Caesar, fearful of Caesar’s increasing power, and the death of the Republic. Caesar was murdered on the Ides of March in 44BC, in the Hall of Pompey where the Senate were due to meet. One of the Casca brothers struck the first blow, with a sweep of his dagger just below the throat. In the ensuing Civil War, Octavian, later Augustus Caesar, and Mark Antony, defeated Cassius at the First Battle of Philippi, and Brutus at the Second Battle of Philippi, in 42BC. Dante holds him in special opprobrium, because of his complicity in the murder of the founder of the Roman Empire.
    Inferno Canto XXXIV:55-69. He is tormented in one of Satan’s mouths.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Castello, Guido da

    A gentleman of Treviso, noted for his hospitality and generosity. To the French the Lombards were tricky, and often usurers, perhaps the source of his name, being in contrast, the ‘honest one’, simplice.
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:97-145. He is mentioned.

    Castor and Pollux

    Purgatorio Canto IV:52-87. The Twins, the Dioscuri, the Gemini, represented by that constellation of the Zodiac. They were the twin sons of Tyndareus and Leda, famous for their horsemanship, though Pollux (Polydeuces) may have been Zeus’s swan-son, and Helen’s brother, while Castor was mortal and Clytaemnestra’s brother. Pollux refused immortality unless his brother could share it, and Zeus set them among the stars. They are the saviours of shipwrecked sailors, and were worshipped by the Spartans

    Castrocaro, Counts of

    Ghibellines, based in the stronghold of Castrocaro, near Forlì
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. They are mentioned.

    Catalano, Catalini or Malavolti

    One of the Frati Gaudenti, or Jovial Friars, a derisive name for the Cavalieri di S. Maria (Ordo militae beatae Mariae) founded at Bologna in 1261, with the approval of Urban IV, to act as mediators, and protect the weak. It was disbanded due to its laxity. Catelano de’ Catalini (or de’ Malavolti) c.1210-1285, and Loderingo degli Andalò, a Ghibelline, were called to Florence, from Bologna, in 1266 to act together as Podestà, and reform the government. They were accused of hypocrisy and corruption and expelled. The Gardingo district (Piazza di Firenze) the site of the Uberti Palace, was destroyed in a rising against the Ghibellines.
    Inferno Canto XXIII:82-126. They are in the eighth circle.

    Catilini

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Cato, of Utica

    Marcius Portius Cato, the Younger (95-46BC), the Republican opponent of Julius Caesar. He supported Pompey as the lesser of two evils, and was noted for his honesty and moral stance. After the battle of Thapsus, in 46 BC, he committed suicide while governor of Utica near Carthage rather than fall into enemy hands. This was regarded as an act of supreme devotion to liberty. Cato the lawgiver is depicted with the righteous in Virgil’s Aeneid VIII 670. Dante derived his knowledge of Cato from Lucan’s Pharsalia II 373. Cato’s wife was Marcia.
    Inferno Canto XIV:1-42. Cato crossed the Libyan desert in 47BC, at the head of Pompey’s army, to meet up with Juba, King of Numidia. The march is described by Lucan in Pharsalia IX 411 et seq.

    Purgatorio Canto I:28-84. The Poets meet him. The Mount of Purgatory is in Cato’s care.

    Cavalcanti, Cavalcante de’

    The father of the poet Guido Cavalcanti, is mentioned in Boccaccio’s Decameron VI 9, in a tale which concerns Guido.
    Inferno Canto X:52-72. He is in the Sixth Circle as a heretic.

    Cavalcanti, Francesco (Guercio) de’

    Francesco, who changes from serpent to man, and back, was killed by the villagers of Gaville, in the upper Val d’Arno, the murderers and others being summarily executed by his kinsmen.
    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. He is in the eighth circle.

    Cavalcanti, Guido de’

    The poet, son of Cavalcante Cavalcanti, born between 1250 and 1259, was Farinata’s son-in-law, and a prominent White (Bianchi) Guelf. He married Farinata’ daughter, Beatrice, during one of the attempts to forge peace through marriage alliances. He, ‘the first of my friends’, and Dante are the chief poets of the Florentine School of the dolce stil nuove style of lyric poetry that superseded the Bolognese school of Guido Guinicelli. The Vita Nuova was dedicated to Guido. He was exiled with the Whites (a decision Dante was party to) in June 1300 to Sarzana in the Lunigiana. Allowed to return to Florence, due to illness, caused by the unhealthy locality, he died in the August and was buried on August 29th, but was still alive at the time of the Vision itself. He is mentioned in Bocaccio’s Decameron VI 9.
    Inferno Canto X:52-72. His father Cavalcante asks after him. Dante mentions Guido’s disdain of Virgil, through poetic preference, political allegiance, Epicurean principles, preference for Italian over Latin, or some other reason.

    See Ciacco’s prophecy and Inferno Canto VI:64-93 for an indirect reference.

    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117. Dante expresses the view that he has surpassed the poetic school of Guido Guinicelli. (The earlier poet who wrote the lines ‘Love was not before the gentle heart, nor the gentle heart before love’)

    Celestine V, Saint and Pope

    Pietro da Morrone, a saintly hermit from the Abruzzi, was compelled to become Pope by the Cardinals in 1294, at the age of eighty. Five months later, worn out, he abdicated. He was confined by his successor Boniface VIII till his death in 1296. He was canonised in 1313.
    Inferno Canto III:58-69. Celestine is the likeliest candidate, as attested by Petrarch and others, for he who made ‘il gran rifiuto’.

    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136. Dante again refers to Celestine’s indifference to the Papal honour.

    Centaurs

    Fabulous creatures, living in the mountains of Thessaly, half man and half horse. They were the sons of Ixion, and a cloud, in the form of Juno. They fought violently at the battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs, at the marriage feast of Pirithoüs and Hippodamia, at which Theseus was present. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XII 210. Virgil calls them furentes in Georgics ii 45-456.
    Inferno Canto XII:49-99. They guard the river of blood in the seventh circle.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:100-154. The battle is referred to.

    Cerberus

    The triple headed hound of Hell, with snakes for hair, and barbed tail, that guarded the gates of Tartarus. The foam from his mouth was poisonous. He was born of Echidne by Typhon. Associated with the Egyptian god Anubis, by the Greeks. He was dragged from Hell by Hercules (The Twelfth Labour) and the foam from his mouth gave birth to the poisonous plant aconite.
    Inferno Canto VI:1-33. He guards the third circle of the gluttonous.

    Inferno Canto IX:64-105. His throat is still scarred from Hercules assault on him.

    Cerchi

    See Ciacco’s prophecy and Inferno Canto VI:64-93 for an indirect reference.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:46-87. They are mentioned among the ancient Florentine families. Leaders of the Whites they originated from Acone in the Val di Sieve. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned indirectly.

    Charlemagne, Emperor

    Charles (Born 742, Ruled 768-814 AD), the son of Pepin the Short, King of the Franks. He conquered the Langobard kingdom in 773-774, and extended his empire into Slav territory. As the Founder of the Holy Roman Empire, Pope Leo III (795-816) crowned him Emperor 23-24 December 800, with the Imperial title ‘Romanorum gubernans imperium’. By the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, in 812, the Eastern Roman Emperor, Michael I, recognised Charlemagne as Emperor in exchange for the surrender of Istria, Venetia, and Dalmatia. He died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 814 and was entombed in the Dome. He was the legendary rebuilder of Florence.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:1-45 Roland (Orlando) Charlemagne’s nephew, and the hero of the battle of Roncesvalles, went down to defeat with his Franks, fighting against the Saracens, while attempting to hold the valley in 778AD. He blew his horn in desperation, to alert his uncle eight miles away, but Charlemagne was misled by the advice of the traitor Ganelon, and did not provide aid. The epic is told in the Old French Chanson de Roland, the ‘Song of Roland’, where the intensity of Roland’s blast on the horn shattered it. The defeat allowed Arab incursions into Narbonne in 793.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history, as having protected the Church by use of Imperial force and right.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He is in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    Charles of Lorraine

    See Hugh Capet.

    Charles I of Anjou, King of Naples and Sicily

    The brother of Louis IX of France, and Count of Provence. He defeated Manfred King of Sicily, at Benevento, in 1265, and seized Naples and Sicily, supported by Pope Clement IV. He was described as silent, serious and cold, though not uncultured. He schemed to bring down the Eastern Emperor Michael Paleologus, but was opposed by King Pere II of Aragon whose wife Constance (Constanza) was Manfred’s daughter. On Easter Monday 1282 the approaches of a young French soldier to a young Sicilian woman in Palermo provoked his murder by her husband, and, while the bells called Vespers, it led to a chain reaction of anti-French massacres in Sicily. Pere was able to take advantage of a power vacuum, and ousted Charles from Sicily. It was the beginning of the ninety-year ‘War of the Vespers’. He and Peter (Pere) both died in 1285.
    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133. Charles refused to accept one of Pope Nicholas III’s nieces as a wife for his nephew, and Nicholas deprived Charles of the office of Senator of Rome, and accepted money from Michael Paleologus, helping to fuel Charles’s anti-Byzantine policy.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:1-21. Manfred trusted the pass of Ceperano (on the Liris) to the barons of Apulia, in 1266. They betrayed the pass to Charles, leading to Manfred’s defeat and death at Benevento.

    In 1268, at Tagliacozzo, Charles defeated Conradin, Manfred’s nephew, using reserve troops, on the advice of Erard de Valéry (Alardo). He married Beatrice of Provence, and then Margaret of Burgundy.

    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is one of the negligent rulers. His son Charles II of Anjou and Naples, is inferior to him.

    Purgatorio Canto XI:118-142. He imprisoned a friend of Provenzan Salvani.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. He received Provence as a dowry, on marrying Beatrice in 1246, after the death of her father Raymond Berenger. He defeated Conradin, last of the Swabians, at Tagliacozzo. On Oct 29th 1268 two months after his defeat the seventeen-year-old Conradin was beheaded, on Charles’s orders. Charles’s son was Charles the Lame, who assisted him in trying to retake Sicily. He was supposed to have had Thomas Aquinas poisoned in 1274, though this is spurious.

    Charles II, King of Naples

    Carlo Zoppo, Charles the Lame, the son of Charles I of Anjou. King of Naples (Apulia) and Count of Anjou and Provence (1243-1309), and alive at the time of the Vision. Titular King of Jerusalem, and head of the Italian Guelphs in 1300.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. Dante regards him as far inferior to his father.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. Attempting with his father to regain Sicily he was captured by Roger di Loria, the admiral of Peter III of Aragon, near Naples in a naval battle, and taken prisoner, in June 1284. His life was spared on the instigation of Manfred’s daughter Costanza. He was still in captibity in 1285 when he succeeded his father as King of Naples. In 1305 he married his younger daughter Beatrice to Azzo VIII of Este, Marquis of Ferrara, of evil reputation, and her senior by many years, presumably for a consideration.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history, with disdain.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:31-84. Charles Martel was his son, who died before him.

    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72. He is a burden to Naples.

    Charles Martel

    Charles (1271-1295) the eldest son of Charles II of Naples and Mary of Hungary, the daughter of Stephen IV. Dante probably met him in March 1295 when he visited Florence, and was popular. He died in the August. He was married to Clemenz, or Clementina, the daughter of Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg, and his line might have reconciled the Guelph and Ghibelline factions, but his early death quenched Dante’s hopes. His brother was Robert Duke of Calabria. His daughter Clemenza married Louis X of France. His wife Clemenz died in 1296. His son Caroberto became heir to Naples but was ousted by Robert, his uncle.
    Paradiso Canto VIII:31-84. He describes the regions over which he would have held power including Provence, of which the Angevin kings of Naples were Counts; Hungary of which he had already been crowned king in 1290 at Naples, holding it from his mother; and Sicily, which would already have been his had it not been for the Sicilian Vespers, in 1282, the rising in Palermo against the French that led to rule by the House of Aragon.

    Charles of Valois

    See Ciacco’s prophecy and Inferno Canto VI:64-93 for an indirect reference.
    Inferno Canto XXIV:130-151. Vanni Fucci’s prophecy, covers his involvement in the entry of the Blacks into Florence in November 1301.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. The brother of Philip IV, the Fair, nicknamed Senzaterra (Lackland, so called as a younger son or because of his failures in Sicily in 1302) who entered Florence in November 1301, and left in the following April. He supported the Neri (Blacks) at Boniface’s instigation, using treachery and perjury to coerce the Signoria, and left the city, covered with disgrace, and loaded with plunder, leaving the Neri in control. The treachery of he and Philip his brother towards the Count of Flanders in 1299 was revenged three years later at Courtrai, where the Flemish (‘Douay, Lille, Ghent and Bruges’) routed the French.

    Charles Robert (Carobert)

    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66. The son of Charles Martel and Clemenza. See the entry for Charles.

    Charon

    The ferryman of the River Acheron in the Underworld. His price for ferrying a dead spirit across the river was an obolus, a coin, without which the spirit was doomed to wander the deserted shore without refuge. The Greeks placed an obolus in the mouths of the dead, as their fare. Acheron, the son of Gaea, quenched the thirst of the Titans and was thrown by Zeus into the Underworld, where he was changed into the river bearing his name. The other rivers of the Underworld were the Cocytus a tributary of the Acheron, with its tributary the Phlegethon, the Lethe, and the Styx.
    Inferno Canto III:70-99. He tells Dante to depart since he is still living.

    Inferno Canto III:100-136. He ferries the dead souls over the Acheron.

    Charybdis

    The whirlpool in the straits of Messina. She was the daughter of Neptune and Earth hurled, by Jupiter’s thunderbolt, into the sea. The rock Scylla not mentioned here was nearby in the other cliff, a dog-like monster with six heads. To be between Scylla and Charybdis was to be in dire straits. (See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIII 730)
    Inferno Canto VII:1-39. Dante compares the dance of the Avaricious to the waves of Charybdis’s whirlpool.

    Chiaramontesi, Durante de’

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned in connection with falsification of the measures. See note to Purgatorio.

    Chiron

    The wise Centaur, son of Saturn and Philyra, to whom Apollo entrusted his son Aesculapius, and who variously reared Jason, and Achilles. He was wounded by one of Hercules’s poisoned arrows, but could not die because he was immortal. Prometheus accepted immortality in his stead to allow him to end his suffering.
    Inferno Canto XII:49-99. Chiron appoints Nessus to guide them in the seventh circle.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:34-63. He is mentioned.

    Christ

    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. The Saviour, whose name is not mentioned explicitly in the Inferno. Dante follows the legend that Christ descended to Hell in the year 33AD (fifty two years after Virgil’s death and entry into Limbo).
    Inferno Canto XII:28-48. The earth shook at his death, prior to his descent into Hell. See Matthew xxvii 51.

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:70-139. Christ is the symbol of Divine Humanity, sinless from birth.

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. Dante calls God, incarnate in Christ, the highest Jove (Jupiter), thereby identifying supreme Empire and law with the Deity, while superseding the Pagan Gods.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. The Pope is his Vicar on earth. His trial and crucifixion is referred to.

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33. He offered water to the woman of Samaria. See John iv 7-15.

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33. He appeared at Emmaus after the Resurrection. See Luke xxiv 13-15.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:37-90. On the cross, Christ cried out: ‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ Matthew xxviii 46, Mark xv 34.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:70-90. He is represented by the Grifon in the Divine Pageant.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. At the Transfiguration, see Matthew xviii 1-8 Christ shone like the sun in white raiment, and Moses and Elias appeared talking with him, and after they were overcome he said ‘Arise, and be not afraid’. Christ is the apple-tree, in accord with the Song of Solomon ii 3, ‘As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons.’

    Paradiso Canto VII:1-54. The Crucifixion was both supreme justice exacted on human nature for the Fall, and supreme injustice when the person on whom it fell is considered.

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. Rahab, the prostitute, symbol of the Church, who was the first to welcome Joshua into what became Israel, was the first spirit snatched up to Heaven at Christ’s triumph.

    Paradiso Canto XI:1-42. As the Bridegroom of the Church.

    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. Saint Francis exhibited the five wounds of Christ, as stigmata, and bore the marks for two years.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142. Christ is Humanity’s delight and joy.

    Paradiso Canto XIV:67-139. Dante’s vision of Christ on the Cross.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:1-63. He is referred to as Jèsu.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:97-139. The Pelican, supposed to feed its young with its own blood, is a symbol of Christ. He with the Virgin alone ascended to Heaven in body as well as in spirit. Enoch and Elijah were only elevated to the Earthly Paradise.

    Chrysostom, Saint John

    John Chrysostom, or Golden Mouth (c 344-407) Archbishop of Constantinople, of fearless eloquence, who denounced the vices of the Court and was persecuted and exiled by the Empress Eudoxia.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Ciacco

    A Florentine, Ciacco (hog), was a contemporary of Dante. He was renowned for his gluttony, and is mentioned in a story in Bocaccio’s Decameron (ix.8). He is said to have died in 1286.
    Canto VI:34-63. He is punished in the third circle, of the gluttonous.

    Ciampolo

    A member of the household of, Teobaldo II, Thibaut V Count of Champagne, King of Navarre (1253-1270), son of the poet-king Thibaut I mentioned by Dante in his De Vulgari Eloquentia. (see Blake’s engraving, ‘Ciampolo tormented by Devils’, British Museum, London)
    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75. He is in the eighth circle of barrators.

    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96. He names other barrators with him.

    Inferno Canto XXII:97-123. He tricks the demons.

    Cianfa, see Donati

    Ciangella, della Tosa

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. A notorious shrew who married an Imolese.

    Cimabue

    Giovanno Cimabue, the great Florentine painter (c1240-c1302).
    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117. He was surpassed by his pupil Giotto.

    Cincinnatus

    Lucius Quintius Cincinnatus, dictator 458 and 439BC. His name derives from the word cincinnus, a curl of hair. He conquered the Aequians.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. The type of the good citizen.

    Cinyras

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. Myrrha the daughter of Cinyras, a Cyprian king, the son of Pygmalion, conceived an incestuous passion for him, and in darkness, using an assumed name, entered his bed. She conceived Adonis, and was changed into the myrrh-tree from which Adonis was born. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses X 299.

    Circe

    The witch, the daughter of Titan and Perse, who lived on the ‘island’ of Aeaea (Cape Circeo, on the coast of western Italy). She bewitched the followers of Ulysses, and delayed him on her island. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIV 247, and Homer’s Odyssey.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142. She is mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XIV:28-66. She is mentioned.

    Ciriatto, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75. He torments Ciampolo.

    Clare, Saint

    Chiari Scifi of Assisi, now known as Santa Clara, Saint Clare (c1194-1253), the friend and disciple of Saint Francis of Assisi, who founded the order of Franciscan nuns known as the ‘Poor Clares’ (The Order wore a grey habit, with white coif covered with black veil)
    Paradiso Canto III:97-130. She is higher in Heaven than Piccarda.

    Clement IV, Pope

    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145. He had Manfred’s body disinterred and reburied, with the rites of excommunication, outside the Papal territory.

    Clement V, Pope

    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87. Bertrand de Got (Goth), Archbishop of Bordeaux, elected Pope in 1305, through the support of Philip IV, the Fair, of France. He transferred the Papal See to Avignon where it remained until 1377. He died eleven years after Boniface VIII in 1314.
    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. Encouraged the Emperor Henry VII’s expedition to Italy but was disloyal to him.

    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. An indirect reference to the Gascon Pope.

    Paradiso Canto XXX:97-148. Supported Henry VII and then turned away from him. His place in Hell is reserved.

    Clemenz, wife of Charles Martel

    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66. Dante addresses her, living, though she is assumed to have died in 1295. She was the daughter of the Emperor Rudolph. She was the mother of Caroberto.

    Cleopatra

    Cleopatra VII, Queen of Ptolemaic Egypt( 68-30BC, r.51-30BC). Of Macedonian origin. She had a child Caesarion with Julius Caesar and married Mark Antony, committing suicide on his death following the lost battle of Actium. She had twins by Antony, namely Cleopatra Selene, and Alexander Helios.
    Inferno Canto V:52-72. She is a carnal sinner in Limbo.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Cletus, Saint and Pope

    Saint Cletus, Pope (76-88AD).
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. He died for the faith.

    Clio

    The Muse of History, one of the nine Musae the daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne (Memory), and patronesses of the liberal arts. Their haunts were Mount Helicon and Mount Parnassus, and their sacred springs were Aganippe and Hippocrene on Helicon, and Castalia on Parnassus. Statius’s Thebaid begins with an invocation to her, setting the Pagan, not Christian, tone of the poem.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93. She is mentioned.

    Clotho

    One of the Three Fates, the Moerae, whom Erebus and Night conceived: Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos. Atropos is the smallest but the most terrible. Clotho spins the thread of life, Lachesis measures it out, and Atropos ‘she who cannot be avoided or turned’ shears it. At Delphi only two fates were worshipped of Birth and Death. Dante here has Lachesis as the spinner, and Clotho apparently as the measurer, or Clotho is both and the syntax is misleading.
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33. She is mentioned.

    Clymene

    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. The daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. The wife of the Ethiopian king Merops. She was loved by Apollo and bore him Phaethon, who came to her to ask for the truth about his paternity. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses I 756 et seq.

    Conio, Counts of

    Ghelphs, based in the stronghold of Conio, near Forlì. Conio was ruled by the Barbiano family, and Count Alberigo da Barbiano of Conio was a famous condottiere in the next epoch, who won the battle of Marino in 1379. One of St Catherine’s letters is addressed to him.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. They are mentioned.

    Conrad, see Malaspina and Palazzo

    Conrad III, Emperor

    The son of Rudolph II of Burgundy, raised at the Saxon Court. Hohenstaufen leader of the Second Crusade (1147-1149) with Louis VII of France. Emperor from 1137-1152.
    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. Cacciaguida served him.

    Conradin

    The son of Conrad IV of Germany (1250-1254), he was defeated at Tagliacozzo in 1268 and executed at Naples, at the age of seventeen.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. He is mentioned.

    Constance, Empress

    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145. The wife of Frederick II, and grandmother of Manfred. She was the daughter of King Roger II, and heiress of the Norman House of Tancred that conquered Sicily and Southern Italy from the Saracens in the eleventh century, and so of the crown of ‘the Two Sicilies’ (Naples and Sicily).
    Paradiso Canto III:97-130. She had married Henry son of Frederick Barbarossa in 1186, who was afterwards Emperor Henry VI, and bore him Frederick, later Emperor Frederick II. Frederick Barbarossa, Henry and Frederick II were the three stormwinds of Suabia. She assumed the regency for her son, after Henry’s death at the early age of 32. She died in 1198. Dante follows the tradition that she had been a nun, and had been forced to make a political marriage against her will.

    Constance, Costanza Queen of Aragon

    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145. The daughter of Manfred, and wife of Peter (Pere) III of Aragon, who avenged Manfred’s death by conquering Sicily in 1282, after the Sicilian Vespers, taking it from Charles of Anjou.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. She was the mother of James II, King of Aragon, and Frederick II, King of Sicily (both were reigning in 1300).

    Constantine the Great

    The ruler of the Western Roman Empire (lived c280-337) after his victory over Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge on the Tiber in 312 AD. The son of Helena. He defeated Licinius at Adrianople and Chrysopolis in 324, becoming sole ruler of the eastern and western empire (totius orbis imperator).Byzantium was renamed Constantinople in 330 and made the second Rome, and the Christian capital as he had embraced Christianity. He died in 337 after receiving baptism on his deathbed. He consolidated Diocletian’s structure of the absolute state, to emphasise the divine nature of the Emperor.
    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133. The Donation of Constantine was a forged document of the Middle Ages, in which Pope Sylvester I was supposed to have cured Constantine of leprosy, he then resolving to transfer his capital to Constantinople, leaving the Pope with temporal power in Italy. Dante saw this as the source of the fatal involvement of the Church in temporal power, and as a consequence the Empire’s involvement in coveting the spiritual power of the Church. He considered the Donation invalid as the Emperor could not relinquish temporal power, nor could the Pope receive it. (See Dante De Monarchia iii 10 etc)

    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136. The cure of his leprosy mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72. He is in the sixth sphere of Jupiter.

    Conti Guidi, the

    Lords of Montemurlo which they sold to Florence in 1254.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:46-87. They are mentioned among the ancient Florentine families.

    Cornelia

    The daughter of Scipio Africanus (Publius Cornelius Scipio Major), and the wife of Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, and mother of Tiberius and Caius the two famous tribunes, the Gracchi. A type of the noble Roman woman. She claimed that ‘her sons were her jewels’.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. She is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. She is mentioned as a type of the good woman.

    Corneto, Rinieri da

    A notorious highwayman of Dante’s time.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139 He is in the seventh circle.

    Cosenza, Bishop of

    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145. He disinterred Manfred’s body from the cairn at Benevento and re-interred it across the Verde (Garigliano) outside the kingdom of Naples, with all the rites of excommunication, on the orders of Pope Clement IV.

    Costanza, see Constance, Queen of Aragon

    Crassus

    Marcus Licinius Crassus, surnamed Dives, the Wealthy, triumvir with Caesar and Pompey in 60BC. He was notorious for his love of gold, and being killed in battle with the Parthians, their King Orodes (Hyrodes) poured molten gold down his throat. (Florus, Epitome iii 2)
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Creüsa

    The wife of Aeneas, lost at Troy. See Virgil’s Aeneid II 735.
    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. Dido’s love for Aeneas wrongs her memory.

    Cunizza, see Romano

    Cupid

    The love-god, the son of Venus-Aphrodite. Called Cupido or Amor. The archer whose arrows cause desire in those they hit.
    Paradiso Canto VIII:1-30. He is mentioned.

    Curio

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:91-111. Advised by Curio, according to Lucan (see Pharsalia i. 281) Caesar crossed the Rubicon (‘iacta alea est – the die is cast’), near Rimini, and declared war by that act against the Republic in 49BC. The Rubicon was at that time the boundary between Italy and Cisalpine Gaul.

    Cyclopes

    A fabulous race of giants on the coast of Sicily, with one eye in the centre of their foreheads.
    Inferno Canto XIV:43-72. They forged Jupiter’s lightning bolts in the fires of Mount Aetna on Sicily.

    Cyrus

    King of the Medes and Persians, defeated by the Massagetae in 529 BC. Tomyris, the Scythian Queen, cut off his head and threw it into a cauldron of blood. See the entry for Tomyris.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is mentioned.

    Daedalus

    Inferno Canto XVII:79-136. The Athenian artificer who made the labyrinth at Cnossos, for the Cretan king Minos. The father of Icarus, he made waxen wings, in order for them to escape from Crete. Flying too near the sun Icarus’s wings melted and he fell into the sea. He was buried on the island of Icaria, and the Icarian Sea and the island, were named after him. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VIII 195.
    Inferno Canto XXIX:100-120. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. The type of the artificer, the inventor and craftsman.

    Damian see Peter

    Daniel

    An Israelite, taken up by Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon, after his capture of Jerusalem. He interpreted the king’s dreams and himself saw prophetic visions. He initially refused the king’s meat and wine. See Daniel i 8 and 17.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:115-154. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. He divined the king’s dream and interpreted it as well, as Beatrice divines and answers Dante’s doubts. See Daniel ii.

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:127-145. Daniel vii 10 indicates the vastness of the Angel multitude.

    Dante

    For the history of the period immediately after the Vision, involving Dante’s exile, see Ciacco’s prophecy.
    Inferno Canto X:73-93. Farinata warns him of his long exile, telling him that not fifty moons will pass before he learns how hard it is to return from banishment. The date of the Vision is April 1300, and Dante’s efforts at return were thwarted by the failure of Pope Benedict XI, who succeeded Boniface to achieve reconciliation in early 1304. Benedict visited Florence but left on June 4th leaving the rebellious city under an interdict. It was less than fifty one lunar months before Dante’s efforts at return failed, suggesting a communication with Benedict (Dante was acting as secretary then to Allessandro da Romano, of the old Ghibelline family of the Counts Guidi, who was the leader of the Ghibellines in exile) some time in March or early April.

    Inferno Canto XIX:1-30. Dante broke one of the pozzetti or round holes that surrounded the font in the Baptistery (St John) in Florence, to help a child (said to have been Antonio the son of Baldinaccio de’ Cavicciuoli). Dante explains here, to counter charges, presumably of sacrilege made against him.

    Inferno Canto XXI:59-96. Dante indicates he was present at the surrender of the Pisan fortress of Caprona, besieged by the Tuscan Guelphs in August 1289. He fought at Campaldino later that year.

    Inferno Canto XXII:1-30. He indicates that he saw the campaigning in Aretine territory (in 1289 also?).

    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:34-99. Bonagiunta quotes the opening line of the famous first canzone of the Vita Nuova.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:49-81. Beatrice speaks his name.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:82-145. She refers indirectly to his work the Vita Nuova, his early tribute to her memory. He first saw her in May 1274, and she died in June 1290 in her twenty-fifth year on the threshold of her second age of life.

    Paradiso Canto V:85-139. Dante, entering the sphere of Mercury that rules Gemini his birth-sign, comments on his own mercurial nature, subject to change and inconstancy.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:31-84. The spirit of Charles Martel quotes Dante’s own opening line of the first canzone of the Convivio.

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:115-154. In the Metaphysics Aristotle shows that the prime Mover, which causes motion but is not itself moved, must be eternal, must be substantial, and actual, the prime object of desire, and of intellectual apprehension. From these five attributes Aquinas builds his five proofs of the existence of God.

    Dante confirms his belief in the Trinity. The sources in the Testaments are chiefly: in the OT the plural form of the word for God, the use of the plural in Genesis i 26, the threefold cry in Isaiah vi 3: in the NT the baptism formula in Matthew xviii 19, the text of the three heavenly witnesses in First Epistles of John v 7 (Vulgate and AV), and the threefold formula in Romans xi 36: but the Unity of the Trinity is the breath behind the word throughout according to Petrus Lombardus and others.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:1-63. Dante refused to accept a laurel crown at Bologna in 1318, invited to do so by Giovanni del Virgilio, hoping still to return to Florence, and be crowned there.

    Daphne

    Paradiso Canto I:1-36. Apollo loved Daphne, the daughter of the river-god Peneus (hence Peneian), who was changed into a laurel-tree by the river-god, as Apollo pursued her. He then adopted her laurel as the sacred tree whose leaves would crown his lyre etc. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses I 452-548.

    Dati, Bonturo de’

    Inferno Canto XXI:31-58. Head of the popular party in Lucca, and the worst barrator or abuser of office in the city. Dante’s comment is ironic, presumably since Bonturo was loudest to deny the offence.

    David

    The King of Israel. The son of Jesse, anointed by Samuel. See the Bible, First and Second Samuel, and First Kings. The type of the pious King.
    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. Christ takes his spirit from Limbo into Paradise.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:112-142. King David’s Gilonite counsellor from Giloh, Ahitophel, see Second Samuel xv-xviii, conspired with David’s son Absalom against the King, and subsequently hanged himself when his counsel was not followed. Absalom was killed at the battle in the wood of Ephraim, and David mourned for him, saying ‘O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!’

    Purgatorio Canto X:46-72. He danced before the Ark of the Covenant, in an act of humility and worship. See the Second Book of Samuel vi 6.

    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72. He is in the sixth sphere of Jupiter. David is the earthly ancestor of Christ, born at the time when Aeneas came into Italy, so making manifest the Divine ordination of the Roman Empire.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:64-96. Dante refers to the Vulgate, the Psalm of David ix 10.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. The great-grandson of Ruth. The ‘singer’ of Psalm 51, the Miserere.

    Decii, the

    See Justinians’ Empire.

    Deianira

    The daughter of Oeneus, king of Calydon, and the sister of Meleager. She was wooed and won by Hercules, and unwittingly caused the death of Hercules, through the shirt of Nessus.
    Inferno Canto XII:49-99. She is mentioned.

    Deidamia

    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84Achilles was discovered in hiding on Scyros, where his mother Thetis had concealed him, at the court of Lycomedes. Deidamia fell in love with him there, and bore him a son, and died of grief when he left.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. She is in Limbo. One of the people celebrated by Statius in his epic poetry.

    Deïphile, Deiphyle

    The daughter of King Adrastus of Argos, wife of Tydeus, and mother of Diomede.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. She is in Limbo. One of the people celebrated by Statius in his epic poetry.

    Democritus

    The Greek philosopher, of Aldera, d.361 BC, who developed Leucippus’s ideas of Atomism. Aristotle said that ‘they make all things number, and produce them from numbers’, indicating a quantitative theory which did not require a ‘prime mover’. He was influential in the development of the theory of knowledge, and of ethics, where he maintained a theory of the harmony of well being of the ethical man, who chooses ‘the goods of the soul’. Dante regards him as having taught that the world arises from chance arrangements of atoms.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Demophoön

    Phyllis, the daughter of the Thracian King Sithon (living near Mount Rhodope in Thrace) was loved by Demophoön, King of Melos, the son of Theseus and Phaedra. He failed to keep his promise to return to her, and when he did eventually return to find her she had comitted suicide, but had been transformed into an almond tree by Athene. (See Burne-Jones painting ‘The Tree of Forgiveness’, Lever Art Gallery, Port Sunlight, Merseyside, England) See Ovid’s Heroides.
    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. He is mentioned.

    Diana, see Artemis

    Dido

    The mythical Queen of Phoenician Carthage, probably an incarnation of Astarte the Great Goddess, who loved Aeneas and committed suicide when he deserted her. She broke faith with the memory of her dead husband Sychaeus for him. (See the Aeneid i of Virgil, and Marlowe’s Dido, Queen of Carthage.)
    Inferno Canto V:52-72. She is a carnal sinner in Limbo.

    Inferno Canto V:70-142. Paolo and Francesca are among her companions.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. Her brother was Pygmalion, King of Tyre. See Aeneid i 350 where he is the murderer of Sychaeus.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:1-30. Cupid sat in her lap disguised as Aeneas’s son, Ascanius, and inspired her with love for Aeneas. See Virgil’s Aeneid I 650.

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. Her love of Aeneas wronged the memory of Sichaeus and Aeneas’s wife Creüsa.

    Diogenes

    The Cynic, Diogenes of Sinope d. 323 BC a follower of Antisthenes, who was the founder of the School of the Dog, and who taught in the Gymnasium known as the Kynosarges. He spent most of his life in Athens after being banished and died in Corinth. He called himself the Dog and held up animal life as a model for human beings, and the barbarians as better than the civilised. His task was the recoining of values. He advocated a positive asceticism in order to attain freedom, and deliberately flouted convention doing in public what should be done in private. He called himself a citizen of the world, and famously replied to Alexander’s request as to what he needed ‘for you to stand out of my light’.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Dione

    The daughter of Oceanus and Tethys, or of Earth and Air, and the mother of Venus-Aphrodite. Originally an oak-goddess at Dodona.
    Paradiso Canto VIII:1-30. She is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The mother of Venus-Aphrodite.

    Diomede

    The Greek hero, the son of Tydeus, King of Argos, and the companion of Ulysses at Troy. See Homer, The Iliad, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIV, XV et al.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84. He is in the eighth circle, eighth chasm.

    Dionysius, King of Portugal

    King of Portugal (1279-1325).
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Dionysius, the Aeropagite

    See Acts xvii, to whom were ascribed certain mystical writings, especially one on the Celestial Hierarchy, which were possibly composed in the fifth or sixth century.
    Paradiso Canto X:100-129. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:94-139. The mystical sixth century writings of the pseudo-Dionysius were ascribed to the Aeropagite, Saint Paul’s convert on Mars’s hill. Dionysius was supposed to have learned of the hierarchies and other matters from Saint Paul, who had seen them when rapt up into the third heaven.

    Dionysius, the Tyrant of Syracuse

    The Elder, tyrant of Syracuse (405-367BC). He led the Greek cities of Sicily in resistance to the Carthaginians.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is in the seventh circle, the first ring.

    Dioscorides

    The Greek physician and author of a work on Materia Medica particularly botany, who lived about 50AD.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Dis, see Satan

    Dolcino, Friar

    A native of Novara, he became head of the sect of The Apostolic Brothers, after the death of its founder Segarelli in 1300. They were purists, but were accused of heresies, such as the treating of women and goods as common. Clement V ordered a crusade against the sect in 1305, and they fled to the hills between Novara and Vercelli, but were forced into surrender. Dolcino and Margaret of Trent, held to be his mistress, were burned alive at Vercelli in June 1307.
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:55-90. He is in the ninth chasm as a sower of dissent.

    Dominic, Saint

    Saint Dominic (Guzman) (1170-1221) the founder of the Order of Preachers, called Dominican or Black Friars. He was born at Calahorra in Spain of noble parentage. As a young man he became a canon and preached against heresy. He was active among the Albigensians, trying to convert by persuasion, as Simon de Montfort was perpetrating his massacres. He preached throughout Europe and died in Bologna.
    Paradiso Canto X:64-99. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XI:1-42. He is mentioned. Thomas Aquinas was a Dominican.

    Paradiso Canto XI:118-139. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105. His mother Giovanna Guzman dreamed before his birth that she was whelping a dog with a burning torch in his mouth that would set the world on fire. His godmother had a dream in which she saw a star on his forehead illuminating the earth. He founded the Order at of Dominicans or Friars Preachers at Toulouse in 1215. He tried to convert the Albigensian heretics, and stimulated the study of theology in the universities.

    Domitian

    The Roman Emperor (81-96AD) who completed the conquest of Britain. His initially benevolent rule became despotic (he claimed the title Dominus et Deus, Master and God) and led to his murder after a palace conspiracy. He took action (for ‘atheism and Jewish sympathies’ says Dio) against Titus Flavius Clemens, consul in 95, and his wife Domitilla whom the fourth century Christian tradition counted as a Christian. Domitian was accused by Eusebius and Tertullian of Christian persecution, but there is little or no evidence extant.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93. He is mentioned, adversely.

    Donati, Buoso

    A noble Florentine, and a thief.
    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. He mutates into a serpent. See Blake’s Watercolour ‘Buoso Donati attacked by the Serpent’, Tate Gallery, London. (It may be Buoso degli Abati who is intended.)

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. His son Simone caused Gianni Schicci to impersonate his father, Buoso, and forge a will.

    Donati, Cianfa

    A Florentine noble, and a thief.
    Inferno Canto XXV:34-78. He appears as a six-footed serpent.

    Donati, Corso

    See Ciacco’s prophecy and Inferno Canto VI:64-93 for an indirect reference.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:34-99. Forese Donati, his brother, predicts his end. Corso was Podestà of Bologna, in 1283 and 1288, and of Pistoia, in 1289, and leader of the Florentine Neri. He went to Rome in 1300, and induced Boniface to bring in Charles de Valois to broker a peace in Florence between the exiled factions. Charles favoured the Blacks, and Corso then tried to gain supreme power. Suspected of intrigue with his father-in-law Ugucione della Faggiuola the Ghibelline captain, and the papal legate Napoleone Orsini, to overthrow the government, and become lord of Florence, he was condemned to death when the plot was discovered (on October 6th 1308). He fled through the Porta Santa Croce but was overtaken and killed by Catalan mercenaries in the service of the King of Naples. He was said to have thrown himself from his horse and been lanced to death on the ground. Dante develops this.

    Donati, Forese

    Dante’s friend, Forese di Simone Donati, the brother of Corso and Piccarda. He was nicknamed Bicci Novello, and died on July 28th 1296. He was a distant relative of Dante’s wife Gemma Donati.
    His own wife was Nella.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:37-90. He is among the gluttonous.

    Donati, Piccarda

    The daughter of Simone Donati, and the sister of Forese Donati, Dante’s friend, and of Corso Donati.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:1-33. She is mentioned, as being in Paradise.

    Paradiso Canto III:34-60. She is in the sphere of the Moon, appearing to Dante there because of her neglect of her vows. She had taken the habit of the Poor Clares in the convent at Florence, and was forcibly abducted from there by Corso her brother in 1288 or thereabouts, and compelled to marry Rosselino della Tosa, a turbulent noble of the Black faction. She died shortly afterwards.

    Donati, Ubertino

    Ubertino Donati, the ancestor of Dante’s wife Gemma, had married one of the daughters of Bellincion Berti, a sister of Gualdrada, and strongly objected to his father-in-law giving the hand of a third daughter to one of the Adimari. A fourth daughter may have been the wife of Dante’s great-grandfather Alighiero I.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Donatus

    Aelius Donatus wrote an elementary Latin Grammar in the fourth century.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Doria (D’Oria), Branca

    The son-in-law of Michel Zanche, whom he murdered. He was a member of the famous Ghibelline family from Genoa, and the murder took place at a banquet to which he had invited his father-in-law. He was still alive in 1300, the date of the Vision.
    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96. Zanche is in the eighth circle.

    Draghignazzo, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75. He wants to torment Ciampolo.

    Duca, Guido del

    A Ghibelline of Bertinoro, of the Onesti family of Ravenna, who was judge to the Podestà of Rimini in 1199. He was a follower of the Ghibelline leader Pier Traversaro. Pier, aided by the Mainardi of Bertinoro, obtained power in Ravenna and drove the Guelphs out. The Guelphs then attacked Bertinoro, destroyed the Mainardi houses, and expelled Pier’s followers. Guido was one, following Pier to Ravenna, and still alive there in 1229.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:1-27. He is among the envious.

    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. His invective against Romagna.

    Duera, Buoso da

    Bribed by the French, Buoso leader of the Cremonese, treacherously allowed Charles of Anjou entry to Parma, in 1266, at the beginning of his campaign against Manfred, who had organised its resistance.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Echo

    A nymph who loved Narcissus, who was deprived of the ability to initiate speech by Juno, and wasted away with unrequited love until she became a mere voice repeating the last words she heard uttered. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 358-493.
    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36. She is mentioned.

    Edward I, King of England

    King of England (1272-1307) in 1300, the date of the Vision.
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. Dante refers to the wars against the Scots. Edward claimed the crown of Scotland and suppressed William Wallace’s popular uprising. Later Scotland obtained national independence under Robert the Bruce, at Bannockburn, in 1314. Edward is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Egidius, Giles, Friar

    The third companion of Saint Francis. His sayings were collected in the Verba Aurea. He died in 1261.
    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He is mentioned.

    Eleanor, wife of Henry III of England

    See Henry III.

    Electra

    The Pleiad, and mother by Zeus of Dardanus founder of Troy. She was, in one version, the seventh star of the Pleiades that was said to have disappeared in grief for the destruction of Troy and the house of Dardanus. The Palladium, or effigy of Pallas Athene was cast down with Electra from Olympus by Athene, when Zeus had violated Electra and she had defiled the statue with her touch. Electra gave it to her son Dardanus. She was thought to have founded the Italian town of Fiesole, as Antenor was thought to have founded Padua.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. She is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Elias

    A name for Elijah, used in the Gospels.
    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. At the Transfiguration, see Matthew xviii 1-8, Christ shone like the sun in white raiment, and Moses and Elias appeared talking with him.

    Elijah, the Prophet

    The prophet, who opposed the cult of Baal among the Israelites. He lived as a hermit on Mount Carmel, according to legend, and was regarded by the Carmelites as a founder of their order. He mounted to Heaven in a fiery chariot. See Second Kings ii 11
    Inferno Canto XXVI:1-42. He is mentioned.

    Eliseo, brother of Cacciaguida

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. He is mentioned.

    Elisha

    The Old Testament prophet, who witnessed Elijah’s ascension to Heaven. He was mocked by little children near Beth-el, and cursed them, and two she bears came out of the wood and ate forty-two of them. See Second Kings ii 23-24.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:1-42. He is mentioned.

    Empedocles

    The pre-Socratic Greek philosopher, a citizen of Akragas, or Agrigentum, in Sicily. He was alive in 443/44 BC, and gave rise to a number of apocryphal stories about his magical abilities as a Pythagorean. He taught that matter is indestructible, and invented the idea of the four elements, earth, air, fire and water. Objects are a mingling of the four elements, but the elements themselves are indestructible. He taught the ideas of world-cycles, of the war of opposites, or discord of the elements, and the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. His root forces in nature, are Love and Hate, that generate the discord of the elements. (‘Empedocles has thrown all things about.’ Yeats: ‘The Gyres’ line 6)
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Inferno Canto XII:28-48. He taught that harmony, replacing discord, among the elements would result in a state of chaos.

    Ephialtes

    The Giant son of Neptune, and his brother Otus, warred against the gods, and tried to pile Pelion on Ossa, and both mountains on Olympus, but were killed by Apollo.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:82-96. He helps guard the central well.

    Epicurus

    The Greek philospher of Samos (341-270BC) founder of the Garden, taught that the true happiness was an absence of pain, and gave a code of conduct for avoidance of mental and physical pain, concentrating on simple and moral essentials of the good life. The Epicureans were atomists, and denied the evidence for divine intervention in human affairs. Cicero was a student of the Epicurean Phaedrus. Dante expounds his philosophy in Convitio iv. 6:100-110.
    The neo-Epicurean Catari and Paterini heretics of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries may have denied the resurrection of the body and the immortality of the soul. Epicurus certainly concentrated on life in this world, and like Buddha, Confucius, and Lao-Tzu was reticent about the afterlife.

    Inferno Canto X:1-21. He and his followers are entombed in the Sixth Circle. For the valley of Jehoshaphat see the Bible, Joel iii 2.

    Erichtho

    A Thessalian sorceress mentioned by Lucan in the Pharsalia vi 507-826, where she summons up the spirit of a dead soldier for Sextus Pompeius before the battle. Dante’s reference is to some further unknown tradition about her presence in the lowest regions of Hell, the Giudecca (See Inferno Canto XXXIV)
    Inferno Canto IX:1-33. She had previously sent Virgil to Hell proper to bring out a soul from the Giudecca, the circle of Judas.

    Erinyes, the Furies

    The Eumenides or Kindly Ones, a euphemism for the Erinyes, the three sisters, the Furies, who live in Erebus. They punish crimes by hounding the wrongdoer, and acting as the unremitting conscience. They are crones with dog’s heads and bat’s wings, snakes for hair, and black bodies, and torment their victims. Their names are Tisiphone, Alecto, and Megaera. For Dante they symbolise remorse, as Medusa symbolises despair. The recollection of past sins is a potential source of despair, delaying penitence and turning the soul back to wrongdoing.
    Inferno Canto IX:34-63. They challenge the poets.

    Eriphyle

    The wife of Amphiaräus, who betrayed him, bribed with the necklace of Harmonia, and was killed by her son Alcmaeon in retribution.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. She is mentioned.

    Erysichthon

    The son of the Thessalian King Tropias. He committed sacrilege against the goddess Ceres by cutting down her sacred tree, and was punished with an inappeasable hunger. He consumed his own flesh until he starved. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VIII 738-878.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:1-36. He is mentioned.

    Esau

    Jacob’s brother, the son of Isaac and Rebeccah, a hunter, a man of the fields. The brothers’ rivalry was seen as an analogy of Church and Synagogue. Jacob deprived Esau of his father Isaac’s blessing by guile, and Esau, the man of Edom, sold Jacob his birthright for ‘a mess of pottage’. See Genesis xxv 19-34.
    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. Jacob and Esau as contrasting types.

    Este, Azzo da

    Azzo VIII of Este, Lord of Ferrara (1293-1308) married Beatrice, daughter of Charles II of Anjou and Naples, in 1305.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He was the son of Obizzo II whom he was said to have murdered.

    Purgatorio Canto V:64-84. He ordered the murder of Jacopo del Cassero.

    Este, Beatrice da

    See Beatrice d’Este.

    Este, Obizzo da

    Obizzo II of Este, fourth Marquis of Ferrara and the March of Ancona (from 1264-1293), the grandson of Azzo VII called Azzo Novello, who had led the Guelf crusaders against Ezzelino. Obizzo, dying in 1293, was said to have been murdered by his son and successor Azzo VIII (from 1293-1308), whom Dante calls his stepson in reference to the unnatural nature of the crime. His daughter Beatrice married Nino de’ Visconti of Pisa, then Galeazzo Visconti of Milan.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is placed in the seventh circle in the first ring, of tyrants.

    Inferno Canto XVIII:40-66. His follower Venedico Caccianimico, a leading Guelph, exiled in 1289, assisted him in his seduction of Venedico’s own sister, Ghisola, who later married Niccolò de Fontana of Ferrara in 1270.

    Esther

    Ahasuerus, the Persian King, enriched Haman, until he was accused by Esther of intending to take the life of Mordecai. Haman was executed in Mordecai’s place. See Esther iii-viii.
    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39. He is mentioned.

    Eteocles

    The son of Oedipus and Jocasta, and brother of Polynices. They fought over the succession, in the war of the Seven against Thebes. Both brothers were killed and, according to Statius in the Thebaid xii 429 et seq. the flames of their funeral pyre itself were divided.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84. They are mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93. They are indirectly mentioned.

    Euclid

    The Greek mathematician and founder of geometry. He flourished c.300 BC.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142. Dante quotes an example from Euclid’s Elements.

    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. A further geometric analogy.

    Euripides

    The Greek tragic playwright (480-441BC).
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Europa

    The daughter of the Phoenician king Agenor, abducted by Jupiter disguised as a bull. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses II 858, VI 104.
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:67-96. Her abduction from the Phoenician shore, near Tyre, at the longitude of Jerusalem is mentioned.

    Euryalus

    Inferno Canto I:100-111. The close comrade of Nisus in the Aeneid, noted for his beauty. His death is described in Aeneid IX.

    Eurypylus

    The son of Telephus, sent by the Greeks to the oracle of Apollo, according to Sinon, to ask for a favourable wind to return home to Greece. The oracle replied by reminding them of the incident at Aulis, and telling them to shed blood again. At Aulis, where the Greek ships waited for a favourable wind to sail to Troy, Calchas interpreted the appearance of a snake that killed a sparrow and her eight fledglings, and then was turned to stone. It signified that Troy would be taken in the tenth year after a long struggle. He also prophesied that they must pacify Artemis by sacrificing Agamemnon’s daughter, Iphigenia. After that the north-east wind dropped and the fleet was able to set sail for Troy. Eurypylus’s trip to the oracle is described by Virgil in his high ‘Tragedía’, the Aeneid ii 110 et seq.
    Inferno Canto XX:100-130. He is mentioned in the eighth circle.

    Eve

    The first woman, the wife of Adam the first man, created after him, who, at the prompting of the serpent, ate of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and gave the apple to Adam who also ate of it. See Genesis ii and iii. This caused the Fall of Man, and the expulsion from the Garden of Eden.
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:85-108. The event is mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:64-99. Human beings are her flawed children.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:1-36. By uncovering her nakedness, physically and spiritually, Eve sinned, and the sons of Adam inherited her guilt, and were denied the Earthly Paradise, without prior purgation and redemption.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. She is at the feet of the Virgin in Heaven.

    Ezekiel

    Purgatorio CantoXXIX:82-105. The priest, the son of Buzi, and visionary prophet of the Jews in Chaldea. He was among the Hebrews exiled to Babylon in 579BC, where he saw visions beside the river Kebar. Dante uses imagery from his Old Testament writings for the Divine Pageant.

    Fabii, The

    See Justinian’s Empire.

    Fabricius

    Caius Frabricius Luscinus, the Consul (282BC) and Censor (275BC) who refused gifts from the Samnites at the time of the peace settlement with them, and bribes from King Pyrrhus of Epirus when negotiating an exchange of friends with him in 280BC. See Virgil’s Aeneid vi 844, and Lucan’s Pharsalia x 151.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:1-42. He is mentioned.

    Fantolini, Ugolino de’

    A nobleman of Faenza who led an honourable retired life and died in 1278 leaving two sons Ottaviano and Fantolino. The one was killed at Forlì in 1282, fighting for the Guelphs against Guido da Montefeltro, and the other died a few years later, before 1291, ending the family line.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Farfarello, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96. He wants to attack Ciampolo.

    Farinata, see Scornigiani and Uberti

    Federigo Novello of Battifolle

    A member of the Conti Guidi family, killed while assisting the Tarlati, after Campaldino in 1289. He was a grandson of Count Ugolino della Gherardesca.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. He is with the late-repentants.

    Federigo Tignoso

    A nobleman of Rimini, noted for his generosity, who lived in the first half of the thirteenth century.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Felice Guzman, father of Saint Dominic

    The father of Saint Dominic, his name interpreted to mean ‘favoured by fortune’.
    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105. He is mentioned.

    Feltre, Alessandro Novello Bishop of

    See Alessandro Novello.

    Ferdinand IV, King of Castile

    Ferdinand IV King of Castile and Leon (1295-1312) noted for his luxurious style of living at the expense of his kingdom.
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Fieschi, Ottobuono de’ see Adrian V

    Fieschi, Alagia de’

    See Alagia de’ Fieschi Malaspina.

    Fieschi, Bonifazio de’

    See Bonifazio, Archbishop of Ravenna.

    Fifanti, the

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Filippeschi of Orvieto

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. Feuded with the Monaldi.

    Filippi of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Flaccus, see Horace

    Focaccia see Cancellieri

    Folco, or Folquet

    Folco of Marseilles (fl 1180-1195), or Folcetto, a troubadour, a Genoese by origin, born at Marseilles shortly before 1160. A famous lover he became a Cistercian monk and was made Bishop of Toulouse in 1205. He was a friend of Saint Dominic, and persecuted the Albigensian heretics till his death in 1231. (Marseilles is on the same meridian as Bougia in Algeria. At Gibraltar where the Mediterranean runs out of the Atlantic the sun is on the horizon when it is noon in the Levant, so the Mediterranean makes zenith at its eastern end of what was horizon at its western end. i.e. it extends over a quadrant.)
    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66. Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. He is in the third sphere, of Venus.

    Forese, see Donati

    Francesca da Rimini

    She loved Paolo Malatesta, Il Bello, and was unfaithful to her husband Gianciotto, the son of Malatesta da Verucchio, Lord of Rimini. Gianciotto, brave but possibly deformed, stabbed to death the unfaithful Francesca, along with, Paolo about 1285. (He was still alive in 1300, the date of the vision, so that Caïna, the first ring of the ninth circle, reserved for murderers of their kin, is ‘waiting’ for him according to Francesca.) According to legend she thought that Paolo was her intended husband when he stood proxy for his brother in the marriage. She was born in Ravenna, the daughter of Guido Vecchio da Polenta, and aunt of Guido Novello at whose court in Ravenna Dante found his last refuge. (See Rossetti’s watercolour Paolo and Francesca Da Rimini – Tate Gallery, London, and Blake’s engraving ‘The Whirlwind of Lovers’, Plate 10 of his illustrations to the Divine Comedy, British Museum)
    Inferno Canto V:70-142. She tells her story to Dante, in Limbo.

    Francis of Assisi, Saint

    Giovanni, later Francesco, of Assisi (c1182-1226) the Founder of the Order of Friars Minor or Franciscans. (Brown or Grey habit, with three knots in the girdle representing the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.) The son of a wool and cloth merchant, Bernadone Moriconi. Assisi is between the Rivers Tupino and Chiascio rising in the mountains near Gubbio where St Ubaldo chose a hermitage (Bishop of Gubbio 1160). Ascesi an old form of Assisi may be translated ‘I have ascended’. Francis was often compared to the rising Sun. He renounced his possessions before the Bishop, of Assisi in the presence of his father Pietra Bernadone. The Franciscan Rule was approved by Pope Innocent III in 1210 and confirmed by Honorius III in 1223. In 1219 he went to the East to try and convert the Sultan. Christ gave him the third confirmation of his work in 1224 on the ‘hard rock’ of La Verna where he received the stigmata, the five wounds of the Passion. He died at Assisi on October 4th 1226 stretched naked on the ground in the arms of ‘his dearest lady’ Poverty. The Seraphim are associated with Love and therefore Francis is the Seraphical Saint. Saint Dominic was associated with the Cherubim and Wisdom. The popular stories of him are the Fioretti.
    Paradiso Canto XI:1-42. Aquinas speaks of him.

    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136. The Cordeliers, from the wearing of a black habit with a cord tired round it, was a name for the Order of Saint Francis.

    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:1-99. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. He is seated below John the Baptist in Heaven.

    Franco of Bologna

    An illuminator and painter of miniatures. Vasari says he was at Rome in 1295, to illuminate manuscripts, in the Vatican Library, for Pope Boniface VIII, and the work was shared with Oderisi of Gubbio.
    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117. He is among the proud.

    Frederick I, Barbarossa, Emperor

    Emperor (1152-1190). Initial leader of the Third Crusade (1189-1192). He won a brilliant victory at Iconium, but drowned in the River Saleph, on 10th June 1190. He had campaigned in Italy (1154-55, 1158-62, 1163-64, 1166-68, 1174-78 and 1184-86: Milan was razed in 1162, and rebuilt in 1169) achieving a series of shifting alliances, and several peace treaties. During the third campaign, the Veronese league of cities was formed, which later joined with the Lombard league, but eventually agreed peace with Frederick in 1183 (The Peace of Constance). He took the cross in 1188, the year of the Diet of Worms.
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:112-145. He is mentioned.

    Frederick II, Emperor

    Frederick (1194-1250), ‘Stupor Mundi’, the wonder of the world, became King of Sicily and Naples in 1197 and Emperor in 1212. He was crowned Emperor in Rome in 1220. He agreed to lead a crusade in 1227 but was turned back by an epidemic, and as a result was excommunicated by Pope Gregory IX despite continuing with the crusade in 1228-9. He was granted absolution in 1230, but excommunicated again in 1239 and declared a heretic at the First Council of Lyon and deposed. He struggled against Henry VII of Germany, and died in Apulia in 1250. He was by reputation an Epicurean, and a sensualist.
    Inferno Canto X:94-136. He is among the heretics in the Sixth

    Circle.

    Inferno Canto XIII:31-78. Pier delle Vigne was his minister.

    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96. Enzio was his natural son.

    Inferno Canto XXIII:58-81. He punished malefactors by coating them with lead and roasting them over a fire.

    Purgatorio Canto XVI:97-145. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto III:97-130. The son of Constance and Henry VI, and called the ‘third stormwind of Swabia’.

    Frederick III, King of Sicily

    King of Sicily (1296-1337). and therefore alive at the time of the Vision.
    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145. The son of Peter (Pere) III of Aragon, and Constanza, daughter of Manfred.

    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. Dante regards him as inferior to his father.

    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72. He is a burden to Sicily.

    Fucci, Vanni

    The illegitimate son of a noble family, and a turbulent Black Guelph from Pistoia who, in 1293, together with two accomplices, stole the treasure of San Jacopo from the church of San Zeno. Rampiono de’ Foresi was held in prison for the crime, while the culprits went undetected for a year.
    Inferno Canto XXIV:97-129. He is in the eighth circle.

    Gabriel, the Archangel

    The Archangel who made the Annunciation to the Virgin Mary. See Luke i.
    Purgatorio Canto X:1-45. The Annunciation is sculpted on the Frieze, indicating humility that corrects pride.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. He is shown with human form though beyond the human.

    Paradiso Canto IX:127-142. Paradiso Canto XIV:1-66. The Annunciation, at Nazareth, is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:88-139. Circles the Virgin in the Stellar Heaven.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:85-114. Shows his adoration for the Virgin, he the height of celestial chivalry.

    Gaddo della Gherardesca

    See Ugolino.

    Gaia, see Camino

    Galen

    The Roman experimental physician and the main authority on medicine and physiology throughout the Middle Ages. He lived c.130-200 AD. His doctrines concerned ‘natural’, ‘vital’ and ‘animal’ spirits. Blood charged with ‘natural’ spirits in the liver, meets air charged with ‘pneuma’, the ‘world spirit’ in the lungs, creating ‘vital’ spirits in the blood of the arteries, which in the brain become ‘animal’ spirits. He identified muscle and bones as levers. He examined the pituitary and thyroid glands, but incorrectly identified their purpose. He sectioned the ocular nerves and spinal cord and roughly localised several nervous functions, but was an inveterate teleologist, and thus became the bible for the Medieval period.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Galeotto

    Gallehaut was the go-between for Lancelot and Guenever, who urged the queen to give Lancelot the first kiss that initiated their love. His name was therefore synonymous with ‘pandar’. The story is found in the old French romance of Lancelot du Lac.
    Inferno Canto V:70-142. His role of pandar is mentioned by Francesca.

    Galigai, Galigaio de’

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Galli

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Ganellon, Ganelon

    Inferno Canto XXXI:1-45 Roland (Orlando) Charlemagne’s nephew, and the hero of the battle of Roncesvalles, went down to defeat with his Franks, fighting against the Saracens, while attempting to hold the valley in 778AD. He blew his horn in desperation, to alert his uncle eight miles away, but Charlemagne was misled by the advice of Ganelon, and did not provide aid. The epic is told in the Old French Chanson de Roland, the ‘Song of Roland’, where the intensity of Roland’s blast on the horn shattered it. The defeat allowed Arab incursions into Narbonne in 793.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Ganymede

    The son of Tros, and brother of Ilus and Assaracus, who was loved by Jupiter because of his great beauty, and snatched up to the Heavens, by Jupiter disguised as an eagle, where he became Jupiter’s cupbearer. Tros was an ancestor of Aeneas, so linking to Ganymede to Rome. See Ovid’s Metamoprhoses X 155, X1 756.
    Purgatorio Canto IX:1-33. He is mentioned.

    Gentucca, Morla

    The beautiful wife of Cosciorino Fondora of Lucca. She was a friend to Dante between 1314 and 1316, when he was at Lucca. She was still unmarried in 1300 (and did not wear the benda, or headdress reserved for married women, and, when white, for widows.)
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:34-99. She is mentioned as a future friend of Dante.

    Geryon

    The type of fraud or malice, as the Minotaur is of brutishness and bestiality. He is compounded of the mythical (three-bodied in the myth, but not here) and monstrous King of Spain whom Hercules killed for the sake of his herd of cattle (Virgil’s Aeneid VIII 202, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses IX 184), and the creatures of the bottomless pit in Revelations ix. As an enemy of Hercules he is an enemy of Rome, since Hercules is Rome’s protector, see Virgil VIII 108 et al.
    Inferno Canto XVI:88-136. He appears to the poets from below the seventh circle.

    Inferno Canto XVII:79-136. He carries them down to the eighth circle on his back.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:1-45. Virgil reminds Dante of him.

    Gherardesca, Count Ugolino

    A leading Guelph of Pisa. He led one party while his grandson Nino de’ Visconti led the other. In 1288 Ugolino intrigued with Ruggieri degli Ubaldini the Archbishop, the nephew of Cardinal Ottaviano degli Ubaldini, and leader of the Ghibellines in Pisa, who was supported by the Lanfranchi, Sismondi, Gualandi and other families, and Nino was expelled. The Archbishop however betrayed him and had Ugolino and four of his sons and grandsons (his sons were Gaddo, and Uguccione, his grandsons Nino, called Brigata, and Anselmuccio or ‘little Anselm’) imprisoned in the Torre dei Gualandi in July 1288. When Guido da Montefeltro took command of the Pisan forces, in March 1289, the keys were thrown into the river Arno and the prisoners left to starve to death, even a priest being denied them. The tower was known afterwards as the Torre della Fame, the Tower of Famine. Ugolino had previously acquired a reputation by the surrender of certain castles to the Florentine and Lucchese after the defeat of the Pisans by the Genoese at Meloria in 1284. (The islands of Caprara and Gorgona mentioned, north-west of Elba, and south-west of Livorno respectively, were held by Pisa at the time.)
    Inferno Canto XXXIII:1-90. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Gherardo da Camino

    See Camino.

    Ghino da Tacco

    Benicasa da Laterina, judge to the Podestà of Siena condemned a relative of Ghin di Tacco, a highwayman, to death, and Ghino took his revenge by murdering him while he was sitting as a magistrate in Rome.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. He is mentioned.

    Ghisola, da Fontana, née de’ Caccianimico

    Inferno Canto XVIII:40-66. Her father Alberto was head of the Bolognese Guelphs. Her brother Venedico was a leading Guelph, exiled in 1289, and a follower of Marquis Obizzo II d’Este of Ferrara. He assisted the Marquis in her seduction. She later married Niccolò de Fontana of Ferrara, in 1270.

    Gianfigliazzi

    Inferno Canto XVII:31-78. The Florentine Gianfigliazzi family belonged to the Black Guelphs. Their arms were ‘a lion azure on field or’.

    Gideon

    The son of Joash, instructed by the angel to save Israel from the Midianites. He selected men to fight based on how they drank water at the pool of Harod: rejecting those who drank ‘as a dog lappeth’ or on their knees, selecting the three hundred who put hand to mouth. Dante regards the example of the former drinkers’ greed as a sin, since it later leads Israel astray. See Judges vii 1-7 and 24-33.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:100-154. The incident is mentioned.

    Giotto

    Giotto di Bondone (1266-1337) painter, sculptor and architect. Found by Cimabue, according to the legend, as a shepherd boy, drawing on stones. He liberated Florentine painting from Byzantine stasis. Both painters are said to have been friends of Dante’s, and the Bargello portrait of Dante is attributed to Giotto.
    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117. He surpassed his master Cimabue.

    Giovanna, mother of Saint Dominic, seeJoanna

    Giovanna Guzman, mother of Dominic, whose name was interpreted to mean ‘grace of the Lord’, who dreamed she was about to give birth to a whelp with a blazing brand in its mouth which would light the world.
    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105. She is mentioned.

    Giovanna, wife of Buonconte da Montefeltro

    Her family name is not known.
    Purgatorio Canto V:85-129. She is mentioned by Buonconte.

    Giovanna Visconti da Camino

    The daughter of Nino de’ Visconti, and Beatrice d’Este. She married Riccardo da Cammino.
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:46-84. She is mentioned.

    Giraut de Borneil

    Giraut de Bornelh of Limoges (c1170-c1220), the Provençal poet,‘master of the troubadours’ as his contemporaries called him.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:112-148. He is alluded to.

    Giuda

    An ancient Florentine family.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Giuochi

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Glaucus

    A fisherman of Anthedon in Boeotia, who was changed into a sea-god after eating magic grass. He fell in love with Scylla, and was loved by Circe. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VII 233.
    Paradiso Canto I:37-72. He is mentioned.

    Godfrey of Bouillon

    Duke of Lorraine. A descendant of Charlemagne who led the First Crusade which captured Jerusalem in 1099. (Friday July 15th: He was the first Crusader to drop down from the wall into the city, close by Herod’s Gate) The capture was followed by indiscriminate massacre of the inhabitants, ‘the knights riding up to their knees in blood, in the Haram enclosure, where the Mahomedans sought refuge’. He ruled there, as king, until his death of illness the following year, but refused the royal crown and title. He was buried in the Holy Sepulchre where his tomb (and sword) survived until the great fire of 1808. Despite the massacre, he was remembered as the best and wisest of the Christian leaders.
    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He is in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    Gomita, Friar

    A Sardinian friar, chancellor of Nino Visconti of Pisa, judge of Gallura, one of the four jurisdictions of Sardinia (Cagliari, Logodoro, Gallura, and Arborea) which belonged at the time to Pisa. He took bribes to release prisoners etc. Visconti hanged him.
    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96. He is in the eighth circle.

    Graffiacane, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75. He hauls Ciampolo out of the boiling pitch.

    Gratianus, Franciscus

    Gratian (fl. c. 1150), an Italian Benedictine monk, brought ecclesiastical and civil law into harmony with each other. His Decretum was the first systematic treatise on Canon Law.
    Paradiso Canto X:100-129. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Greci

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Gregory the Great, Saint and Pope

    Pope Gregory I, the Great (?540-604), the first monastic Pope, who called himself Servus Servorum Dei, the servant of God’s servants. He was the founder of the worldly power of the Papacy in Italy. He was one of the four Latin (western) Fathers of the Church, with Ambrose, Augustine and Jerome. He established the form of the Roman liturgy and its music (Gregorian Chant). He instituted the rule of celibacy for the clergy.
    Purgatorio Canto X:73-96. He interceded through prayer to obtain the deliverance of Trajan from Hell, because of this act of clemency and justice to the widow, so that Trajan might have a respite for repentance.

    Paradiso Canto XX:73-148. The prayers were predestined to save Trajan, since prayers for the truly damned have no effect, according to Aquinas and to Gregory himself.

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:94-139. He gave a different account of the Angelic Hierarchies to that of Dionysius the Areopagite.

    Griffolino of Arezzo

    He obtained money from Albero of Siena by pretending he could teach him how to fly. On discovering the deceit, Albero induced the Bishop of Siena to have Griffolino burned as an Alchemist.
    Inferno Canto XXIX:73-99. He is in the tenth chasm.

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. He names the spirits for Dante.

    Gualandi, Ghibellines of Pisa

    See Ugolino.

    Gualdrada de’ Ravignani

    The virtuous and lovely daughter of Bellincion Berti was the ancestress of the Conti Guidi, the great feudal nobles of the Casentino. She married Guido Guerra IV at the instigation, it was said, of Emperor Otto IV. The Guido Guerra, one of many of that name, mentioned here was the son of her fourth son, Marcovaldo of Dovadola.
    Inferno Canto XVI:1-45. The mother of Guido Guerra.

    Gualterotti

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Guenever

    The wife of King Arthur of Britain, who in the Arthurian Legends conceived an illicit love for Sir Lancelot, which led, fatally, to the dissolution of the Round Table and the death of Arthur. See Malory’s Morte D’Arthur.
    Inferno Canto V:70-142. Reading about their love corrupts Paolo and Francesca.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45. Her first words to Lancelot in public are referred to.

    Guido, Conte

    Guido, Alessandro, and Aghinolfo the Conti Guidi of Romena, induced Master Adam of Brescia to counterfeit the Florentine gold florin, stamped with the figure of St John the Baptist. He was burnt to death for the crime in 1281, on the Consuma, the pass that leads out of the Casentino towards Florence. The Conti Guidi escaped punishment. Conte Giudo was dead by 1300, but the other two were still alive. Fonte Branda, the spring, is not the more famous one near Siena, but a lesser one near the castle of Romena, near where Adamo died.
    Inferno Canto XXX:49-90. Adamo is in the tenth chasm.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. The family was descended from the Ravignani through Bellincion Berti’s daughter Gualdrada.

    Guido Guerra

    The grandson of Gualdrada, a leading Guelf in Tuscany from 1250 to 1266, appointed Vicar of Tuscany by Charles of Anjou. He died in 1272. He played a distinguished part at Benevento in 1265, where Manfred died, and before the disaster at Montaperti in 1260, when the Guelfs went down to defeat, he was one of the nobles who had voted with Tegghiaio Aldebrandi against the expedition, knowing the Sienese had been reinforced with German mercenaries.
    Inferno Canto XVI:1-45. He is in the seventh circle for sodomy.

    Guido of Romena

    See Conte Guido

    Guinicelli (or Guinizelli), Guido

    The poet (c1235-1276), who was valued highly by Dante and his companions, as ‘their’ philosopher. He was a member of the Ghibelline Principi family of Bologna, and was Podestà of Castefranco in 1270 and exiled in 1274 with the Lambertazzi. He began as an imitator of the later style of Guittone d’Arezzo. His best work, including the canzone of the Gentle Heart (‘Al cor gentil ripara sempre Amore: Love always shelters in the gentle heart, as birds do in the green shade of the trees. No love in nature before the gentle heart, nor the gentle heart before love.’), inspired the Florentine School of the dolce stil nuovo.
    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117. Dante expresses the view that he has been surpassed, by the poetic school of Guido Cavalcanti. (Who wrote the famous ballatetta: ‘Because I do not hope to turn again’, ‘Perch’i’ no spero di tornar giammai’)

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:67-111. He is among the lustful.

    Guiscard, Robert

    The founder (d 1085) of the Norman dynasty in southern Italy and Sicily. The Son of Tancred de Hauteville.
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:1-21. He waged war in Sicily and Southern Italy from 1059 to 1080, against the Greeks and Saracens. He won the title Duke of Apulia from Pope Nicholas II in 1059, and died in 1085 having rescued Gregory VII, and sacked Rome in the previous year.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He is in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    Guittone d’Arezzo, Fra

    Jacopo da Lentino ( il Notaio, the Notary), Guittone del Viva known as Fra Guittone, of Arezzo (1230-1294: one of the Frati Gaudenti) in his first poetic period, and Bonagiunta were prominent members of the Sicilian school of Poetry, continued in Central Italy, based on Provençal traditions. Their style lacked the spontaneity and sweetness of the dolce stil nuovo developed by Guido Guinicelli of Bologna, Guido Cavalcanti and Dante.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:34-99. He is mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:112-148. Dante considers him to have been over-praised, and now superseded.

    Haman

    Ahasuerus, the Persian King, enriched Haman, until he was accused by Esther of intending to take the life of Mordecai. Haman was executed in Mordecai’s place. See Esther iii-viii.
    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39. He is mentioned.

    Hannibal

    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. The eldest son of Hamilcar, who became the commander-in-chief of the Carthaginian fight against Rome in the Punic wars. He crossed the Pyrenees and defeated the Romans at Cannae in 216 BC, but was defeated in turn by Scipio at Zama in 202BC. He ultimately committed suicide in 183 BC.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Hakon V, King of Norway

    King of Norway (1299-1319)
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Harpies

    Virgil’s Aeneid III 209-267 describes how the Harpies, monstrous birds with the faces of girls, fouled the Trojans banquet on the Strophades Islands (The clashing islands) in the Ionian Sea, and drove off Aeneas and his companions. Celaeno (infelix vates), the Harpies’s leader, prophesies that the Trojans will reach Italy but only after being reduced to starvation.
    Inferno Canto XIII:1-30. They nest in the wood of suicides.

    Inferno Canto XIII:79-108. They feed on the leaves of the trees, giving pain to the spirits imprisoned in them.

    Hector

    The Trojan prince, son of Priam and Hecabe (Hecuba), a hero of the Iliad, who was killed by Achilles in revenge for the death of Patroclus.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. He is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. His grave is mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Hecuba

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. The wife of Priam King of Troy. At the fall of Troy she witnessed the death of her daughter Polyxena, sacrificed at the tomb of Achilles, and found the body of her son Polydorus, done to death by Polymestor, her son-in-law. She went mad and became a dog, Maera, barking on the shore. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIII 423 et seq.

    Helen of Troy

    The wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta, daughter of Zeus by Lede. Her abduction by Paris initiated the Trojan War. She spent nineteen years in Troy and, after the ten-year war and the city’s destruction, she went to Egypt with Menelaus. ( according to Homer, see the Iliad XXIV and Odyssey IV)
    Inferno Canto V:52-72. She is a carnal sinner in Limbo.

    Helice, see Callisto

    Heliodorus

    The treasurer of King Seleucus, who went to the Temple to remove its treasure, and was met by a rider on a horse, which struck at him with its hooves. See Second Maccabees iii 25.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Helios

    The Sun-god, the son of Euryphessa or Theia, and the Titan Hyperion. Identical for Dante with Apollo-Christ.
    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The Sun.

    Henry VI, Emperor

    Paradiso Canto III:97-130. The son of Frederick Barbarossa. He married Constance, the daughter of Roger II in 1186 and inherited the Norman kingdom in 1194. He was Emperor from 1190 to 1197, and crowned, by Pope Celestine in 1191, during his first Italian campaign. He united Germany and Sicily after his second Italian campaign in 1194-5, ‘unio regni ad imperium’ but died at the age of 32. Constance assumed the regency for Frederick II, their son.
    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. Supported in his Italian expedition, but afterwards secretly opposed by Pope Clement V.

    Henry VII, Emperor

    Henry of Luxembourg, the Emperor Henry VII (1308-1313). Of insignificant wealth and background he hoped to establish his prestige by his coronation in Rome (1312), and revival of the Imperial claims south of the Alps. Pope Clement V attempted to use him to further his own ambitions. Henry was in Italy between 1310 and 1313, and was hailed by Dante as the Liberator. He reached Milan in December 1310, but failed as honest broker to reconcile the Guelph and Ghibelline factions. He was driven into leadership of the Ghibelline party and aligned himself with Federico III of Sicily. Clement then swung back to the Guelphs, and repudiated the alliance. Henry died at Buonconvento of disease in 1313, as he was marching on Florence and planning a campaign against Naples, ending the dreams of Dante and the Florentine exiles.
    Paradiso Canto XXX:97-148. A throne is reserved for him in Heaven.

    Henry II of England

    Henry II (reigned 1154-89) held England, Normandy, Brittany, Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and Aquitaine. Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, was murdered in 1170, with Henry’s tacit consent, and Henry did penance at the grave in 1174. He oversaw the development of the royal courts and the common law, and initiated the conquest of Ireland. He refused to grant the sovereignty of England or Normandy to his son, and the resulting strife lasted until the ‘Young King’s’, Henry Plantagenet’s, death in 1183. (See Ezra Pound’s translation of the lament ‘Planh for the Young English King’ in Personae)
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:112-142. He is mentioned, in connection with Bertrand de Born, who fomented the strife with his son.

    Henry III of England

    King of England (1226-1272). The pious father of the warlike Edward I (1272-1307). His wife Eleanor of Provence was a daughter of Raymond Berenger and sister of Beatrice.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is one of the negligent rulers.

    Henry I, King of Navarre

    Henry the Fat (1270-1274), brother of Thibaut II. His daughter Joan married Philip IV, the Fair.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is one of the negligent rulers

    Henry II of Lusignan, King of Cyprus

    King of Cyprus (died 1324), whose bad rule Dante cites as a warning to Joanna wife of Philip the Fair, concerning her separate kingdom of Navarre.
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Henry, ‘The Young King’

    Prince Henry Plantagenet, the elder brother to Richard Coeur de Lion, and named the ‘Young King’, the son of Henry II of England, and twice crowned in his father’s lifetime. Henry II refused to grant the sovereignty of England or Normandy to his son, and the resulting strife lasted until the Young King’s death in 1183. (See Ezra Pound’s translation of the lament ‘Planh for the Young English King’ in Personae)
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:112-142. He is mentioned, in connection with Bertrand de Born, who fomented the strife.

    Henry, son of Richard of Cornwall

    See Guy de Montfort.

    Heraclitus

    The pre-Socratic Greek philosopher, an Ephesian nobleman who flourished about the 69th Olympiad 504-501BC, according to Diogenes. His gnomic and pithy style contains ideas of the flux of existence, the instability of sensation and experience. His key concept is of unity in diversity and diversity in unity, a theme that Dante often plays with. The One exists as a tension of opposites, in the Many, Identity in Difference.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Hercules

    The mythical Greek hero of Thebes, son of Jupiter, and Alcmena. He was driven to perform Twelve Labours, at Juno’s instigation. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IX et al. Called Alcides, as a descendant of Alceus, through his mother Amphitryon. Hercules is seen by Dante as a protector of ancient Rome, deriving this from Aeneid VIII 108 et al, where Hercules saves Evander and his people from Cacus. References to Hercules’s enemies are therefore references to enemies of Rome.
    Inferno Canto XXV:1-33. He stole the cattle of King Geryon (the Tenth Labour), and battered Cacus to death for stealing some of them in turn. See Virgil Aeneid VIII.

    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142. His pillars, at the entrance to the Mediterranean, were, in ancient times, the limits of the western world (namely Mount Abyla in North Africa, near Ceuta, and Mount Calpe, Gibraltar, well south-east of Seville).

    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. He lifted the Giant Antaeus from the ground, and crushed him. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IX 184.

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. He loved Iole, daughter of Eurytus, King of Oechalia whom he had captured. That love caused the jealousy of Deianira, his wife, who sent him, unknowingly, the fatal shirt of Nessus the Centaur, which caused his death. Nessus had been killed by Hercules after trying to carry off and rape Deianira, and steeped the shirt in his own blood, containing the poison of the Hydra from the wound caused by Hercules’s poisoned arrow, telling Deianira the shirt was a love charm to win back Hercules’s affections. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IX 13 et seq.

    Hezekiah

    The King of Judah, whose life was extended by the Lord, for the sake of his past sincerity and virtue. The word of God came to him through the mouth and actions of Isaiah. See Second Kings xx.
    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72. He is in the sixth sphere of Jupiter. Aquinas taught that God’s decrees are consistent with prayer, because prayer does not alter the Divine plan, but fulfils what God ordained to be fulfilled by prayer.

    Hippocrates

    The Greek physician of Cos, c460-360 BC, and founder of the medical school there. He initiated an experimental method which discarded teleology. He identified the healing properties of plants. He articulated the principle of vis medicatrix naturae, that nature is the best healer, and that the wise physician only tries to remove the obstacles in her path.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. St Luke in the Divine Pageant is of his school, but a spiritual physician.

    Hippolytus

    The son of Theseus, and the Amazon Hippolyte, whom Phaedra his stepmother fell in love with. Repulsed, she lied about the situation and accused him to his father, indirectly bringing him to his death.
    See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XV 492 et seq.

    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. A victim of lies.

    Holofernes

    One of Nebuchadnezzar’s captains, who besieged Bethulia. Judith, the Jewish widow, gained access to his tent and cut off his head, which was displayed on the walls of Jerusalem, at which the Assyrians fled, pursued by the Jews. See Judith x-xiv.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Homer

    The author of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the great epic poems of Ancient Greece, telling the story of the Trojan War and Ulysses’s (Odysseus’s) wanderings and return.
    Inferno Canto IV:64-105. He leads the great Classical poets in Limbo.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is mentioned.

    Honorius III, Pope

    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He re-confirmed the Franciscan Order in 1223.
    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105. He sanctioned the Dominican Order in 1216.

    Horace, Flaccus

    Quintus Horatius Flaccus, the Roman poet, 65-8BC, who wrote odes and epodes in various metres derived from the Greek poets; satires; and epistles. He was on the losing side at Philippi but won the patronage of Maecenas from whom he received his beloved Sabine farm. He is the type of a moralist, rather than satirist, for Dante.
    Inferno Canto IV:64-105. He is among the great poets in Limbo.

    Hugh of St Victor

    Hugo (c1097-1141), one of the great mystics of the Abbey of Saint Victor at Paris. It was the centre of the conservative learning as opposed to the scholastic Aristotelian learning of the progressives. He was the master of Peter the Lombard and Richard of Saint Victor.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Hyperion

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The Titan of the Sun, father of Helios.

    Hypsipyle

    Inferno Canto XVIII:67-99. The daughter of King Thoas of Lemnos, who saved him when the women of the island killed their menfolk. She was loved and abandoned by Jason. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIII 399.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. She is in Limbo. One of the people celebrated by Statius in his epic poetry. She was sold into slavery by the women of Lemnos, and acted as nurse to Lycurgus of Nemea’s son Archemorus (Opheltes). She showed the Seven Champions against Thebes the pool of Langia, and in her absence a serpent killed the child. Lycurgus would have killed her, but she was rescued by her sons.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:67-111. Her children’s joy at seeing her again is mentioned. See Statius’s Thebaid iv and v.

    Iarbas

    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:70-90. The Libyan king, one of Dido’s suitors, hence Iarbas’s land is Libya, and the winds that blow from there are the southerly winds off the African Coast.

    Icarus

    Inferno Canto XVII:79-136. The son of Daedalus, who made waxen wings in order for them to escape from Crete. Flying too near the sun Icarus’s wings melted and he fell into the sea. He was buried on the island of Icaria, and the Icarian Sea and the island, were named after him. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VIII 195.

    Illuminato, Friar

    Bishop of Assisi in 1282. He had joined the Order in 1210 and accompanied Francis in his mission to the Soldan.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Importuni

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Infangato

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Innocent III, Pope

    Pope from 1198 to 1216, he called himself Christ’s Vicar, from whom worldly rulers received their kingdoms as fiefs. He operated an interventionist policy. Power was centralised through the Papal legates. He became the guardian of Frederick II after Constance’s death. After the murder of the Papal legate Peter of Castelnau, he initiated the vicious Albigensian Crusade against Provençal heretics.
    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He confirmed the Franciscan Order in 1210.

    Ino

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. Juno was angered because of Jupiter’s adultery with Semele, whom she punished, and took vengeance on the house of Cadmus of Thebes, her father. She pursued Ino, Semele’s sister, by driving her husband Athamas mad. He killed their son Learchus, and drove Ino to throw herself over a cliff, with their son Melicertes. Ino and Melicertes became sea-gods, namely Leucothea, the White Goddess, and Palaemon. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 261 and IV 519.

    Interminei, Alessio degli

    A member of a prominent family of Luccan Whites, alive in the year 1295.
    Inferno Canto XVIII:100-136. He is in Hell for flattery.

    Iole

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. Iole, daughter of Eurytus, King of Oechalia, was loved by Hercules who had captured her. The love caused the jealousy of Deianira, his wife, who sent him, unknowingly, the fatal shirt of Nessus the Centaur, that caused his death. Nessus had been killed by Hercules after trying to carry off and rape Deianira, and steeped the shirt in his blood, containing the poison of the Hydra from the wound caused by Hercules’s poisoned arrow, telling Deianira the shirt was a love charm to win back Hercules’s affections. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IX 13 et seq.

    Iphigenia

    The daughter of Agamemnon King of Mycenae, and Clytemnestra, and the sister of Electra and Orestes. She was sacrificed, at Aulis, by her father, to gain favourable winds, for the Greek expedition to Troy. Diana substituted a hind for her, and carried her to Tauris, as her priestess. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XII 28 and 184, and Aeschylus’s Oresteian Trilogy.
    Paradiso Canto V:1-84. She is mentioned, as the victim of her father’s rash vow.

    Iris

    The goddess of the rainbow, the daughter of Thaumas and Electra, Juno’s messenger. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IV 480 etc.
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:34-75. She is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36. The phenomenon of the double rainbow is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:49-145. The double rainbow is again used.

    Isaiah

    The prophet (one of the four great prophets of the Old Testament with Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel).
    Paradiso Canto XXV:64-96. Dante refers to Isaiah lxi 7,10 where the prophecy that the redeemed shall possess double things implies joy of the body as well as joy of the soul.

    Isidore of Seville, Saint

    Isidore (c560-636) is the author of the Cyclopaedia, the main Medieval Encylopedia.
    Paradiso Canto X:130-148. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Ismene

    The daughter of Oedipus, by Jocasta, and sister of Eteocles and Polynices. See Sophocles’s Theban Trilogy.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. She is in Limbo. One of the people celebrated by Statius in his epic poetry.

    Jacob

    The son of Isaac, the son of Abraham. He is called Israel, after wrestling with the Lord at Peniel where he saw God ‘face to face’, see the Bible Genesis xxxii. His wife is Rachel. His brother Esau, whom he followed from the womb, clutching Esau’s heel as a sign that he would supplant him, sold Jacob his birthright for ‘a mess of pottage’, and Jacob by guile robbed Esau the elder of his father Isaac’s blessing. Jacob is the type of the settler, Esau of the hunter. See Genesis xxv and xxvii. Their rivalry was used as an analogy for Church and Synagogue.
    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. Christ takes his spirit from Limbo into Paradise.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. The brothers as contrasting types.

    Paradiso Canto XXI:52-142. Paradiso Canto XXII:1-99. Jacob’s vision of the ladder is echoed by Dante’s vision. See Genesis xxviii 11-12.

    James, Saint

    The disciple of Christ. James the Greater, son of Zebedee, a fisherman of Galilee, and the brother of John the Evangelist. He was tried in Jerusalem in 44 AD by Herod Agrippa and executed. His supposed tomb at Santiago de Compostella in Galicia, discovered in the 9th century, became a place of worship, by the 11th century, next in importance to Jerusalem and Rome, and he became the patron saint of Spain.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. He appears in the Divine Pageant.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. He was present at the Transfiguration, see Matthew xviii 1-8 when Christ shone like the sun in white raiment, and Moses and Elias appeared talking with him, and after they were overcome Christ said ‘Arise, and be not afraid’. Christ is the apple-tree, in accord with the Song of Solomon ii 3, ‘As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons.’

    Paradiso Canto XXV:1-63. He appears to Dante in the Stellar Heaven. Dante ascribes to him the authorship of the Epistle more usually attributed to the apostle James the Less, the ‘brother of the Lord’, which talks of God giving liberally in i 5. He was of the group with Peter and John whom Christ allowed nearer his presence, at the Transfiguration, the raising of the daughter of Jairus, and the Agony at Gethsemane.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:64-96. Dante refers to James i 12.

    James, King of the Balearic Islands

    King of the Balearic Islands (1276-1311), brother of Peter III of Aragon and therefore uncle of Frederick II King of Sicily.
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    James II, King of Aragon

    King of Sicily(1285-1296), and King of Aragon(1291-1327) and therefore alive at the time of the Vision. The elder brother of Frederick II of Sicily.
    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145. The son of Peter (Pere) III of Aragon, and Constanza, daughter of Manfred.

    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. Dante regards him as inferior to his father.

    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Jason, the Argonaut

    The son of Aeson, who was sent by his uncle Pelias, from Iolchos in Thessaly, to bring back the Golden Fleece from Colchis. He sailed the Argo, the first ship, with the Argonauts, the Greek heroes. Medea the witch, the king’s daughter, fell in love with him, and helped him, but he abandoned her for Creusa. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VII and VIII. He also abandoned Hypsipyle, the daughter of King Thoas of Lemnos, whom she had saved when the women of the island killed the male inhabitants. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIII 399.
    Inferno Canto XVIII:67-99. He is in the eighth circle, first chasm.

    Paradiso Canto II:1-45. To wing the Golden Fleece he had to yoke the bronze-footed fire-breathing bulls, plough the field of Ares, and sow the serpent’s teeth. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VII 1 et seq.

    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:49-145. The voyage of the Argo is mentioned. Dante dates it to 1200BC.

    Jason, the high-priest

    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87. The brother of Onias. He induced Antiochus IV ruler of the Seleucid Empire (reigned 175-164 BC), whose self-conferred title was ‘Theos Epiphanes’, ‘the evident God’, and who was the brother of Seleucus IV whom he succeeded, to make him high-priest through bribery, and allow the introduction of pagan customs. See 2 Maccabees iv 7.

    Jephthah

    Paradiso Canto V:1-84. The Gileadite who sacrificed his daughter, after vowing to offer whatever came out of his gates to meet him, when he returned from fighting the children of Ammon.
    See Judges xi.

    Jerome, Saint

    Eusebius Hieronymous Sophronius (342-420), born at Stridon in Dalmatia. With Ambrose, Augustine and Gregory he is one of the four Latin (western) Fathers of the Church. He retired into the Syrian desert for four years where he studied Hebrew. He settled in Bethlehem in 386. His translation of the Bible, the Vulgate, into Latin was eventually declared the official version, by the Council of Trent.
    Paradiso Canto XXIX:1-66. He spoke of the Angels being created long before the rest of the universe, which was contradicted by Aquinas.

    Joachim of Flora

    Of Fiore, in Calabria (c1130-1202), a Cistercian monk, who founded a monastery there. He claimed to have the power to interpret the prophetic books of the Bible with special reference to the History of the Church. A new dispensation (of the Holy Spirit, after the Father’s, and the Son’s), the third epoch, was at hand, he said, of perfect love and spiritual freedom. This was known as the Eternal Gospel. The spiritual party among the Franciscans seized on it, and Fra Gherardo da Borgo San Donnino (Gerardua) wrote an Introduction to the Eternal Gospel which was condemned as heresy in 1256. Bonaventura helped to suppress these Joachists.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Joanna, mother of Saint Dominic

    See Giovanna.

    Jocasta

    The wife of Laius King of Thebes. The mother, and, unintentionally, wife of Oedipus, King of Thebes, who killed his father. Her children Eteocles and Polynices fought over the kingship in the War of the Seven against Thebes, the subject of Statius’s Thebaid.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93. She is mentioned.

    John the Baptist, Saint

    The desert prophet who baptised Christ. See the Gospel of St Luke 3.
    Inferno Canto XIII:130-151. The Florentines adopted St John the Baptist as their patron, displacing the Roman Mars, whose statue had stood on the site of the Baptistery. The statue was then set up by the Arno. When Florence was destroyed by the Goths (Attila is confused with Totila the Goth leader), according to legend, the statue fell into the Arno. Florence could not be rebuilt, it was believed, until the statue had been reinstated, and it was rescued and set on a pillar on the Ponte Vecchio when the city was restored, according to legend again, by Charlemagne. It remained there till the great flood of 1333 carried away the bridge and statue. The rejection of Mars was believed by Florentines to be at the root of the endless factional conflict in their city.

    Inferno Canto XXX:49-90. Master Adam of Brescia counterfeited the Florentine gold florin, stamped with the figure of St John.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:115-154. He ate locusts and honey in order to survive in the desert. See Matthew iii 4, Mark i 6. For his greatness see Matthew xi 11 and Luke vii 28.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. He exists with God in the Empyrean.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45. Patron Saint of Florence.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:100-136. He was figured on one side of the Florentine gold florin. His beheading, to fulfil Salome’s request to Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Galilee, son of Herod the Great, (engineered by her mother Herodias) is mentioned. See Mark vi 21-28.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. His seat in Heaven and the ranks below him indicate one half of the Rose, where those who acquired faith after Christ’s coming are seated. He corresponds to the Virgin, beneath whom rank those with faith in the Christ to come.

    John the Apostle, Saint

    The disciple of Christ, son of Zebedee, and brother of James. Presumed author of the Fourth Gospel and, by tradition, of the Apocalypse, and therefore identified with John the Divine. His emblem in art is an eagle. (See Revelation iv 7. The four beasts are identified with Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, the fourth beast being a flying eagle.)
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. He appears in the Divine Pageant.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. He was present at the Transfiguration, see Matthew xviii 1-8 when Christ shone like the sun in white raiment, and Moses and Elias appeared talking with him, and after they were overcome Christ said ‘Arise, and be not afraid’. Christ is the apple-tree, in accord with the Song of Solomon ii 3, ‘As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons.’

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. He exists with God in the Empyrean.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:97-139. At the Last Supper he was ‘leaning on Jesus’s bosom’. See John xiii 23. Christ, on the cross, committed Mary to his charge. See John xix 26-27.

    John the Divine, Saint

    The author of the Book of Revelation. Exiled by Domitian to the Aegean island of Patmos, and traditionally identified with John the Evangelist, the Apostle.
    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133. Dante refers to the vision of the Great Whore, in Revelation xvii. The seven heads are interpreted as the seven virtues or sacraments, and the ten heads as the Ten Commandments, kept as long as the Popes were virtuous.

    Purgatorio CantoXXIX:82-105. Dante uses his imagery for the Divine Pageant.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. He appears in the Divine Pageant.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:64-96. Dante refers to Revelation vii 9 where the redeemed are robed in white, and Dante links this to Isaiah’s statement that they shall possess double things implying joy of the body as well as joy of the soul.

    Paradiso Canto XXVI:1-69. Revelation i 8. ‘I am Alpha and Omega the beginning and the ending.’

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:115-151. He sits to the right of Peter in Heaven.

    John XXI, Pope, Peter of Spain

    Petrus Hispanus who succeeded Adrian V for a few months, and was killed in 1277, by the fall of the Papal Palace at Viterbo. He wrote a much-used treatise on Logic in twelve books. The well-known Memoria Technica verses Barbara Celarent etc are derived from it.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    John XXII, Pope

    John XXII, Pope (1316-1334) A native of Cahors.
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. Indirectly referred to.

    Joseph

    The son of Jacob, his best-beloved, the son of his old age. His brothers cast him into a pit, stripping him of his coat of many colours, and sold him to the Ishmaelites, who took him to Egypt. There he became an overseer in Potiphar’s household, whose wife tried to seduce him. He refused, and she perjured herself, blaming him, and causing him to be imprisoned. See Genesis xxix.
    Inferno Canto XXX:91-129. Potiphar’s wife is in the tenth chasm.

    Joshua

    The son of Nun, Moses’s minister, and successor, who crossed the Jordan and led the Israelites in taking the Promised Land.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. Rahab aided his spies, allowing Jericho to be taken.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He is in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    Juba

    King Juba of Numidia who sided with Pompey against Caesar and was defeated. He was compelled to commit suicide in 46BC.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Judas Iscariot

    The Disciple of Christ who betrayed him for thirty pieces of silver. See Matthew xxvi 14 and 47, Mark xiv 43, Luke xxii 21, and xxii 47, John xviii 2. He afterwards repented, threw the thirty pieces of silver in front of the chief priests and elders, and then hung himself. See Matthew xxvii 3. The thirty pieces of silver bought the potter’s field, called the field of blood, to bury strangers in. See Matthew xxvii 7-10.
    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133. He forfeited his place among the Disciples, and was replaced by Matthias.

    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. The poets are set down in the Ninth Circle that swallowed him.

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:55-69. He is tormented in one of Satan’s mouths.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. A byword for treachery.

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:76-136. He who sold Christ.

    Jude

    The brother of James. Author of the General Epistle of Jude.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. He appears in the Divine Pageant

    Judith

    The Jewish patriotic heroine and a symbol of The Jewish struggle against oppression She is usually shown holding the head of Holofernes the Assyrian general whom she decapitated with a sword. See Apocrypha.
    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. She is seated in Heaven, below the Virgin.

    Julia

    There are many Julias in the Imperial Roman families. Here it is Julius Caesar’s daughter by Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna, that is meant. She married Pompey. She is mentioned as a type of the noble Roman woman.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. She is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Julius Caesar

    Gaius Julius Caesar, Roman General, Consul and Dictator from 49 to 44 BC when he was assassinated by Brutus, Cassius and the other conspirators. He married Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna, and had a daughter Julia.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. He is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:91-111. Advised by Curio, according to Lucan (see Pharsalia i. 281) Caesar crossed the Rubicon (‘iacta alea est – the die is cast’) near Rimini and declared war by that act against the Republic in 49BC. The Rubicon was at that time the boundary between Italy and Cisalpine Gaul.

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:76-111. He delegated the siege of Marseilles to Brutus in 49BC to attack Pompey’s lieutenants Afranius and Petreius at Lerida (Ilerda) in Catalonia.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:67-111. Suetonius (Caesar 49) says that Caesar was accused of being King Nicomedes’s bedfellow, (Nicomedes was King of Bithynia), and that his soldiers chanted ribald songs about his predilections during his Gallic Triumph.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. His campaigns and assassination mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. His fleet won a victory over the Pompeians near Marseilles in 49BC.

    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45. He was, according to legend, addressed in the plural as voi instead of tu when he achieved pre-eminence. A Roman custom, disused there in Dante’s time.

    Juno

    The divine daughter of Saturn and Rhea, who married her brother Jupiter. The Queen of the Gods. She is the Roman equivalent of Hera, as he is of Zeus.
    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. Juno was angered because of Jupiter’s adultery with Semele, whom she punished, and took vengeance on the house of Cadmus of Thebes, her father. She pursued Ino, Semele’s sister by driving her husband Athamas mad. He killed their son Learchus, and drove Ino to throw herself over a cliff, with their son Melicertes. Ino and Melicertes became sea-gods, namely Leucothea, the White Goddess, and Palaemon. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 261 and IV 519.

    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36. Iris, the rainbow, is her messenger.

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:1-57. The rainbow.

    Jupiter

    The divine son of Saturn and Rhea, born in Crete and watched over in his infancy by the priests of Ida. With his brothers Neptune and Pluto he dethroned Saturn, and ruled the Heavens, Neptune winning the oceans, and Pluto the underworld. His wife was Juno.
    Inferno Canto XIV:43-72. The Giants made war on the gods, and were overthrown by Jupiter’s lightning bolts and buried under Sicily. Vulcan the son of Juno was the god of fire and the blacksmith of the gods, who with the Cyclopes forged Jupiter’s lightning bolt in the fires of Mount Aetna on Sicily. He struck Capaneus, an Argive chief, with lightning in the war of the seven against Thebes, for scaling the wall (an allegory of pride).

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. Juno was angered because of Jupiter’s adultery with Semele, whom she punished, and took vengeance on the house of Cadmus of Thebes, her father. She pursued Ino, Semele’s sister by driving her husband Athamas mad. He killed their son Learchus, and drove Ino to throw herself over a cliff, with their son Melicertes. Ino and Melicertes became sea-gods, namely Leucothea, the White Goddess, and Palaemon. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 261 and IV 519.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:106-132. He destroyed Phaethon to save the Earth, a judgment questioned by Sol, Phaethon’s father.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:100-160. The Imperial eagle, the bird of power, is his symbol.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. The idea that He and other gods inhered in the planets named after them, led to the influence of the stars, and of Pagan Gods being confused, and both falsely worshipped (Paganism and Astrology).

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The son of Saturn and father of Mars, by Hera, regarded as temperate between Saturn’s cold, and Mars’s heat.

    Justinian, Emperor

    The Byzantine Emperor (527-565AD), husband of Theodora (d. 548) who ended the draining effects of the war with the Sassanid Persians, enabling him to concentrate on regaining the western Empire (N. Africa 535, Italy 553, Southern Spain 554) through his generals Belisarius and Narses. He codified the Roman Law (Corpus juris civilis). However Italy was lost to the Langobards in 568. Dante looks back to him as providing legal and imperial continuity with Ancient Rome.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. He expands on the History of the Empire. He manifests himself to Dante in the second sphere.

    Juvenal

    The Roman satirist (c60-140AD) who wrote during the reigns of the Emperors Trajan and Hadrian. He was a friend of Martial and a younger contemporary of Statius whom he praises in the seventh Satire v 82.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:1-24. He is in Limbo.

    Lachesis

    One of the Three Fates, the Moerae, whom Erebus and Night conceived, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos. Atropos is the smallest but the most terrible. Clotho spins the thread of life, Lachesis measures it out, and Atropos ‘she who cannot be avoided or turned’ shears it. At Delphi only two fates were worshipped of Birth and Death. Dante here has Lachesis as the spinner, and Clotho apparently as the measurer, or Clotho is both and the syntax is misleading.
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33. She is mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XXV:80-108. She is mentioned.

    Laërtes

    The father of Ulysses.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142. He is mentioned indirectly.

    Lambertazzi, Fabbro de’

    A Ghibelline of Bologna, and Podestà of several cities. His sons feuded with the Geremei after his death in 1259.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Lamberti, Mosca de’

    One of the initiators of the murder of Buondelmonte de’ Buondelmonti, who was betrothed to a daughter of the Amidei, but broke faith at the instigation of Gualdrada Donati. In the debate as to whether he should be killed Mosca said the evil word, ‘A thing done has an end.’ Buondelmonte was murdered, at the foot of the statue of Mars, on the Ponte Vecchio, in 1215. The family divisions created the Guelph and Ghibelline factional conflicts.
    Inferno Canto VI:64-93. Dante asks after him.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:91-111. He is in the ninth chasm of the eighth circle, as a sower of dissent.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. The family mentioned and their device of the golden balls.

    Lancelot

    The knight of the round table in the Arthurian legends who loves Queen Guinevere, Arthur’s consort, illicitly, and indirectly brings about the destruction of the Round table, and the death of Arthur.
    Inferno Canto V:70-142. Reading about his love corrupts Paolo and Francesca.

    Lanfranchi, Ghibellines of Pisa

    See Ugolino.

    Lano, see Maconi

    Latini, Brunetto

    A Florentine Guelf, Latini (ca1210-1294) politician and philosopher, was the author of a prose encyclopaedia Li Livres dou Trésor written in French (he was in exile in France in 1260 after Montaperti) and the Tesoretto, a popular didactic poem in Italian, containing similar matter, in the form of an allegorical journey, a kind of Pilgrim’s Progress, that clearly influenced Dante, opening with the poet lost in a wood of error. An ardent Guelf, he introduced the art of oratory and the study of political science into Florence. In the Tesoretto he speaks against the homosexuality that condemns him to Hell. He influenced and possibly taught Dante.
    Inferno Canto XV:1-42. He is in the seventh circle, last ring.

    Inferno Canto XV:43-78. He prophesies Dante’s fame, and the enmity of the Florentines against him, as one who tries to revive the ancient Roman order.

    Inferno Canto XV:100-124. He recommends his Trésor to Dante, and Dante compares his departure to one running the race at Verona, held on the first Sunday in Lent, for which the prize was a piece of green cloth, a mantle, or palio.

    Latinus

    King of Latium, and an ancestor of the Roman people through his daughter Lavinia the third wife of Aeneas.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. He is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Latona (Leto)

    The daughter of Coeus the Titan, and the mother by Jupiter, of Apollo and Artemis. She was refused a place on earth to rest by Juno, who was jealous, and found refuge, and bore the divine twins, on the floating island of Delos, in the Aegean, which Jupiter anchored so that she could give birth. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 160 et passim.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. She is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto X:64-99. Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The mother of the moon-goddess, Artemis-Diana.

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:1-66. The mother of the sun and moon.

    Laurence, Saint

    Paradiso Canto IV:64-114. The Christian martyr of Spanish birth who was roasted on a gridiron over a fire, in Rome, in 258AD. He was ordained deacon by Pope Sixtus II, and met his death shortly after the Pope’s own martyrdom. He was said to have displayed the poor and sick around him as ‘the treasures of the Church’ when those treasures were demanded of him. He was one of the patron saints of Florence, with John the Baptist.

    Lavinia

    The daughter of Latinus and third wife of Aeneas. She was betrothed to Turnus initially. She is an ancestress of the Roman people.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. She is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39. She laments the death of her mother Queen Amata, wife of King Latinus, who hanged herself through anger at the death of the hero Turnus, to whom Lavinia was originally betrothed, Lavinia being destined then to marry Aeneas. The fate of Lavinia was part of the reason for the Wars in Latium. See Aeneid xii 595.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. She is mentioned.

    Lazarus

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. His resurrection from the dead is alluded to, John xi, as is the raising of Jairus’s daughter, Luke viii 49. He was the brother of Martha and Mary.

    Leah

    The daughter of Laban, and sister of Rachel, whom Jacob was deceived into marrying, after he worked seven years to win Rachel. See Genesis xxix and xxx. She is the fertile sister, and the symbol of the active life. Her New Testament equivalent is Martha. See Luke x 38-42.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:94-114. She appears in Dante’s dream.

    Leander

    A young man of Sestos, separated from his lover Hero, at Abydos, by the straits of the Hellespont (Dardanelles). He swam across to her repeatedly, and was ultimately drowned. See Ovid’s Heroides xviii, xix, and Marlowe’s Hero and Leander.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:52-138. He is mentioned.

    Learchus

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. Juno was angered because of Jupiter’s adultery with Semele, whom she punished, and took vengeance on the house of Cadmus of Thebes, her father. She pursued Ino, Semele’s sister, by driving her husband Athamas mad. He killed their son Learchus, and drove Ino to throw herself over a cliff, with their son Melicertes. Ino and Melicertes became sea-gods, namely Leucothea, the White Goddess, and Palaemon. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 261 and IV 519.

    Leda

    The daughter of Thestius, and wife of the Spartan king Tyndareus, who was raped by Jupiter in the form a swan, and gave birth to the Gemini, the Twins Castor and Pollux. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 109.
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:97-148. She is mentioned.

    Lentino, Jacopo da

    Jacopo da Lentino ( il Notaio, the Notary), Guittone del Viva known as Fra Guittone, of Arezzo (1230-1294: one of the Frati Gaudenti) in his first poetic period, and Bonagiunta were prominent members of the Sicilian school of Poetry, continued in Central Italy, based on Provençal traditions. Their style lacked the spontaneity and sweetness of the dolce stil nuovo developed by Guido Guinicelli of Bologna, Guido Cavalcanti and Dante.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:34-99. He is mentioned.

    Levi, The Tribe of

    The Levites were the priestly tribe, among the ten tribes of Israelites, inhibited from inheriting from others, and given the tithe as an inheritance themselves, in order to dedicate themselves to spiritual matters. See Numbers xviii 20, Deuteronomy xviii 2, Joshua xiii 14.
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:97-145. They are mentioned.

    Libicocco

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75. He wants to torment Ciampolo.

    Linus

    The mythological poet, the brother of Orpheus, and son of King Oeagrus and the Muse Calliope (of epic poetry). Alternatively he was the son of Apollo and the Muse Urania (astronomy). He was killed by jealous Apollo. He composed poems honouring Dionysus and a Creation epic. He is said to have invented melody and rhythm. The lament for him was widespread and is the theme of the Egyptian song of Maneros. His portrait was carved in the rock on Helicon near the grove of the Muses. It was claimed tha he was buried at Thebes.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Linus, Saint and Pope

    Saint Linus, Pope (66-76AD).
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. He died for the faith.

    Livy

    Titus Livius, the Roman historian.
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:1-21. He records (xxiii 11, 12) that at the battle of Cannae in 216 BC in the Second Punic war, where Hannibal defeated the Romans, he showed the senate at Carthage, three bushels of gold rings taken from the corpses.

    Lizio di Valbona

    A Guelph noble of Bertinoro, and follower of Rinier da Calboli. He died between 1279 and 1300.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Loderingo

    One of the Frati Gaudenti, or Jovial Friars, a derisive name for the Cavalieri di S. Maria (Ordo militae beatae Mariae) founded at Bologna in 1261, with the approval of Urban IV, to act as mediators, and protect the weak. It was disbanded due to its laxity. Catelano de’ Catalini (or de’ Malavolti) c.1210-1285, and Loderingo degli Andalò, a Ghibelline, were called to Florence, from Bologna, in 1266 to act together as Podestà, and reform the government. They were accused of hypocrisy and corruption and expelled. The Gardingo district (Piazza di Firenze) the site of the Uberti Palace, was destroyed in a rising against the Ghibellines.
    Inferno Canto XXIII:82-126. They are in the eighth circle.

    Lombardo, Marco

    A learned Venetian courtier, noted for his breadth of mind, and profundity. He flourished in the latter half of the thirteenth century.
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:25-96. He is among the wrathful.

    Louis IX, Saint and King of France

    See Raymond Berenger.

    Lucan

    Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, AD 39-65, the Roman writer, born in Cordova in Spain and educated at Rome. He served under Nero, fell into disfavour, and committed suicide at Nero’s command. His unfinished epic, the Civil War, or ‘Pharsalia’ after its climactic battle, was a poetical guide to Dante in his ideas of Roman history.
    Inferno Canto IV:64-105. He is among the great poets in Limbo.

    Inferno Canto XXIV:61-96. His Pharsalia ix 708 et seq. and 805 provided Dante with the list of snakes.

    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. His Pharsalia ix 763, and 790, provides the tale of the two soldiers stung by serpents.

    Lucia, Saint Lucy

    The virgin martyr of Syracuse, in the third Century AD, traditionally associated with light and vision. She is Dante’s patron Saint (he had weakened eyesight) and is for him the symbol of Illuminating Grace.
    Inferno Canto II:94-120. The Virgin sends her to Beatrice.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:34-63. She carries Dante up to the entrance to Purgatory proper, while Virgil follows.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:115-151. She sits to the right of the Virgin opposite Adam.

    Lucifer, see Satan

    Lucretia

    The wife of the Roman Collatine, raped by Tarquin, son of Tarquinius Superbus. A type of the noble, wronged wife. See Shakespeare’s Rape of Lucrece.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. She is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Luke, Saint

    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33. Luke xxiv 13-15 writes of the appearance of Christ at Emmaus after the Resurrection.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. He appears in the Divine Pageant.

    Lycurgus

    King of Nemea. Hypsipyle left his son, Opheltes (later Archemorus) on a river-bank where he was bitten by a snake. Statius Thebaid iv and v.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:67-111. He is mentioned.

    Macarius, Saint

    Macarius the Egyptian (301-391) a disciple of Saint Anthony, one of the monks of the Sinaitic desert.
    Paradiso Canto XXII:1-99. He is in the seventh sphere.

    Maccabeus, Judas

    One of the five sons of Mattathias, Judas Maccabeus, ‘The Hammerer’, resisted the enforced Hellenization of the Jewish people practised under Antiochus IV of Syria (175-164). He took Jerusalem and re-consecrated the Temple ( 25 Kislev, 165BC, remembered bythe Chanukah festival) Peace was achieved in 163BC and the enforced Hellenization halted. He and his brothers died in the continual fighting until, in 143, Simon, the last survivor expelled the Syrians. Simon became the first High Priest and civil ruler of the newly established state, with the title Nasi.
    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He is in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    Maconi, Lano

    Lano Maconi of Siena squandered his fortune, then allowed himself to be killed at the battle of Pieve del Toppo where the Aretines defeated the Sienese in 1288.
    Inferno Canto XIII:109-129. He is in the seventh circle.

    He was a member of the Brigata Spendereccia, the Spendthrift Brigade, a club founded by twelve wealthy Sienese, in the second half of the thirteenth century, who vied with each other in squandering their money on riotous living.

    Inferno Canto XXIX:121-139. Other members of the club are mentioned.

    Maghinardo

    See Pagani.

    Mahomet

    Mohammed (c570-632AD), the founder of Islam. He made his ‘Hegira’, the flight to Medina, the city of the prophet, on 15 June 622, the beginning of the Islamic calendar. He returned to Mecca on November 1st 630, purified the city, and eliminated idolatry in the Kaaba, the ancient Arab shrine of the black stone. His teaching spread throughout Arabia. He died in Medina. Dante treats him as a schismatic within the Biblical context.
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:22-54. He is in the ninth chasm of the eighth circle, with the schismatics.

    Maia

    One of the Pleiades, the seven daughters of Atlas, and the ocean-nymph Pleione. Their stars form the constellation in the neck of Taurus. She was loved by Jupiter and gave birth to Mercury.
    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The mother of Mercury, and a name for Mercury.

    Mainardi, Arrigo

    A Ghibelline of Bertinoro, and follower of Pier Traversaro. He was captured with Pier by the people of Faenza in 1170, and was still alive in 1228.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Malacoda, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:59-96. The chief of the demons in the eighth circle, chasm five of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139 and Inferno Canto XXIII:127-148. He misleads Virgil, claiming the causeway was impassable at the sixth chasm.

    Malaspina, Alagia de’ Fieschi

    The wife of Moroello III Malaspina. One of her sisters, Fiesca, married Alberto of a different Malaspina branch, and the other, Jacopina, was the wife of Obizzo II of Este.
    Purgatorio Canto XIX:115-145. She is mentioned.

    Malaspina, Corrado

    Currado II (d.c.1294) grandson of Currado I, the elder, who married an illegitimate daughter of Frederick II and died about 1225. This Conrad’s cousins were Moroello III (d.c.1315) the addressee of Dante’s third letter accompanied by Canzone xi, and Franceschino who was Dante’s host (d. between 1313 and 1321) at Sarzana in Lunigiana in the autumn of 1306, less than seven years, the sun being already in Aries, from the moment of the Vision. The Malaspini were Ghibellines but Moroello III was a notable exception. Valdimagra, in Liunigiana, north-west of Tuscany, was part of their territory. Conrad is mentioned in Boccaccio’s Decameron (ii. 6)
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:109-139. He is among the negligent rulers.

    Malaspina, Moroello

    Inferno Canto XXIV:130-151. Vanni Fucci’s prophecy covers his involvement in the defeat of the Whites in and around Pistoia in 1302-6. He died c 1315. His wife was Alagia de’ Fieschi.

    Malatesta, Francesca da Polenta, see Francesca da Rimini

    Malatesta, Gianciotto

    Elder brother of Paolo, Il Bello, and husband of Francesca da Rimini. Son of Malatesta da Verucchio, Lord of Rimini. Brave but possibly deformed, he slew the unfaithful Francesca along with Paolo about 1285. According to legend she thought that Paolo was her intended husband when he stood proxy for his brother in the marriage. Giancotto died in 1304.

    Malatesta, da Verucchio

    Father of Gianciotto and Paolo. Lord of Rimini, ruling from the castle of Verrucchio (1293-1312)
    Inferno Canto XXVII:31-57. He was ‘the old mastiff’, and his son Malatestino ‘the young mastiff’, noted for their ferocious cruelty. Guelphs, they imprisoned (1295) and murdered, the Ghibelline leader in Rimini, Montagna de’ Parcitati.

    Malatesta, Malatestino

    The brother of Gianciotto and Paolo, and son of Malatesta de Verrucchio, Lord of Rimini. Malatestino ruled Rimini 1312-1317.
    Inferno Canto XXVII:31-57. His father was ‘the old mastiff’, and he was ‘the young mastiff’, noted for their ferocious cruelty. Guelphs, they imprisoned (1295) and murdered, the Ghibelline leader in Rimini, Montagna de’ Parcitati. In 1314 Cesena lost its freedom and came under Malatestino’s rule.

    Inferno Canto XXVIII:55-90. He obtained possession of Fano, and added it to Rimini. He invited the two chief nobles Guido del Cassero, and Agniello da Carignano to meet him at La Cattolica on the Adriatic between Fano and Rimini. Their boat was intercepted and they were drowned off the headland of Focaro, between Fano and La Cattolica. The headland was notorious for its dangerous winds, so much so that sailors made vows and prayers for safe passage.

    Malatesta, Paolo il Bello

    Loved Francesca da Rimini and was killed by his brother Gianciotto, her husband, along with her in 1285. He was himself married, to Orabile Beatrice di Ghiacciuolo, and was known as Il Bello for his personal beauty.
    Inferno Canto V:70-142. He weeps while Francesca tells Dante her story in Limbo.

    Malavicini

    The Malavicini, Counts of Bagnacavallo, between Imola and Ravenna, were Ghibellines, who in 1249 drove Guido da Polenta and his fellow Guelphs from Ravenna. They were subsequently notorious from their frequent changes of allegiance.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. Bagnacavallo is mentioned.

    Malehaut, the Lady of

    ‘At these words which the queen spoke to him, the lady of Malehaut coughed, of a set purpose, and lifted her head that had been bowed.’ Romance of Lancelot. The moment was Guinevere’s first open acknowledgement of Lancelot.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45. The incident is referred to.

    Manalippus

    See Tydeus.

    Manfred, King of Naples and Sicily

    Manfred (c1231-1266), the illegitimate son of Emperor Frederick II (died 1250), grandson of the Emperor Henry VI and his wife Constance. He married Beatrice of Savoy whom bore him a daughter Constanza, who in 1262 married Peter III of Aragon. Manfred was manus Frederici, the hand of Frederick, heir to his graces and virtues. In 1258 he usurped the rights of his nephew Conradin and became King of Sicily. He entered into conflict, as a Ghibelline, with the Papacy of Urban IV, and was again excommunicated (ultimately by three Popes in succession). Clement IV invited Charles of Anjou to Italy, and he was crowned as the alternative King of Sicily. Manfred was defeated by Charles, on the plain of Grandella, near Benevento (some thirty miles northeast of Naples) on February 26th 1266. He was killed there, and, refused Christian rites, was buried under a cairn, on the battlefield, each surviving soldier adding a stone. His body was disinterred by the Bishop of Cosenza on the Pope’s orders, and carried across the River Verde (Garigliano) outside the boundary of the Kingdom of Naples, and the Papal States, so that he might not rest in the usurped realm, and with the rites used in excommunication. He was a poet and patron of letters, accused of many things in his lifetime, including incest, by the Guelphs.
    Purgatorio Canto III:103-145. He is among the excommunicated.

    Manfredi, Friar Alberigo de’

    See Alberigo.

    Manfredi, Tebaldello

    See Tribaldello.

    Mangiadore, Pietro

    Petrus Comestor, ‘Peter the Eater of Books’ (d. 1179) who wrote the Historia Scholastica, a History of the Church from Genesis to Acts, paraphrasing the Scriptures. He belonged to the Abbey of Saint Victor in Paris, and became Chancellor of the University of Paris in 1164.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Manto

    The daughter of Tiresias, and Apollo’s prophetic priestess, the Pythoness, at Delphi, who married Rhacius, King of Caria, and bore him (or Apollo) a son Mopsus who was a famous soothsayer.
    Inferno Canto XX:52-99. Her association with the founding of Mantua, Virgil’s birthplace, is given. Virgil described an alternative version of Mantua’s founding in Aeneid X198-200.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. She is in Limbo. One of the people celebrated by Statius in his epic poetry. If this is Manto, then Dante has already placed her among the prophetesses in the Inferno.

    Marcellus

    Marcus Claudius Marcellus, the Roman consul, who opposed Caesar, pushing for him to be relieved of his military command when peace was declared, after the Gallic War, and for the disbandment of the army, and asking that Caesar should lose the privilege of standing for the consulship in absentia.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. He is mentioned.

    Marcia, wife of Cato of Utica

    Noted for her integrity and nobility. For Dante (and for Chaucer, as Marcia Catoun) a type of the noble Roman wife. She was Cato’s second wife who yielded her to his friend Quintus Hortensius. When he died she married Cato again. Dante’s Convito treats her return to Cato as an allegory of the soul’s return to God.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. She is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Purgatorio Canto I:28-84. Virgil tells Cato so, and invokes her love for him.

    Purgatorio Canto I:85-111. Separated from Cato, by the stream that separates Purgatory from Hell, she can no longer move him.

    Marco, see Lombardo

    Margaret of Burgundy

    The second wife of Charles I of Anjou.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. She is mentioned.

    Margaret of Provence, wife of St Louis

    Mars

    The son of Jupiter and Juno. The god of War. He was present at the battle with the Giants.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. The idea that He and other gods inhered in the planets named after them, led to the influence of the stars, and of Pagan Gods being confused, and both falsely worshipped in Paganism and Astrology.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. The nominal father of Romulus.

    Paradiso Canto IX:127-142. The founder and patron god of Florence, identified by Dante with Satan.

    Paradiso Canto XIV:67-139. Dante’s vision of Christ on the Cross.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45. Mars is identified with the constellation Leo, though not its astrological ruler, because of Dante’s cluster of associations, around the idea of courage and fortitude, among them the animal, and the planet.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. A statue of Mars stood by the Ponte Vecchio. Buondelmonte was killed at its foot. Mars was the patron of the Florentines in Pagan days and his temple with a highly venerated statue stood on the site of the present Baptistery. When John the Baptist was adopted as the Christian patron saint of Florence, the statue of Mars was moved to a site by the Arno, where it was reverenced as protecting the State though the factionalism in the city was attributed to its influence. When Florence was destroyed by the Goths, the statue fell into the Arno, and it was held that Florence could not be rebuilt from the ruins unless the image was found. It was rescued from the Arno and set on a pillar at the north side of the Ponte Vecchio, when the city was restored by Charlemagne. It was lost in the great flood of 1333 when the Ponte Vecchio was destroyed.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The hot-blooded son of Jupiter.

    Marsyas

    Paradiso Canto I:1-36. A satyr of Phrygia who competed with Apollo in a contest of musical skill, pipes against lyre. Marsyas was defeated, by the god. Apollo flayed him for challenging his skill, and Dante asks for the inspirational breath with which Apollo played on that occasion. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 382.

    Martin IV, Pope

    Simon de Brie of Tours, Pope from 1281 to 1285 with the name of Martin IV. He had been papal legate in France and was elected by the influence of Charles of Anjou. He died of eating too many eels from the lake of Bolsena, stewed in Vernaccia wine. He was buried at Viterbo.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:1-33. He is among he gluttonous.

    Mary of Brabant, Queen of France

    Mary of Brabant was accused by Pierre de la Brosse, the surgeon and afterwards chamberlain of King Philip III of France, and by others, of having murdered Louis, Philip’s son by his first wife, with poison, in 1276. She destroyed Pierre by falsely accusing him of an attempt on her honour, and of treasonable correspondence with Alfonso X of Castile, Philip’s enemy. Pierre was hanged for this in 1278.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. She is advised by Dante to repent.

    Mary of Jerusalem

    A woman, who devoured her own child, rather than endure famine, during the terrible siege of Jerusalem, by Titus, the son of Vespasian, in AD70. Titus subsequently razed the city and the Temple, and robbed the inner sanctuary of its sacred objects, including the Scroll of the Law.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:1-36. She is mentioned.

    Mary the Blessed Virgin

    The Blessed Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus of Nazareth, for Dante the symbol of Divine Mercy. She took on much of the symbolism of the pre-Christian Great Goddesses, including that of Isis, consort of the Egyptian god Osiris. Isis had a wide following in the Roman Empire. She was depicted with the infant Horus on her knee, and was the ‘stella maris’ of Mediterranean seamen.
    Her name and that of Christ are never mentioned in the Inferno, where she is ‘un possente’ a powerful spirit.

    Inferno Canto II:94-120. She sends Lucia to Beatrice to aid Dante.

    Purgatorio Canto III:1-45. The virgin birth brought revealed truth into the world, to increase humanity’s incomplete knowledge.

    Purgatorio Canto V:85-129. Buonconte da Montefeltro one of the late-repentants died with her name on his lips.

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:1-45. The guardian Angels with burning swords come from Mary’s breast.

    Purgatorio Canto X:1-45. Gabriel’s Annunciation to her is sculpted on the frieze, indicating humility as a corrective to pride.

    Purgatorio Canto XIII:1-45. The first voice repeats the words Mary spoke at the Marriage feast at Cana. See John ii 3.

    Purgatorio Canto XIII:46-84. The shades repeat the Litany of the Saints.

    Purgatorio Canto XV:82-145. Her words in the temple to Christ.

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:76-111. After the Annunciation ‘Mary arose in those days, and went into the hill country with haste, into a city of Juda.’ See Luke 1.39.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:1-42. ‘And laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn’ See Luke ii 7.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. She is described as the only Bride of the Holy Spirit.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:115-154. The Marriage in Cana, John ii 3, is again referenced. Mary intercedes for mankind in Paradise.

    Purgatorio Canto XXV:109-139. At the Annunication Mary said: ‘How shall this be, seeing I know not a man? (virum non cognosco)’ See Luke i 31-34.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57. Her vigil at the foot of the Cross, as the mater dolorosa, is mentioned. See John xix 25-27.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. She exists with God in the Empyrean.

    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. Her presence at the Crucifixion is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:52-90. The supreme perfection of female Human Nature.

    Paradiso Canto XIV:1-66. The Annunciation is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. Called on in childbirth. Madonna del Parto.

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:49-87. The Vision of her as the sacred Rose, coupled with the vision of the Apostles as the sacred Lilies.

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:88-139. The crowned Queen of Heaven.

    Paradiso Canto XXV:97-139. On the cross, Christ committed her to the care of Saint John. See John xix 26-27. She and Christ, alone, rose to Heaven in body as well as spirit.

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:94-142. Dante, with Saint Bernard, gazes at the Virgin enthroned in Heaven.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. The Virgin heads the descending line, through the Rose, that separates those who believed before Christ, from those who acquired faith after his coming. Below her are the ranks of Hebrew women who were ancestresses of Christ, and types of his Church. Corresponding to her on the other side is John the Baptist.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:85-114. Gabriel in Heaven shows his adoration for her.

    Marzucco, see Scornigiani

    Mascheroni, Sassol

    One of the Florentine Toschi family, killed his nephew, or perhaps his brother, to obtain the inheritance.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:40-69. He is in Caïna, in the Ninth Circle.

    Matilda

    The type of the active life, equivalent to Leah. Historically, Matelda, di Canossa the Grancontessa of Tuscany (1046-1114) fervent supporter of Pope Gregory VII, and succeeding Popes was probably intended. She left her extensive land and castles to the Church. Thanks to her mediation, on January 27, 1077, the Emperor Henry IV, excommunicated in 1075, was received and pardoned by Pope Gregory VII after waiting humbly for three days barefoot in the snow. She may have signifed to Dante the mediation that precedes pardon (his own by Beatrice) and the reconciliation of Empire and Church in their proper spheres.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:1-51. Dante meets her.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:52-138. She explains features of the Garden of Eden, the Earthly Paradise to him.

    Matthias, Saint

    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133. See Acts i 13-26. Matthias was chosen by the Apostles, by lot, to fill the place among the Disciples forfeited by Judas.

    Medea

    Inferno Canto XVIII:67-99. The daughter of Aeetes, King of Colchis, who fell in love with Jason, helped him with her witchcraft, and was abandoned by him for Creusa. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VII 406.

    Medicina, Piero Biancucci da

    The family were lords of Medicina, about twenty miles east of Bologna. Pier was deprived of a praetorship by Frederick II, and his family were driven out of Romagna in 1287. He sowed dissent among the rulers of Romagna, setting Polenta and Malatesta against each other. The city of Vercelli in Piedmont and the castle of Marcabò near Ravenna, at the mouth of the Po, are the western and eastern extremities of old Romagna, the plain of Lombardy.
    Inferno Canto XXVIII:55-90. He is in the ninth chasm of the sowers of discord.

    Medusa

    The daughter of Phorcys, she is one of the Gorgons. The other two are Euryale and Stheino. Medusa was raped by Neptune(Poseidon) in the temple of Minerva(Athene), who changed her to a winged monster with snakes for hair, her gaze turning anyone who looked at her to stone. Perseus decapitated her, looking at her reflection in his shield, and used her head to turn Atlas to stone. Pegasus the winged horse and Chrysaor a warrior sprang from her blood. She symbolises obduracy, delaying repentance.
    Inferno Canto IX:34-63. The Erinyes (Furies) invoke her, in order to be able to turn Dante to stone (harden his heart).

    Melchisedek

    The king and high-priest who received Abraham at Salem (Jerusalem) and blessed him. Abraham paid him a tithe of his spoils of victory. See Genesis xiv 18-24.
    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. The type of the priest.

    Meleager

    The son of Oeneus, King of Calydon and Althaea daughter of Thestius. His life depended on a brand of wood that was burning in the fire at his birth, and that was rescued by his mother. He killed the Calydonian Boar and gave the skin to Atalanta (of Calydon) and when his uncles took it from her, killed them. Althaea burned the brand to revenge her son’s murder of her two brothers. He then died as it was consumed. One of his sisters was Deianira. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VIII 445-525.
    Purgatorio Canto XXV:1-79. He is mentioned.

    Melicertes

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. Juno was angered because of Jupiter’s adultery with Semele, whom she punished, and took vengeance on the house of Cadmus of Thebes, her father. She pursued Ino, Semele’s sister, by driving her husband Athamas mad. He killed their son Learchus, and drove Ino to throw herself over a cliff, with their son Melicertes. Ino and Melicertes became sea-gods, namely Leucothea, the White Goddess, and Palaemon. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 261 and IV 519.

    Melissus

    The Greek philosopher, considered by Aristotle an example of the powers of false-reasoning.
    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142. He is mentioned.

    Mercury

    The messenger God, son of Jupiter and Maia, one of the Pleiades.
    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. He lulled Argus to sleep, and killed him at the request of Jupiter.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. The idea that He and other gods inhered in the planets named after them, led to the influence of the stars, and of Pagan Gods being confused, and both falsely worshipped in Paganism and Astrology.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. Called Maia, as the son of Maia.

    Metellus

    Purgatorio Canto IX:106-145. A follower of Pompey, who tried to protect the Roman Treasury in the Temple of Saturn on the Tarpeian (Captoline) Hill, from Caesar’s plundering of it. Lucan in Pharsalia iii 153-168 stresses the sound of the Temple gates being opened.

    Michael, theArchangel

    Inferno Canto VII:1-39. He warred against the dragon of Revelation XII, ‘that old serpent called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world’. Satan fell through pride, and is the great falsifier, deceiver, and adulterator of God’s universe. I take that as the sense of ‘superbo strupo’.
    Purgatorio Canto XIII:46-84. The shades repeat the Litany of the Saints.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. He is shown with human form though beyond the human.

    Michel, see Zanche

    Michal

    Purgatorio Canto X:46-72. The daughter of Saul who saw King David leaping and dancing and despised him in her heart. See Second Samuel vi 16.

    Midas

    The King of Phrygia, son of Gordius and Cybele, granted a wish by Bacchus, for helping his companion Silenus, and who wished that everything he touched might turn to gold. He soon regretted his greed. He was also given ass’s ears for challenging Tmolus’s judgement which preferred Apollo’s lyre to Pan’s pipes. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XI 106 et seq.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Minos

    The mythical King of Crete, son of Zeus and Europa, brother of Rhadamanthys and Sarpedon, lawgiver and builder of the Labyrinth at Cnossus, Daedalus being the architect. He was appointed by Zeus as one of the three judges of the dead, with Rhadamanthys and Aeacus, and lived in the Elysian Fields in the Underworld. He ruled over ninety Cretan cities and controlled navigation of the Mediterranean. He is the judge of the infernal regions in Virgil’s Aeneid and is for Dante a symbol of the sinner’s guilty conscience.
    Inferno Canto V:1-51. Inferno Canto XIII:79-108. He sentences the sinners in Hell.

    Inferno Canto XX:31-51. He is already in Hell to receive Amphiaraüs.

    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136. He coils his tail eight times, to indicate that Guido da Montefeltro should be sent to the eighth chasm of the eighth circle.

    Inferno Canto XXIX:100-120. He is an infallible judge.

    Purgatorio Canto I:28-84. Virgil is not bound by him, being in Limbo, not Dis.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:1-51. Ariadne was his daughter.

    Minotaur

    Asterion, the bull-headed son produced by Minos’s wife Pasiphaë’s mating with ‘a white bull from the sea’, sacred to Poseidon. He was imprisoned in the Labyrinth of Cnossos, and killed by Theseus, who was helped by Asterion’s half-sister Ariadne, daughter of Minos and Pasiphaë. He is for Dante, the type of bestiality, violence and brutishness. (See also Ovid’s Metamorphoses VIII 132-169)
    Inferno Canto XII:1-27. He guards the descent to the seventh circle.

    Monaldi, of Orvieto

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. Feuded with the Filippeschi.

    Montagna, see Parcitati

    Montagues, Montecchi of Verona

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. Feuded with the Capulets, see Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet for a fictitious re-creation of the feuding.

    Montefeltro, Buonconte da

    The son of Guido da Montefeltro, and like him a Ghibelline leader. He was in command of the Aretines when they were defeated at Campaldino by the Florentine Guelphs on June 11th 1289, and was killed there. Dante is supposed to have taken part on the Florentine side. Giovanna was his wife. Campaldino is in the upper Val d’ Arno, or district of Casentino, bounded by the mountains of Pratomagno to the west and the Apennine chain on the east. It lies between Poppi and Bibiena, where the River Archiano, which rises in the Apennines, above the Monastery of Camaldoli, flows into the Arno, about an hour’s walk from the battlefield. The mist and fog is a common feature of the valley.
    Purgatorio Canto V:85-129. He is among the late repentant killed by violence.

    Montefeltro, Guido da

    The Lord of Urbino, and one of the great Ghibelline captains. He became a Franciscan friar in 1296. Boniface VIII summoned him from his retreat in 1297 to consult with him about the razing of Palestrina (Penestrino) twenty-five miles east of Rome, held by the Colonna family, who were in rebellion against the Church. Guido, finding it impregnable, advised Boniface to promise immunity and then break it, inducing the Colonna to surrender, (in September 1298), then razing the fortress to the ground. Dante regarded Guido highly for his entering the Franciscan order (See his Convivio iv 28). Guido was born in 1223 and died in 1298. His son Buonconte appears in the Purgatorio.
    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136. He is in the eighth circle.

    Montferrat, Marquis William of

    See William.

    Montfort, Guy de

    The son of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester. He avenged the death of his father at the battle of Evesham (1265) where Edward (later Edward I) defeated the English barons, when, in 1271, while vicar general of Tuscany he murdered Henry, his cousin, the son of Richard Earl of Cornwall, the nephew of the English king, in the church of San Silvestro at Viterbo. Henry’s heart was placed in a gold casket, and set on a pillar by London Bridge, or in the hand of his statue in Westminster Abbey.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is placed in the seventh circle of the violent, first ring.

    Mordecai

    Ahasuerus, the Persian King, enriched Haman, until he was accused by Esther of intending to take the life of Mordecai. Haman was executed in Mordecai’s place. See Esther iii-viii.
    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39. He is mentioned.

    Mordred

    The nephew and son of King Arthur, who attempted to usurp his kingdom. In the last battle Arthur pierced Mordred with his lance, at the same time receiving his own death-wound. According to an Old French version of the theme, which differs from Malory’s Morte D’Arthur, ‘after the lance was withdrawn a ray of sunlight passed through the wound…’
    Inferno Canto XXXII:40-69. He is in Caïna, in the Ninth Circle.

    Moronto, brother of Cacciaguida

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. He is mentioned.

    Mosca, see Lamberti

    Moses

    The lawgiver, who led Israel out of Egypt. See the Bible Exodus ii. The type of the faithful man who does not swerve from service to the God of Israel.
    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. Christ takes his spirit from Limbo into Paradise.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. At the Transfiguration, see Matthew xviii 1-8, Christ shone like the sun in white raiment, and Moses and Elias appeared talking with him.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. He exists with God in the Empyrean.

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:115-154. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXVI:1-69. The Lord says to Moses ‘I will make all my goodness pass before thee’ Exodus xxxiii 19. The Vulgate says ego ostendam omne bonum tibi.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:115-151. He sits to the left of Adam in Heaven.

    Mozzi, Andrea de’

    Andrea dei Mozzi, was made Bishop of Florence in 1287 and transferred to the see of Vicenza on the River Bacchiglione, in 1295, by Pope Boniface VIII. He died there the following year. Servus servorum Dei was one of the Popes official titles, from Gregory I (590-604) onwards.
    Inferno Canto XV:100-124. He is in Hell for sodomy.

    Mozzi, Rocco de’

    Inferno Canto XIII:130-151. Possibly the speaker is Rocco, who hanged himself, as a bankrupt, or alternatively Lotto degli Agli.

    Muses

    The Nine Muses, the daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne (Memory), the patronesses of the liberal arts. Their names were Clio (History), Melpomene (Tragedy), Thalia (Comedy), Euterpe (Lyric poetry), Terpsichore (Dance), Calliope (Epic poetry), Erato (Love poetry), Urania (Astronomy, and the Music of the Spheres), and Polyhymnia (Sacred Song). Calliope, the mother of Orpheus, is the eldest sister of the Muses. They lived on Mount Helicon and Mount Parnassus, where their sacred springs were Aganippe and Hippocrene on the first, and Castalia on the second. They are ‘doctae sorores’ the ‘learned sisters’. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses V.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:1-39. Dante invokes their help.

    Purgatorio Canto I:1-27. Dante declares his allegiance to them.

    The Muses took up the challenge issued by the nine daughters of King Pierus, the Emathides, also called the Pierides, a name for the Muses themselves, from Pieria, the earliest site of their worship. The Emathides were defeated and were turned into magpies. Calliope lead the singing. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses V 300 etc.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. They (and their mountain Parnassus) are mentioned, as the foster-mothers of the pagan poets.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:37-61. Dante invokes the Muses, and the streams of Helicon, and calls on Urania.

    Paradiso Canto II:1-45. The Muses show the poet his means of guiding himself.

    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36. They are mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:58-99. The fountain of Hippocrene on Helicon, sprang from a blow of the hoof of Pegasus, the winged horse, born from the blood of Medusa. He and his brother Chrysaor the warrior were sired by Neptune. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IV 768, V 257.

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:49-87. Dante mentions Polyhymnia.

    Myrrha

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. The daughter of Cinyras who conceived an incestuous passion for her father, and in darkness, using an assumed name, entered his bed. She conceived Adonis, and was changed into the myrrh-tree from which Adonis was born. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses X 489.
    Narcissus

    Inferno Canto XXX:91-129. The son of the naiad Liriope and the river-god Cephisus who fell in love with his own beautiful image in a still pool, and was loved by Echo in vain. He was changed to a flower, the narcissus, and she wasted away to become an echoing voice. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 407.
    Paradiso Canto III:1-33. He is mentioned.

    Nasidius

    Lucan, in Pharsalia ix 763 and 790, tells of the two soldiers of Cato’s army who were stung by snakes while marching across Libya. Nasidius swelled so that his coat of mail gave way, while the other melted.
    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. The story is mentioned.

    Naso, =Ovid

    The Roman poet, Publius Ovidius Naso, born at Sulmo in 43 BC. He was exiled from Augustan Rome in AD8 (for a poem, probably the Ars Amatoria, and an error, probably an indiscretion concerning Augustus’s wayward daughter Julia) and died at Tomis on the Black Sea in AD 17. His greatest work is the Metamorphoses, a retelling of Myths down to his own time, based on the theme of change. This, the ‘Ovidio Maggiore’ was the main source for Dante’s knowledge of Mythology, along with Virgil’s Aeneid.
    Inferno Canto IV:64-105. He is among the great poets in Limbo.

    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. He is mentioned by name, his Metamorphoses providing stories of transformations.

    Inferno Canto XXIX:37-72. The Plague at Aegina is retold in Ovid’s Metamorphoses VII 523-657. Jupiter restored the population after the plague sent by Juno, by transforming ants into men, called the Myrmidons from the Greek word for an ant. Valdichiano and Maremma in Tuscany, and the island of Sardinia, are also mentioned here for their unhealthiness in summer.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:115-154. Dante refers to the Golden Age, described by Ovid in the Metamorphoses I 103 et seq.

    Nathan the Prophet

    He denounced David’s sins. See Second Samuel xii.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Nebuchadnezzar

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. Nebuchadnezzar I, King of the Babylonian Empire, (flourished 1137 BC) who liberated the country from Elamite rule. He besieged and took Jerusalem, and figures in the Book of Daniel.

    Nella, wife of Forese Donati

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:37-90. She is mentioned.

    Neptune

    The sea-god, the son of Saturn and brother of Jupiter and Pluto. He is the Greek Poseidon.
    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:49-145. He is mentioned.

    Nerli, of Florence

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. One of the ancient Guelph families.

    Nessus

    The Centaur, son of Ixion, killed by Hercules, with an arrow poisoned with the Hydra’s blood, for his attempt to steal and rape Deianira. He dipped his fatal shirt in his own, poisoned, blood, and gave it as a gift (a supposed love charm) to Deianira, who thereby, unwittingly, brought about Hercules’s death.
    Inferno Canto XII:49-99. He displays his usual rashness in the seventh circle.

    Niccolo, Salimbeni or Buonsignori

    A member of the Brigata Spendereccia, the Spendthrift Brigade, a club founded by twelve wealthy Sienese, in the second half of the thirteenth century, who vied with each other in squandering their money on riotous living. He appears to have invented a costly dish using cloves.
    Inferno Canto XXIX:121-139. He is in the tenth chasm.

    Nicholas, Bishop and Saint

    The fourth century Bishop of Myra in Lydia who saved the honour of three poor daughters of a fellow-townsman, by secretly throwing bags of gold through their window at night, enabling them to marry with a dowry. He is known as St Nicholas of Bari where his shrine is. (See Legenda Aurea)
    Purgatorio Canto XX:1-42. He is mentioned.

    Nicholas III, Pope

    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87. Nicholas III, Giovanni Guatani Orsini, Pope from 1277 to 1280. The Orsini family emblem was a she-bear. He had to wait 23 years in Hell until the death of Boniface his successor in 1303, who would in turn wait only eleven years for the death of Clement V. (Benedict XI, in between them, Pope from 1303-1304 was not given to simony.)

    Nimrod

    The mighty hunter, son of Cush, grandson of Ham the son of Noah, and ruler of Babel (Babylon), see Genesis x 9, under whose rule Dante places the building of the tower of Babel, in the land of Shinar, which God frowned on, confounding their language, see Genesis xi 4. So Dante has Nimrod speak in an unintelligible mixture of tongues.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:46-81. He is a Giant guarding the central pit.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Paradiso Canto XXVI:70-142 His people built the tower of Babel.

    Nino, see Visconti

    Ninus

    Inferno Canto V:52-72. The Assyrian king Shamshi-Adad V, King of Assyria, whom his wife Semiramis (Sammuramat) was believed to have succeeded, as regent during the minority of her son from 810-805BC.

    Niobe

    The daughter of the Phrygian king Tantalus, and Dione, one of the Pleiades. The wife of Amphion, king of Thebes. She roused the wrath of Latona through boasting of her seven sons and seven daughters. They were slaughtered, and she was turned to stone on Mount Siphylus in Asia Minor where her statue weeps tears. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses Vi 172 et seq.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. She is depicted on the roadway.

    Nisus

    Inferno Canto I:100-111. The son of Hyrtacus, comrade of Euryalus in the Aeneid. He dies avenging the death of Euryalus in Aeneid IX.

    Noah

    The builder of the ark, by which mankind survived the great flood. See the Bible Genesis vi. The type of the pious man.
    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. Christ takes his spirit from Limbo into Paradise.

    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36. God’s covenant with him, Genesis ix 8.

    Novello, Alessandro

    Bishop of Feltre, who in 1314 surrendered certain gentlemen of Ferrara, in his protection, to Pino della Tosa who then governed Ferrara as vicar of King Robert, by whom they were killed. Malta was a tower near Padua where Ezzelino held his prisoners, or a Papal prison for criminal priests either at Viterbo, or on the Lake of Bolsena.
    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66. He is mentioned.

    Obizzo, see Este

    Oderigi (Oderisi) of Gubbio

    An illuminator and painter of miniatures. Vasari says he was at Rome in 1295, to illuminate manuscripts, in the Vatican Library, for Pope Boniface VIII, and the work was shared with Franco of Bologna.
    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117. He is among the proud.

    Oedipus

    The son of Laius, and Jocasta who killed his father laius and married his mother. See Sophocles Theban Trilogy. Themis was the goddess of Justice, daughter of Heaven and Earth, with oracular powers, and the Sphinx was her oracular priestess, who set Oedipus the famous riddle ‘ What goes on four legs in the morning, two at midday, and three in the evening?’ which he answered correctly with ‘Mankind’. Themis in anger at the riddle being solved sent a wild beast to ravage the countryside. Dante says Naiades, instead of Laiades for Oedipus the son of Laius, following a textual corruption of Ovid’s Metamorphoses VII 759 et al where the story is referred to.
    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57. She is mentioned.

    Omberto, see Aldobrandesco

    Ordelaffi, Sinibaldo degli

    Inferno Canto XXVII:31-57. Sinibaldo held Forlì in 1300, which had endured a long siege by the French soldiers of Pope Martin IV, who were finally routed with great slaughter by Guido da Montefeltro himself. The family arms were a lion rampant vert on a field or.

    Orestes and Pylades

    The son of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra, and brother of Electra, and Iphigenia, who killed the usurper Aegisthus, and his mother Clytaemnestra to avenge his father’s murder at their hands. His friendship with Pylades, the son of Strophius was proverbial. Pylades offered to take his place when he was condemned to death, see Cicero De Amicitia 7.
    Purgatorio Canto XIII:1-45. His is the second voice.

    Orlando, Roland

    Charlemagne’s nephew, and the hero of the battle of Roncesvalles, who, went down to defeat with his Franks, fighting against the Saracens, while attempting to hold the valley in 778AD. He blew his horn in desperation, to alert his uncle eight miles away, but Charlemagne was misled by the advice of the traitor Ganelon, and did not provide aid. The epic is told in the Old French Chanson de Roland, the ‘Song of Roland’, where the intensity of his blast on the horn shattered it. The defeat allowed Arab incursions into Narbonne in 793.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:1-45. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He is in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    Ormanni, of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Orosius, Paolus

    An early fifth century writer, whose Historia adversus Paganos was an apologetic treatise written at the suggestion of Augustine to show that Christianity had not ruined the Empire, as Pagans contended.
    Paradiso Canto X:100-129. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Orpheus

    The mythical son of the Thracian King Oeagrus and the Muse Calliope (of epic poetry). He was both poet and musician. He attempted to rescue his wife Eurydice from Hades but lost her when he broke the injunction not to look back. He taught the sacred mysteries of the Goddess in defiance of Dionysus and was torn to pieces by the Maenads. His head floated down the river Hebrus and was carried to the island of Lesbos. The Muses buried his limbs at Leibethra at the foot of Olympus where the nightingales sing more sweetly than anywhere else on earth.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Orsini, of Rome

    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87. The family emblem was a she-bear. The Pope Nicholas III was of the family.

    Orso, see Alberti

    Ostiense, Henry of Susa

    Henry of Susa became Cardinal Bishop of Ostia in 1261, and was a commentator on the Decretals. He died in 1271. Studied by those seeking professional standing.
    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105. He is mentioned.

    Ottaviano, see Ubaldini

    Ottocar, King of Bohemia

    King of Bohemia (1253-1278), but forced to serve under Rudolph I who asserted his supremacy, when elected Emperor. Ottakar paid homage, but refused to return Imperial lands, and died at the battle of the Marchfeld near Vienna in 1278. Ottocar’s son Wenceslas II (1278-1305)(not the earlier king and Saint) was allowed to retain Bohemia and Moravia, but had to give up Austria and Styria (Rudolph’s sons Albert and Rudolph were invested with these), Carinthia and Carniola.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is one of the negligent rulers.

    Ovid, see Naso

    Pagani, Maghinardo de’

    Inferno Canto XXVII:31-57. Mainardo Pagano, or Maghinardo Pagano da Susinana, lord of Faenza on the River Lamone; Imola, near the Santerno; and Forlì. His arms were a lion azure on a field argent. He was a Ghibelline in the north (‘state’) and a Guelph in Florence (‘verno’). He died in 1302.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned. He was called ‘the devil’ because of his cunning.

    Palazzo, Corrado da

    A Ghelph of Brescia, Vicar for Charles of Anjou in Florence (1276), Podestà of Siena (1279) and of Piacenza (1288).
    Purgatorio Canto XVI:97-145. He is mentioned.

    Pallas, son of Evander

    An Arcadian prince, the son of Evander, who ruled a city on the site of Rome, formed an alliance with Aeneas and was killed by Turnus. See Virgil’s Aeneid viii-x.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Pannocchiesci, Paganello de’

    Purgatorio Canto V:130-136. The husband of Pia de Tolomei, who caused her death. See La Pia.

    Parcitati, Montagna de’

    Inferno Canto XXVII:31-57. He was the Ghibelline leader in Rimini, imprisoned by Malatesta da Verrucchio in 1295, and murdered by his son Malatestino.

    Paris, son of Priam

    The Trojan Prince whose abduction of Helen from Sparta initiated the Trojan War. (See Homer’s Iliad.) The son of Priam and Hecuba. Paris was involved in judging the merits of the three goddesses Hera, Athene, and Aphrodite, choosing Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, as supreme. (The Judgement of Paris). To Dante and the Middle Ages the type of the great (pagan) lover.
    Inferno Canto V:52-72. He is a carnal sinner in Limbo.

    Parmenides

    The Greek philosopher, considered by Aristotle an example of the powers of false-reasoning.
    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142. He is mentioned.

    Pasiphaë

    The wife of Minos of Crete, and mother of the Minotaur, Asterion, whom she conceived by coupling, concealed in a wooden framework made to look like a heifer, with a white bull from the sea. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VIII 132 and IX 736.
    Inferno Canto XII:1-27. Mentioned indirectly.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:1-66. Mentioned as an example of lust.

    Paul, Saint

    Saul of Tarsus, born about 10AD, Jewish by birth but a Roman citizen. He underwent conversion on the road to Damascus. Acts ix 1-9. He preached at Paphos, Philippi, Athens, Ephesus etc., and was martyred in Rome with Saint Peter on the same day.
    Inferno Canto II:1-42. In the medieval Vision of St Paul he enters Hell. He is called the Chosen Vessel in Acts ix 15.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. He appears in the Divine Pageant carrying a sword (of the spirit, and of his martyrdom)

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:100-136. He is alive in the living religion.

    Paradiso Canto XXI:52-142. He was a ‘Chosen Vessel’. See Acts ix 15.

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:52-87. Faith is an intellectual virtue to the Catholic Church, and Dante here quotes Saint Paul’s definition in Hebrews xi:1 ‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:94-139. He was supposed to have revealed the Angelic Hierarchies to Dionysius the Aeropagite.

    Pazzi, Carlino and Camiccione

    Camicion, one of the Pazzi of Valdarno, killed his kinsman, Ubertino. Carlino, still living at the time of the Vision, held the castle of Piantravigne for the Whites of Florence against the Blacks of Florence and Lucca, but was bribed to surrender it treacherously to the enemy, causing the deaths of many of the Bianchi.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:40-69. He has a place reserved for him in the Antenora, in the Ninth Circle, as a traitor against his country.

    Pazzo, Rinieri

    A notorious highwayman of Dante’s time.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139 He is in the seventh circle.

    Peleus

    The son of Aeacus, and father of Achilles by Thetis the sea-goddess.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:1-45. Peleus’s spear was given to him by Chiron the Centaur. It was cut from an ash on Mount Pelion. Hephaestus forged its blade, and Athene polished the shaft. At Troy Achilles wounded Telephus with it. He was a king of Mysia and the son of Hercules and the nymph Auge. Rust from the spear, rubbed on the wound, cured it. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XII 112 and XIII 171.

    Penelope

    The wife of Ulysses.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142. She is mentioned.

    Penthesilea

    The Amazon queen, the daughter of Otrere and Ares, killed by Achilles when she fought for the Trojans during the Trojan War. The type of a noble woman. She had sought refuge at Troy from the Furies after accidentally killing her sister Hippolyte.
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. She is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Pera, della of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Perillus

    He made the bronze bull for Phalaris, the tyrant of Sicily. Heated by fire victims were roasted inside it, Perillus himself being the first victim.
    Inferno Canto XXVII:1-30. He is mentioned, indirectly.

    Persius

    Persius Flaccus, the Roman satirist (34-62AD)
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Peter, Saint, the Apostle

    Inferno Canto I:112-136. Christ entrusted the keys of the Church to Peter, as the ‘rock’ on which the Church would be built (Matthew xvi,18). The Angel at the Gate of Purgatory holds the keys. Peter died at Rome as a martyr in the persecutions under Nero. His memorial monument at the cemetery on the Vatican Hill was built about AD160-170. The Bishops of Rome (from Stephen onwards, bishop AD 254-256), and the Popes, were his successors.
    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133. Dante refers to Christ’s injunction to Peter, ‘Follow me’, see Matthew iv 19, and John xxi 19.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:106-145. Purgatorio Canto XXI:34-75. The Angel at the Gate of Purgatory hold his two keys to Confession on Peter’s behalf, with instructions to err on the side of leniency with the truly contrite.

    Purgatorio Canto XIII:46-84. The shades repeat the Litany of the Saints.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93. He is Simon Peter, called the Fisherman. See Mark i 16. (‘I will make you to become fishers of men’)

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. He appears in the Divine Pageant.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. He was present at the Transfiguration, see Matthew xviii 1-8 when Christ shone like the sun in white raiment, and Moses and Elias appeared talking with him, and after they were overcome Christ said ‘Arise, and be not afraid’. Christ is the apple-tree, in accord with the Song of Solomon ii 3, ‘As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons.’

    Paradiso Canto XI:118-139. The Church and Papacy is Peter’s ‘boat’.

    Paradiso Canto XVIII:100-136. He is alive in the living religion.

    Paradiso Canto XXI:52-142. He was Simon Peter the son of Jona, called Cephas, ‘a stone’ by Christ. See John i 42.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:1-99. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:88-139. He holds the keys of the Faith.

    Paradiso Canto XXIV:115-154. See John xx 3-6. Though the other disciple runs more quickly to the tomb of Christ, it is Peter, according to John, who enters it before him.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:115-151. He sits at the right hand of the Virgin.

    Peter Damian, Saint

    Saint Peter Damian, of Ravenna, some time Abbot of the monastery of Santa Croce di Fonte Avellana in the Apennines, beneath Monte Catria, near Gubbio. (Dante is said to have found refuge there after the death of Henry VII.) His parents’ poverty lead to him being exposed as an infant, but he was rescued and educated by his brother Damian, taking the name Damiani, ‘Damian’s Peter’, He was made Cardinal Bishop of Ostia in 1058, against his will, by Pope Stephen IX. He styled himself Peter the Sinner, Petrus peccator, and visited the monastery of Pomposa on an island at the mouth of the Po, near Commachio. He was an ardent reformer of Church discipline and one of the chief ecclesiastical writers of the eleventh century. He was a friend and ally of Hildebrand afterwards Saint Gregory VII. He died at Faenza in 1072.
    Paradiso Canto XXI:52-142. He is in the seventh sphere.

    Peter of Spain, see Pope John XXI

    Peter the Lombard

    Peter (c1100-1160) an Augustinian, known as ‘the Master of the Sentences’ wrote his four books on God, the Creation, Redemption, and the Sacraments and Last Things, as the chief summary of medieval theology before Aquinas, who commented on it. In the prologue he speaks of himself as ‘desiring with the poor widow (Luke xxi 1-4) to cast something out of our poverty into the treasury of the Lord.’
    Paradiso Canto X:100-129. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Peter III, King of Aragon

    Pere III (1276-1285), took Sicily from Charles I of Anjou after the Sicilian Vespers in 1282. He had married Manfred’s daughter Costanze. He and Charles both died in 1285. He was succeeded by his son Alfonso III who died in 1291. Aragon and Sicily were ruled by his younger sons, James and Frederick at the time of the Vision. Dante regards them as degenerates, but Manfred calls them the honour of Aragon and Sicily in Purgatorio III.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is one of the negligent rulers.

    Pettignano, Piero

    A Franciscan friar (and comb-seller) from Chianti who settled in Siena, where he died in 1289. He was renowned for his piety, and venerated as a saint, being recognised officially in 1328.
    Purgatorio Canto XIII:85-154. He prayed for Sapia.

    Phaedra

    The daughter of Pasiphae and Minos, sister of Ariadne. She married Theseus, but loved Hippolytus her stepson. Repulsed by him she accused him to his father, and so brought about his death. See Racine’s Phaedra. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XV 500 et seq.
    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. She is mentioned as being one who accused another of a crime, which they themselves were guilty of.

    Phaëton, Phaëthon

    Inferno Canto XVII:79-136. The son of Phoebus Apollo and Clymene, the wife of the Ethiopian king Merops, and the grandson of Tethys. He asked Phoebus for proof of his paternity, and, being granted a wish, requested to drive the chariot of the sun. He could not control it, and was killed by Jupiter’s thunderbolt to prevent the earth being destroyed. He was buried, by the Naiads, on the banks of the River Po. The Milky Way was supposed by the Pythagoreans to be the sign of his journey, still visible in the heavens. (See Dante’s Convivio ii) See Ovid’s Metamorphoses I 751, and II passim.
    Purgatorio Canto IV:52-87. He is mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:106-132. His death is mentioned, when Jupiter for the good of all destroyed the one.

    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. He asked his mother to tell him the truth about his paternity.

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:94-142. He is mentioned.

    Philip III, King of France

    Philip the Bold (1270-1285) attempted to seize the throne of Peter III of Aragon on behalf of his son Charles de Valois, with the connivance of Pope Martin IV. He was defeated by Roger di Loria, Peter’s admiral at Gerona, and died at Perpignan. His son was Philip IV.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is one of the negligent rulers.

    Philip IV, the Fair, King of France

    King of France (1285-1314), son of Philip III, he strengthened the monarchy, and dissolved the Knights Templars in 1307. He supported the Avignon Papacy, and won Champagne, Flanders and other territories for the Crown. He married Joan, the daughter of Henry I of Navarre, ‘the Fat’.
    See Ciacco’s prophecy and Inferno Canto VI:64-93 for an indirect reference.

    Inferno Canto XIX:31-87He reputedly accepted a bribe from Bertrand de Goth, to make him Pope (as Clement V).

    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is mentioned, adversely.

    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. Dante calls him the new Pilate, because he delivered Boniface to his enemies the Colonnesi, as Pilate delivered Christ to the Council of the Jews. He caused the Templars to be persecuted from 1307, greedy, it was said, for their immense wealth.

    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He debased the coinage by two-thirds in 1302 to defray the cost of his Flemish campaign. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Phlegyas

    Avenged his daughter Coronis, raped by Apollo, by burning down the god’s temple at Delphi for which he was condemned to Tartarus.
    In the Aeneid vi 618-620 he issues a warning against scorning the gods.

    Inferno Canto VIII:1-30. He is the ferryman of the marsh in the Fifth Circle.

    Pholus

    A centaur who entertained Hercules and was accidentally killed by one of his arrows. He was present at the battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs.
    Inferno Canto XII:49-99. He is in the seventh circle.

    Photinus

    Inferno Canto XI:1-66. Deacon of Thessalonica. See Anastasius.

    Phyllis

    The daughter of the Thracian King Sithon (living near Mount Rhodope in Thrace) who was loved by Demophoön, King of Melos, the son of Theseus and Phaedra. He failed to keep his promise to return to her, and when he did eventually return to find her she had committed suicide, but had been transformed into an almond tree by Athene. (See Burne-Jones painting ‘The Tree of Forgiveness’, Lever Art Gallery, Port Sunlight, Merseyside, England) See Ovid’s Heroides.
    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. She is mentioned.

    Pia, de’ Tolomei

    The traditional story is that La Pia belonged to the Tolomei of Siena, and married Nello d’Inghiramo dei Pannocchiesci, the Podestà of Volterra in 1277, and Lucca in 1314, the captain of the Tuscan Guelphs in 1284 and still alive in 1322. He put her to death at the Castello della Pietra, in the marshes of the Sienese Maremma, in 1295, throwing her from a window, or alternatively she died of disease in that unhealthy place. He was said to be jealous, or to want rid of her in order to marry the Countess Margherita degli Aldobrandeschi, the widow of Guy de Montfort. The identification of La Pia may well be wrong, but the story survives.
    Purgatorio Canto V:130-136. She is with the late repentants who died of violence.

    (See D. G. Rossetti’s Oil painting – La Pia de’ Tolomei – University of Kansas.) In La Pia’s words to Dante there is an echo of the lines on Virgil’s tomb, at Naples, ‘MANTUA ME GENUIT, CALABRI RAPUERE, TENET NUNC PARTHENOPE : CECINI PASCUA, RURA, DUCES.’

    Piccarda, see Donati

    Pigli, of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned. Their arms barred with ermine=vair.

    Pilate

    Pontius Pilate the Governor of Judea, before whom Christ was arraigned. See Matthew xxvii 11.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. He is mentioned.

    Pinamonte, see Buonaccorsi

    Pisistratus

    Purgatorio Canto XV:82-145. The lord of Athens, who gave this answer, when urged by his wife to put to death a young man, who had kissed their daughter in public. ‘Si eos, qui nos amant, interficimus, quid his faciemus, quibus odio sumus?’ (Valerius Maximus) The right to name the city of Athens was disputed by Pallas Athene (Minerva) and Poseidon (Neptune). See Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 70.

    Pius I, Saint and Pope

    Saint Pius I, Pope (140-155AD).
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. He died for the faith.

    Plato

    The Greek Philosopher, 428/7?-348/7BC, born at Athens of a distinguished family. His father was named Ariston, his mother Perictione was the sister of Charmides and niece of Critias who both figured in the Oligarchy of 404/3. He was a follower of Socrates, and developed the search for universals with his concept of the Ideas, or the Doctrine of Forms. He made massive contributions to the theory of knowledge, moral theory and politics (The Republic).
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Purgatorio Canto III:1-45. The pagan philosophers cannot hope to understand the ‘why’ of God’s works, and are condemned to an unsatisfied desire for supreme knowledge. (Aquinas: ‘the one demonstrates by means of the cause and is called propter quid…. the other by means of the effect and is called the demonstration quia.)

    Purgatorio Canto IV:1-18. Dante gives a refutation of the doctrine of the multiplicity of souls, ascribed to Plato by Thomas Aquinas. If souls were plural, we would not become so absorbed as to neglect the passage of time.

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. Dante refers to Plato’s Timaeus, available to him in Chalcidius’s Latin paraphrase. The doctrine he repeats, as understood by Dante, gives excessive power to the stars, fatal to freewill.

    Plautus

    The Roman playwright and poet (254-184BC). His plays were adapted from Menander and other Greek writers.
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Plutus, Pluto, Dis

    Pluto was the son of Saturn and the brother of Jupiter and Neptune, and was assigned the rule of the Underworld. Dante merges him with Plutus, god of the riches dug from the ground, and therefore the source of the sin of avarice, and the ‘great enemy’.
    Inferno Canto VI:94-115. Dante and Virgil find him at the start of the descent to the Fourth Circle of Hell.

    Inferno Canto VII:1-39. He mutter words in an unknown language, that Virgil understands, and collapses at Virgil’s reply.

    Polenta, see Francesca Malatesta da

    Polenta, Guido Vecchio

    The lord of Ravenna, father of Francesca da Rimini, and grandfather of Guido Novello, who employed Dante on various missions (See Dante: Epistolae viii) and may have assisted him to find a last refuge in Ravenna, where Dante’s tomb is sited. The family arms were an eagle, half argent, on an azure field, half gules on field or.
    Inferno Canto XXVII:31-57. He ruled Ravenna, and Cervia, twelve miles south, in 1300.

    Polycletus

    The Greek sculptor (c452-412BC), mentioned by Aristotle and others, and of the same generation as Pheidias. He made the gold and ivory statue of Hera, in the Heraion near Mycenae, famous for its grandeur and beauty, and it was engraved in miniature on the coins of Argos. See Pausanias II xvii 3.
    Purgatorio Canto X:1-45. He is mentioned.

    Polydorus

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. The son of Priam and Hecuba, sent by Priam to the court of Polymestor of Thrace, and done to death by Polymestor, Priam’s son-in-law. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIII 432 et seq. and Virgil’s Aseneid iii 49.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Polymnestor

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. The son-in law of Priam and Hecuba, who sent their son Polydorus to his court in Thrace. He murdered Polydorus and threw his body into the sea to be found subsequently by Hecuba. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIII 430 et seq.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Polynices

    The son of Oedipus and Jocasta, and brother of Eteocles. They fought over the succession, in the war of the Seven against Thebes. Both brothers were killed and, according to Statius in the Thebaid xii 429 et seq. the flames of their funeral pyre itself were divided.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84. They are mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93. They are indirectly mentioned.

    Polyxena

    Inferno Canto V:52-72. The Trojan princess, daughter of Priam and Hecuba. According to Ovid (Metamorphoses XIII 448) she is slaughtered at Achilles’s tomb after the fall of Troy, but according to later versions of the myths his love for her brought about his death, when he was killed by Paris in a temple where he had gone to marry her, after being promised her hand if he would join forces with the Trojans.
    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. She is mentioned.

    Pompeius Magnus, Cneius, Pompey the Great

    Consul, General, Julius Caesar’s son-in-law having married Julia. Defeated by Caesar in the Civil War, ended by the battle of Pharsalus in Thessaly. Fled to Alexandria. Murdered by Ptolemy XIII.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Pompeius, Sextus

    The son of Pompey the Great (died 35BC). He was defeated by Julius Caesar at Munda in 45BC and by Octavian’s (Augustus’s) admiral Agrippa at Mylae and Naulochus off Sicily in 36BC. Lucan gives him a very bad press.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is in the seventh circle.

    Prata, Guido da

    A native of Ravenna. He died c1245.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Prato, cardinal Niccolo of

    Cardinal Nicholas of Prato was sent to Florence by Pope Benedict XI in early 1304 to attempt a reconciliation between the warring factions. He failed, and laid the city under an interdict, excommunicating several citizens. Several local disasters at the time, such as a fire caused by a factional fight, destroying many houses, and a bridge collapse during a May day festival (the wooden Ponte Carraia) were attributed to divine disapproval.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:1-42. He is mentioned.

    Pressa, della of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Priam

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. King of Troy, during the Trojan War. The son of Laomedon, and husband of Hecuba. He was killed by Pyrrhus, at the fall of Troy.

    Priscian

    A Latin grammarian of the early sixth century AD.
    Inferno Canto XV:100-124. He is in Hell for sodomy.

    Procne and Philomela

    The daughter of Pandion, wife of Tereus, mother of Itys, and sister of Philomela. Her sister is raped and mutilated by Tereus, and the two sisters together conspire to kill the son, Itys, and serve his flesh to Tereus at a banquet. In Latin sources (Virgil’s Georgics etc) she is changed into the swallow, Philomela into the nightingale, and Tereus into the hoopoe. See also Ovid’s Metamorphoses VI 428 et seq. In Greek sources of the myth, Procne is the nightingale and Philomela the swallow. Ovid does not clarify the point. Dante hints at the Greek sources, Procne being the more impious of the two sisters.
    Purgatorio Canto IX:1-33. The swallow sings its sad songs in memory of the pain.

    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39. The nightingale is mentioned in the context of impiety, suggesting Procne. Procne killed Itys, though Philomela immediately slit his throat, so that both committed an impiety, but Procne more so, since it was her own child.

    Proserpine, Persephone, Kore

    The daughter of Demeter(Ceres), seized by Pluto(Dis) on the plain of Enna in Sicily. Ceres-Demeter searched for her. Because Persephone had eaten food in Hades, pomegranate seeds, she was allowed to return to earth for only six months of the year, and spent the other six in Hell. The vegetation rituals of Ceres-Demeter and Persephone formed the essence of the secret mysteries at Eleusis. Persephone is one of the incarnations of the triple moon-goddess. (See Skelton: ‘Diana in the leaves green, Luna who so bright doth sheen, Persephone in Hell.’) See Ovid’s Metamorphoses V 376-564.
    Inferno Canto X:73-93. Farinata mentions her moon-incarnation.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:1-51. Dante, seeing Matilda, recalls her.

    Provenzano Salvani

    Ptolemy, the astronomer

    Claudius Ptolemaeus, fl.127-51 AD, codified astronomical knowledge in his work the Almagest. He was the authority throughout the Middle Ages. His earth-centred theory was subsequently overturned by the heliocentric theory of Copernicus.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Ptolemy, King of Egypt

    Ptolemy XII of Egypt, overthrown by Caesar in 47BC.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Pygmalion

    King of Tyre, brother of Dido, who murdered her husband, their uncle, Sychaeus, out of greed for gold. See Virgil’s Aeneid i 350.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. He is mentioned.

    Pyramus

    A Babylonian, who in Ovid’s story (Metamorphoses IV 55-166) believes that a lion has killed his lover Thisbe when he reaches their meeting place, He kills himself, and then Thisbe, finding him, kills herself also. The mulberry tree under which they were to meet has red fruit thereafter, its leaves and roots being soaked with his blood. The story is one of true love, and Shakespeare used it as a basis for the ending of Romeo and Juliet, despite his unfortunate ridiculing of the story in The Midsummer Night’s Dream.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:1-45. The story is mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:58-102. He is mentioned.

    Pyrrhus, King of Epirus

    King of Epirus (318-272BC) who campaigned against the Carthaginians in Sicily, and against the Romans (his costly victory at Asculum led to the expression ‘a Pyrrhic victory’) was defeated by the Romans under Curius Dentatus at Beneventum in 275BC.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is in the seventh circle, unless Pyrrhus the son of Achilles is intended.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Pyrrhus, son of Achilles

    Neoptolemus, called Pyrrhus, who killed Priam and sacrificed Polyxena on Achilles’s grave. Virgil stresses his cruelty in Aeneid ii 469.
    Inferno Canto XII:100-139. He is placed in the seventh circle unless the reference is to Pyrrhus, King of Epirus.

    Rabanus Maurus

    Bishop of Mayence (c766-856) compiled a cyclopaedia De Universo in twenty-two books, and was in favour of orthodoxy to the point of unwitting heresy. He was a Benedictine and pupil of Alcuin. He wrote voluminously, summarising ninth century learning.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is in the Fourth Sphere of the Sun.

    Rachel

    The wife of Jacob in the Bible (Genesis 29), for whom he served Laban her father seven years, and the sister of Leah. She is for Dante the type of Contemplation. See Genesis xxix and xxx. Her New Testament equivalent is Mary the sister of Martha. See Luke x 38-42.
    Inferno Canto II:94-120. Beatrice is sitting with her. (Divine Philosophy sits with Contemplation)

    Inferno Canto IV:1-63. Christ takes her spirit from Limbo into Paradise.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:94-114. She is mentioned in Dante’s dream.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. She sits with Beatrice in Heaven, below the Virgin, in the third rank. See above.

    Rahab

    The prostitute of Jericho who helped Joshua’s spies. They in turn swore to save her and her family (‘our life for yours’). She was told to fasten a scarlet thread to her window so that she and her family could be identified at the taking of the city. She was converted to the Israelite cause, and became a symbol of the Church, the scarlet cord signifying the blood of Christ, and the two spies the two Testaments. See Joshua ii and vi 23-25.
    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126. She is in the third sphere, of Venus.

    Raphael, the Archangel

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. He is shown with human form though beyond the human. He helped Tobias to cure his father Tobit’s blindness. See Apocrypha, Book of Tobit. His name means ‘God heals’. He is traditionally identified with the Angel who stirred the waters of the pool of Bethesda, John v 1-15.

    Ravignani, of Florence, see Bellincion and Gualdrada

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Rebecca

    The wife of Isaac. An ancestress of Christ. See Genesis.
    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. She is seated in Heaven, below the Virgin.

    Paradiso Canto XXXII:37-84. Dante refers to Genesis xxv 22-27 where Jacob and Esau struggle in her womb, representing ‘two nations, and two manner of people’. Jacob was a tent-dweller and Esau a hunter, a man of the field, representing the ancient struggle between the raw and the cooked, civilisation and the wild, and ‘the elder shall serve the younger’, the wild shall serve the civilised, at the foundation of Jewish and Christian culture.

    Rehoboam

    The ten tribes revolted against Rehoboam, king of Israel, because he refused to lighten their taxes. He fled to Jerusalem. See First Kings xii 1-18.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Renard or Renouard

    A converted Saracen, the mythical brother-in-law of William of Orange and his companion in battle, retiring with him to become a monk.
    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He is in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    Rhea

    The sister of Saturn (Cronus) whom he married.
    Inferno Canto XIV:73-120. He swallowed his children to avoid them dethroning him. Enraged she bore Jupiter at night in Arcadia and he was carried to Crete and hidden in the cave of Dicte. The armed Curetes (Corybantes) stood round his golden cradle clashing weapons to hide his cries. She gave Cronus a stone wrapped in swaddling clothes which he swallowed thinking it was Jupiter (Zeus).

    Richard of St Victor

    The Augustinian mystic (died 1173), and friend of Saint Bernard who wrote a treatise called De Contemplatione.
    Paradiso Canto X:130-148. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Rimini, see Malatesta

    Rinieri, see Calboli, Corneto, Pazzo

    Ripheus

    A Trojan, who was killed at the fall of Troy. Virgil in Aeneid ii 426 et seq. says ‘he the most just of the Trojans, who never wavered from right, though the gods did not recognise his righteousness.’
    Dante connects this incident with Acts x 34 ‘God is no respecter of persons, but in every nation he that feareth him, and worketh righteousness is accepted with Him.’

    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72. He is in the sixth sphere of Jupiter.

    Paradiso Canto XX:73-148. Aquinas suggests that the good unbeliever will receive inspiration, or a teacher, from God to achieve his conversion. This opens the door to the virtuous Pagans, but note Paul’s weeping over Virgil’s tomb (traditionally), which suggests Virgil could not be saved in this way. Dante struggled with the whole concept, regarding its natural justice.

    Robert, see Guiscard

    Robert, Duke of Calabria, afterwards King of Naples

    The son of Charles II of Naples, and brother of Charles Martel. After Charles Martel’s early death, Robert ousted the son Caroberto from the throne of Naples, in 1309 after the date of the Vision. Robert and his brothers Louis and John were hostages in Spain after the release of their father Charles in 1288 (see the entry for Charles II) until 1295. Robert was accompanied back to Italy by certain greedy Catalonian adventurers, whom he gave office to, when he succeeded to the throne of Naples, and their greed made them and him detested in Apulia. He was shipwrecked in 1301.
    Paradiso Canto VIII:31-84.

    Robert, King of France

    Robert I, the son of Hugh Capet, whom he succeeded in 996.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. He is mentioned.

    Roland, see Orlando

    Romano, Cunizza da

    The sister of Ezzolino the tyrant. She was born in the castle of Romano between Venice and the sources of the Brenta and Piave. She was famous for her love affairs, had four husbands and many paramours, of whom Sordello was one. In 1265 (when she was about 67 years old) and the last survivor of her father’s family, in the house of Cavalcante de’ Cavalcanti, she executed a deed of manumission liberating her father’s serfs. She died in Florence in 1279 or 1280. Dante suggests she was a penitent.
    Paradiso Canto IX:1-66. She is in the third Heaven of those who yielded to earthly love.

    Romano, Ezzolino da

    See Azzolino.

    Romeo

    Romeo of Villeneuve (1170-1250) was the seneschal, or chamberlain of Count Raymond Berenger IV of Provence, who died in 1245 leaving his lands to his youngest daughter Beatrice, whom he had made heiress under Romeo’s guardianship. According to the legend Romeo (which simply means pilgrim) came to Raymond’s court, managed his business, and arranged the marriages of Raymond’s four daughters. The Provençal Barons persuaded Raymond to demand account of Romeo, at which he asked for his mule, staff and scrip, and vanished, as poor as he had come. The story is probably fable.
    The eldest daughter Margaret married Louis IX of France, Eleanor married Henry III of England, Sancha married Richard of Cornwall, titular King of the Romans, and Beatrice, who inherited, married Charles of Anjou, King of Naples and Sicily, and, through her inheritance, King of Provence, in Dante’s view a fitting revenge on the Provençal barons!

    Paradiso Canto VI:112-142. He is in the second sphere, of Mercury, and of those who were ambitious for honour.

    Romualdus

    A member of the Onesti family of Ravenna. He was a monk of Camaldoli in the Casentino district, who saw a vision of the heavenly ladder, and founded the Camaldolese Order, a white-robed stricter branch of the Benedictines. He died in 1027.
    Paradiso Canto XXII:1-99. He is in the seventh sphere.

    Romulus, or Quirinus

    The founder and first king of Rome (the city was traditionally founded on 21st April 753BC, Roman dates were recorded from the founding of the city, ab urbe condita). He was the brother of Remus, and the son of Mars and Ilia, called genitor, father, of the Roman people. The two brothers were reared by a she-wolf. Romulus united the Latins and Sabines (‘The Rape of the Sabine Women’) He was received into the company of the gods, as Quirinus and worshipped by the Romans. The name Rome derives from the Etruscan gens ruma.
    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. The type of a great man born from obscure origins.

    Rubicante

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.
    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75. The other demons urge him on.

    Rudolph of Hapsburg, Emperor

    The Emperor (1273-1291) who served under Ottocar II, King of Bohemia (1253-1278), but asserted his supremacy, when elected Emperor. Ottakar paid homage, but refused to return Imperial lands, and died at the battle of the Marchfeld near Vienna in 1278. Ottocar’s son Wenceslas II (1278-1305) (not the earlier king and Saint) was allowed to retain Bohemia and Moravia, but had to give up Austria and Styria (Rudolph’s sons Albert and Rudolph were invested with these), Carinthia and Carniola.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is one of the negligent rulers.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:31-84. His daughter Clemenz married Charles Martel.

    Ruggieri, see Ubaldini

    Rusticucci, Jacopo

    A Florentine who was driven to immoral practices by an unhappy marriage.
    Inferno Canto VI:64-93. Dante asks after him.

    Inferno Canto XVI:1-45. He is in the seventh circle for sodomy.

    Ruth

    A Moabite woman, the wife of Boaz, and great grandmother of David. See the Book of Ruth.
    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. She is seated in Heaven, below the Virgin.

    Sabellius

    Sabellius (3rd century). The Sabellian heresy identified the Son with the Father as one Person differing only in name. (It is later called Patripassianism ie. the Father suffers, and Modalism)
    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142. He is mentioned.

    Sabellus

    Lucan, in Pharsalia ix 763 and 790, tells of the two soldiers of Cato’s army who were stung by snakes while marching across Libya. Sabellus melted, while the other swelled.
    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. The story is mentioned.

    Sachetti, of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Saladin

    The Sultan or Soldan, Salhad-din, 1137-1193 AD, the Kurdish founder of the Ayyubid Dynasty of Egypt. He took Jerusalem in 1187AD, after defeating the Christians earlier at the battle of The Horns of Hattin. He is Dante’s type of Islamic nobility and magnificence. (See Scott’s ‘Ivanhoe’ for an image of how Saladin was perceived in terms of chivalry.)
    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. He is among the heroes and heroines in Limbo.

    Salome

    The daughter of Herodias, who was married to Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Galilee, who was therefore Salome’s stepfather. She danced before him and he granted her a request. Her mother Herodias whom John the Baptist had reproved for marrying Herod, her previous husband Philip’s brother, took her revenge by telling Salome to ask for his head. Herod reluctantly fulfilled the wish, and Salome danced naked, holding the Baptist’s head on a dish. See Mark vi 21-28.
    Paradiso Canto XVIII:100-136. The incident is alluded to.

    Salterello, Lapo

    A corrupt political lawyer, exiled with Dante and the Whites in 1302.
    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. He is mentioned.

    Salvani, Provenzano

    The leading Ghibelline among the Sienese, at Montaperti, in 1260, where the Florentines were defeated. He was the strongest advocate for the destruction of the city at the subsequent council, held at Empoli, after the battle. He is said to have once humbled himself by dressing as a beggar to procure the money to ransom a friend imprisoned by Charles of Anjou. He was defeated and killed at Colle, in Valdelsa, in June 1269, leading a mixed body of Tuscan Ghibellines and foreign mercenaries. He was captured by French cavalry under Guy de Montfort, and murdered by an exiled Guelph of the Tolomei family. ‘Siena’s plain’ is the famous piazza known as the Campo in front of the palace of the Commune.
    Purgatorio Canto XI:73-117. Purgatorio Canto XI:118-142. He is among the proud.

    Samaria, The Woman of

    A woman of Samaria, who came to draw water at the well, to whom Christ offered water, even though the Jews and Samaritans had no dealings with each other. ‘Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall never thirst.’ See John iv 7-15.
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:1-33. She is mentioned.

    Samuel

    The prophet. The son of Elkanah and Hannah, called by God. See First Samuel iii.
    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. He exists with God in the Empyrean.

    Sancha, daughter of Raymond Berenger

    Sannella, della of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Sapia, de’ Saracini

    A noble lady of Siena, the wife of Viviano dei Saracini, lord of Castiglioncello. She was one of the Guelph exiles, at Colle in the Val d’Elsa, who watched the rout of the Sienese Ghibellines, under Provenzan Salvani, who died there, on June 11th 1269. In 1265 she had assisted her husband in founding a hospice for travellers, and, after his death in 1269, gave his castle to the commune of Siena. Piero Pettignano, a Franciscan, who was beatified, prayed for her. The Sienese purchased the harbour of Talamone in 1303, for 8000 florins from the Abbot of San Salvatore, hoping to create a viable port. Talamone is on the Tyrrhenian Sea, southwest of the Sienese Maremma. It consumed vast sums of money, but could not be kept clear, and was in an unhealthy area, which caused the death of a number of the admirals (contractors) directing the dredging. Previously, in 1295, the Sienese had spent money, searching, in vain, for the stream of Diana, that was supposed to flow beneath the city.
    Purgatorio Canto XIII:85-154. She is among the envious in Purgatory.

    Sapphira

    She and her husband Ananias sold possessions but kept back part of the price when other followers of Christ sold everything and gave everything into common ownership, to allow distribution according to need. They were rebuked by Peter for hypocrisy and died. See Acts iv 32-37 and V 1-11.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. She is mentioned.

    Sarah

    The wife of Abraham. An ancestress of Christ. See Genesis.
    Paradiso Canto XXXII:1-36. She is seated in Heaven, below the Virgin.

    Sardanapalus

    King of Assyria, the type of luxury.
    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. He is mentioned.

    Satan, Dis, Lucifer

    The rebellious angel, identified with Dis, and with Lucifer ‘the son of morning’ (an incarnation of Dionysus and the other consorts of the pre-Christian great Goddess, and sharing her ‘star’ Venus) who was banished from Heaven for his pride, and in his fall penetrated into the cavern of Hell, and threw up behind him the Mountain of Purgatory. He tempted Christ in the wilderness, see Matthew iv.
    Inferno Canto VIII:64-81. The city of Dis is his city of the dead.

    Inferno Canto XI:1-66. His throne is in the ninth, the smallest circle, in the last ring, the Giudecca, of Cocytus.

    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. The poets are set down in the Ninth Circle that swallowed him.

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:1-54. Lucifer’s banners (his wings) advance, in a parody of a Latin hymn by Fortunatus (6th century), Vexilla regis prodeunt. His red, yellow and black faces indicate Hate, Powerlessness, and Ignorance, contrasted to the attributes of the Holy Trinity, namely Love, Power, and Wisdom. He is triple-faced as a representative of the pagan triple-Goddess. The three winds produced by his wings are lust, pride and avarice. He is identified with Dis.

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:70-139. He is also called Beelzebub. Virgil, carrying Dante, clambers downwards on Satan’s body, towards his thighs, and then at the centre of the earth reverses. The poets now climb again upwards, through a tunnel under the hemisphere of the earth opposite Jerusalem, to emerge at the foot of the Mountain of Purgatory. They move from evening to dawn of Easter Monday, since the opposite hemisphere is twelve hours behind Jerusalem. The little stream, they climb up alongside, is Lethe, which takes away the memory of sin and evil.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Paradiso Canto IX:127-142. Identified by Dante with Mars, the patron god of Florence.

    Paradiso Canto XIX:1-90. He fell through desiring what he did not have, and ought not to have, at that time: by anticipating knowledge and God’s Will.

    Paradiso Canto XXIX:1-66. Pride was the source of his fall, and he is imprisoned at the base of the universe.

    Saturn

    The son of heaven and Earth and ruler of the Golden Age. He was dethroned by his three sons. Warned of this he devoured his offspring at birth (see Goya’s painting of the Giant) but Rhea hid Jupiter on Ida.
    Inferno Canto XIV:73-120. He ruled Crete in the Golden Age.

    Paradiso Canto XXI:1-51. His was the Golden Age. Saturn signifies duty, control and constriction in Astrology, and placed in the fire-sign Leo, noted for its expansiveness, and pride, Dante indicates the need for temperance and moderation, the one force balancing the other, in a golden mean.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. The father by Rhea of Jupiter (and of Ceres-Demeter, Juno-Hera, Dis-Hades and Neptune-Poseidon)

    Saul

    The son of Kish, and the first King of Israel, anointed so by Samuel at Mizpeh. See First Samuel. He was defeated by the Philistines at Mount Gilboa, and fell on his sword. (First Samuel xxxi 1-4) David’s lament on Saul says ‘Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain upon you’ (Second Samuel i. 21)
    Purgatorio Canto X:46-72. His daughter was Michal.

    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Scaevola

    Paradiso Canto IV:64-114. Caius Mucius Scaevola, an early Roman who demonstrated the strength of will of the Roman people, and their disregard for their own lives, to his enemies, by setting his right hand in the coals. He had penetrated the enemy lines to kill Lars Porsena, King of Clusium, but killed the king’s secretary sitting beside him instead. He was afterwards called Scaevola, ‘left-handed’. He signifies constancy in later art. See Livy 2:12-13.

    Scala, Alberto della

    Lord of Verona, and father of Can Grande della Scala, he died the year after the Vision in 1301, having appointed his deformed and depraved, illegitimate son Guiseppe to the abbacy of San Zeno.
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:112-145. He is mentioned.

    Scala, Bartolommeo della

    Lord of Verona, his arms a ladder surmounted by the imperial eagle. Dante took refuge with him sometime between the summer of 1302 and Bartolommeo’s death in March 1304.
    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. He is mentioned.

    Scala, Can Grande della

    Inferno Canto I:61-99. Francesco (1291-1329), probably the ‘Greyhound’ of Canto I, Dante’s patron at Verona to whom the Paradiso was dedicated and who sheltered him from 1316. He received the last thirteen Cantos of the Paradiso, left unfinished at Dante’s death, from Dante’s son Jacopo. He was born in Verona (between Feltre in Venetia and Montefeltro in Romagna see Canto I). He became lord of Verona in 1311, was an Imperial Vicar, and in 1318 the head of the Ghibelline party. He was an art patron, and kept a civilised and stately court. His elder brother was Bartolommeo, who Dante took refuge with around 1303. Can Grande was one of the great military men of his age. In 1311 he showed his mettle by recovering Brescia and taking Vicenza.
    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. He is mentioned as being nine years old (nine years and one month in April 1300).

    Scala, Giuseppe della

    The illegitimate, deformed, and depraved son of Alberto della Scala who held the abbacy of San Zeno from 1291 to 1314. Dante may have known him during his stay in Verona in 1303-4.
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:112-145. He is mentioned.

    Scarmiglione, a demon

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. A demon guarding the eighth circle, the fifth chasm, of the barrators.

    Schicchi, Gianni

    A Florentine of the Cavalcanti family, known for his powers of mimicry. He was induced by Buoso Donati’s son, Simone, to impersonate his dead father and dictate a will in his favour, acquiring, in the process, the beautiful mare known as the donna della torma, the Lady of the Herd.
    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. He is a rabid spirit in the tenth chasm.

    Sciancato, Puccio

    Puccio Sciancato, ‘The Lame’, de’ GaligaiA noble Florentine, and a thief.
    Inferno Canto XXV:79-151. He is in the eighth circle.

    Scipio Africanus

    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. Publius Cornelius Scipio, who conquered Hannibal at the battle of Zama near Carthage in 202 BC. He received the title Africanus. He opposed the razing of Carthage in 146 BC when the Carthaginian survivors of the Third Punic War were sold into slavery. He was ultimately accused of high treason by Cato the Elder, the censor, and others, and died in self-imposed exile in 183 BC.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:106-132. His Triumph is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Scornigiani, Farinata de’

    The son of Marzucco, whose father showed great fortitude when his son was murdered by pardoning the murderers.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. He is with the late-repentant.

    Scornigiani, Marzucco de’

    The father of Farinata who showed great fortitude when his son was murdered, by pardoning the murderers. He was a Pisan noble who became a Franciscan friar.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. He is mentioned.

    Scot, Michael

    Michael Scott of Balwearie (c1190-1250) studied at Oxford, Paris and Toledo. He followed the Emperor Frederick II to his court, though he died in Scotland. He was a translator of Aristotle, and a famous astrologer.
    Inferno Canto XX:100-130. He is in the eighth circle.

    Scrovigni, Rinaldo degli

    Inferno Canto XVII:31-78. A Paduan usurer, said to have been the father of Enrico who had the Madonna of the Arena built at Padua (c1303) and was painted by Giotto, offering up a model of the chapel, in Giotto’s fresco of the Last Judgement. The family arms were ‘an azure sow on field argent’.

    Semele

    Inferno Canto XXX:1-48. The daughter of Cadmus of Thebes, loved by Jupiter, and destroyed by Juno who tricked her into asking Jupiter to make love to her in the guise in which he made love to Juno herself. His divine fire killed Semele. Their child was the ‘twice born’ Dionysus-Bacchus. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses II 261.
    Paradiso Canto XXI:1-51. She is mentioned.

    Semiramis

    Sammuramat, Queen of the New Assyrian Empire, ruled 810-805 BC, whose policies were successful during the minority of her son Abadnirari III. She was supposed to have succeeded her husband Shamshi-Adad V, Ninus, (according to Orosius). Though Dante is correct in believing that the Assyrians held Egypt (the Soldan’s land) it was not till much later under Esarhaddon. She surrounded Babylon with brick walls, and was the ancestress of Polydaemon. Ovid in the Metamorphoses links her to the Babylonian goddess Dercetis worshipped in Syria as Atargatis, who was half-woman and half-fish and identified with Aphrodite by the Greeks. Semiramis was her daughter, and was said to have been cast out at birth, and tended by doves. Fish and doves were sacred to Dercetis who was the consort of the Babylonian great god Adad.
    Inferno Canto V:52-72. Dante takes her as a type of licentiousness, has her ruler of Egypt (the Sultan’s land) and has her rule over many languages, presumably a reference to Babylon’s identification with the Tower of Babel.

    Seneca

    Lucius Annaeus Seneca, the Roman philosopher, moralist and senator, d.65 AD. He was a member of Zeno’s Stoic school, and tutor to the Emperor Nero who drove him to commit suicide.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Sennacherib

    King of Assyria was defeated by Hezekiah, King of Judah and killed by his own sons. See Second Kings xix 37.
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. He is depicted on the roadway.

    Sextus I, Saint and Pope

    Saint Sixtus or Sextus I, Pope (115-125).
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. He died for the faith.

    Sibyl, The

    Paradiso Canto XXXIII:49-145. The Sibyl at Cumae, the oracular voice of Apollo, wrote her oracles on leaves, which the wind scattered. See Aeneid iii 441 and vi 74.

    Sichaeus

    The husband of Dido, and a Phoenician of Sidon, whom his brother, Pygmalion King of Tyre, killed, out of greed for gold. Roused by a vision of the dead Sychaeus, Dido fled from Sidon and founded Carthage in North Africa. See Virgil’s Aeneid I 340.
    Paradiso Canto IX:67-126 Dido’s love for Aeneas wrongs the memory of Sychaeus. See Virgil’s Aeneid I 720.

    Sigier of Brabant

    Sigier (d. c. 1283) a professor in the University of Paris, where the ‘straw-littered’ Rue du Fouarre ran close to the river in the Latin Quarter, and was the centre of the Arts Schools at Paris. He disputed with the mendicant orders, and Aquinas was one of his opponents. He was driven from his University chair, and was assassinated, or executed, at the papal Court at Orvieto.
    Paradiso Canto X:130-148. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Signa, Bonifazio da

    The Guelph, Fazio de’ Mori Ubaldini da Signa, held several Florentine offices from 1310 inwards. He was a fierce opponent of the Whites.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:46-87. He is mentioned.

    Simon Magus

    Simon of Samaria (Simon the Sorcerer) who was rebuked by Saint Peter for thinking that ‘the gift of God may be purchased with money’ in Acts viii 9-24. The Simonists or Simoniacs, guilty of trading in holy offices, derive their name from him.
    Inferno Canto XIX:1-30. They are punished in the eighth circle.

    Paradiso Canto XXX:97-148. He is mentioned.

    Simonides

    The Greek lyric poet (c556-467BC).
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Sinon

    A Greek, who allowed himself to be captured by the Trojans, and lied to them, convincing them to admit the Wooden Horse into Troy.
    See Homer’s Iliad and Virgil’s Aeneid ii 57 et seq. (Dante, as a Tuscan considers himself of Trojan descent and opposed to the Greeks.)

    Inferno Canto XXX:91-129. He is in the tenth chasm.

    Siren

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:1-36. The Sirens were the daughters of Acheloüs, companions of Proserpine, who were changed to birds in order to search for her over the seas. They inhabited three small rocky islands off Campania from which they lured sailors to destruction by their sweet songs. They had the heads of women and the bodies of birds. They lured Ulysses’s sailors towards them. He resisted by having his ears plugged with wax, and having himself tied to the mast. See Homer’s Odyssey XII, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses, V 552 and XIV 88.
    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:43-69. The Siren is mentioned, as the voice of temptation.

    Paradiso Canto XII:1-36. They are mentioned.

    Sismondi, Ghibellines of Pisa

    See Ugolino.

    Sizii, of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Socrates

    The Greek philosopher, 470?-399BC. He was born after the Persian defeat at Platea in 479, and in the flowering of Athenian splendour. His greatest pupil was Plato who in his dialogues portrays Socrates critical and analytical style of philosophy. Socrates fought at Potidaea and in other actions of the Peloponnesian War with Sparta. His philosophy according to Plato was noted for his use of inductive arguments and the search for universal definitions, and his use of the conversational ‘dialectic’ to explore ideas. He died in prison, after drinking hemlock, being charged with the corruption of the State. See Plato, The Apology, Crito, etc.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Soldanieri, Gianni de’

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Gianni was a Ghibelline who nevertheless became leader of the Guelph commons of Florence, when they rebelled against the government of Guido Novello, and the Ghibelline nobles after Manfred’s defeat at Benevento in 1265.

    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Solomon

    The King of Israel, son of David and Bathsheba, so wise, before Christianity, that there was a debate, here resolved, as to whether as a Jew he was damned or saved. See First Kings iii 12.
    Paradiso Canto X:100-129. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:1-51. He is unequalled in earthly wisdom, ‘the understanding heart’.

    Paradiso Canto XIII:91-142. He chose as his gift, practical Wisdom. See First Kings iii 5-15.

    Solon

    Appointed Archon of Athens in 594BC and given dictatorial powers to serve as ‘conciliator’. He made laws that brought about the emancipation of the individual, who became a member of the polity rather than his clan, and promoted trades and crafts. The laws were codified and each citizen was allowed to bring his case to court. The peasants were emancipated and the aristocracy curtailed. The Constitution was reformed providing for a Popular Assembly and Court elected by the people (in cross-class phyles) who also elected their Council of 400. The Archons and Treasurer were elected from the members of the first class by the Popular Assembly. The new laws unfortunately created internal division.
    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. He is an archetypal lawgiver.

    Sordello

    Sordello, the poet, was born at Goito near Mantua c1200, and wrote in the Provençal language. He carried on an affair with Cunizza da Romano, Ezzelino III’s sister, and wife of Count Ricciardo di San Bonifazio, while staying at Treviso, and was obliged to flee to Provence in 1229. Sordello had abducted her for political reasons at her brother’s request. He returned in 1265 as a knight in the service of Charles of Anjou, and received possessions in the Kingdom of Naples. He died a violent death some time after June 1269. His finest poem, written about 1240, is a planh (lament) on the death of Blacatz, a Provençal baron, in the service of Count Raymond Berenger IV, in which he rebukes the kings and princes of Europe, and tells them to eat the dead man’s heart, and be inspired to valiant action. Sordello inspires Dante to a similar invective.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:49-75. He is one of the late-repentant.

    Sphinx

    The monstrous daughter of Typhon and Echidne with woman’s head, lion’s body, serpent’s tail, and eagle’s wings.Themis was the goddess of Justice, daughter of Heaven and Earth, with oracular powers, and the Sphinx was her oracular priestess, who set Oedipus the famous riddle ‘ What goes on four legs in the morning, two at midday, and three in the evening?’ which he answered correctly with ‘Mankind’. Themis in anger at the riddle being solved sent a wild beast to ravage the countryside. Dante says Naiades, instead of Laiades for Oedipus the son of Laius, following a textual corruption of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (corrected by Heinsius) in VII 759 et al where the story is referred to.
    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57. She is mentioned.

    Statius

    The poet Publius Papinius Statius, born at Naples c50AD, not Toulouse, and died there c96AD. He lived at Rome in Vespasian’s Titus’s and Domitian’s reigns, and dedicated his Thebaid to the latter, an epic about the War of the Seven against Thebes. His Achilleid, dealing with the Trojan War, was left unfinished. His shorter poems the Silvae were unknown to Dante.
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:76-136. He accompanies the Poets through the rest of Purgatory.

    Stephen, Saint

    Purgatorio Canto XV:82-145. The first Christian Martyr who was stoned to death. See Acts vii 54-60.

    Stephen Ouros II, King of Servia

    Stephen Ouros II (1275-1321) of Servia, called Rascia from its capital. He issued counterfeit Venetian coins.
    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    Stricca of Siena

    A member of the Brigata Spendereccia, the Spendthrift Brigade, a club founded by twelve wealthy Sienese, in the second half of the thirteenth century, who vied with each other in squandering their money on riotous living. Stricca was a noted spendthrift.
    Inferno Canto XXIX:121-139. He is in the tenth chasm.

    Sylvester, Saint and Pope

    Inferno Canto XIX:88-133. The Pope, Sylvester I, who according to the forged document of the Middle Ages called the Donation of Constantine, received temporal power in Italy from the Emperor Constantine. Dante regarded this as a fatal confusion of the temporal and spiritual spheres.
    Inferno Canto XXVII:58-136. He lived on Mount Soracte, and was summoned by Constantine, to cure his leprosy.

    Sylvester, Silvestro follower of St Francis

    He was a priest of Assisi, a kinsman of Saint Clare, and the only ecclesiastic among the first Franciscans. He is supposed to have tried to cheat Francis over some stone for his church, and was overcome by his unworldly generosity.
    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He is mentioned.

    Syren, The

    See Siren.

    Syrinx

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. Mercury lulled Argus, by telling her tale. She was pursued by Pan, and turned into a reed. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses i 568 et seq.

    Sychaeus, Sichaeus

    The mythical husband of Dido, Queen of Carthage. See Virgil’s Aeneid.
    Inferno Canto V:52-72. He is referred to as Dido’s husband.

    Taddeo, Alderotti

    Taddeo (Thaddeus) was a writer on medicine who made a poor translation of Aristotle’s Ethics into Italian. He died in 1303.
    Paradiso Canto XII:37-105. He is mentioned.

    Tarlati, Cino or Guccio de’

    The head of the Ghibellines in Arezzo, who drowned in the Arno, while pursuing or being pursued by the Bostoli, a family of exiled Aretine Guelphs who had taken refuge in the Castel di Rondine, after the battle of Campaldino in 1289.
    Purgatorio Canto VI:1-24. He is with the late-repentant.

    Tarquin

    Inferno Canto IV:106-129. The second of the two Etruscan Kings of Rome of that name, Tarquin the Tyrant, Tarquinius Superbus, who was expelled from Rome in a rising led by Junius Brutus in 510BC.

    Tegghiaio, see Aldobrandi

    Telemachus

    The son of Ulysses.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142. He is mentioned indirectly.

    Terence

    The Roman playwright and comic poet (195-159BC).
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Thais

    Inferno Canto XVIII:100-136. A character in Terence’s play Eunuchus. Thraso, her lover, sent her a slave girl as a present by his servant Gnaso, and when asked she gave this flattering reply via Gnaso. Cicero quotes it in De Amicitia 38. Dante turns it into direct question and answer.

    Thales

    The pre-Socratic Greek philosopher of Miletus. He is said to have died shortly before the fall of Sardis in 546/5 BC. The early scientific work ascribed to him included an almanac and the introduction of the Phoenician practice of navigating by Ursa Minor, the Little Bear. He postulated a primary element of matter, and chose water. He therefore raised the issue of the One and the Many, and is the first individual philosopher of Ionia, the cradle of Western thought.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Themis

    Themis was the goddess of Justice, daughter of Heaven and Earth, with oracular powers. The Sphinx was her oracular priestess, who set Oedipus the famous riddle ‘ What goes on four legs in the morning, two at midday, and three in the evening?’ which he answered correctly with ‘Mankind’. Themis in anger at the riddle being solved sent a wild beast to ravage the countryside. Dante says Naiades, instead of Laiades for Oedipus the son of Laius, following a textual corruption of Ovid’s Metamorphoses VII 759 et al where the story is referred to.
    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57. She is mentioned.

    Theseus

    Legendary king of Athens who killed the Minotaur, aided by Ariadne the daughter of King Minos of Crete. He also made an unsuccessful attempt to rescue Proserpine. He was punished, by being placed in Hades, and, in the version of myth Dante follows, was rescued by Hercules.
    Inferno Canto IX:34-63. The Furies seek a fuller revenge than they were able to take on Theseus, for his attempted rescue of Persephone.

    Inferno Canto XII:1-27. The killer of the Minotaur.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:100-154. He was present at the battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs.

    Thetis

    The sea goddess, the daughter of Nereus and Doris. The wife of Peleus, and mother of Achilles.
    Purgatorio Canto IX:34-63. She hid her son Achilles on Scyros to try and save him from his fate at Troy.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. She is in Limbo. One of the people celebrated by Statius in his epic poetry.

    Thibaut II, King of Navarre

    Teobaldo II, Thibaut V Count of Champagne, King of Navarre (1253-1270), son of the poet-king Thibaut I mentioned by Dante in his De Vulgari Eloquentia.
    Inferno Canto XXII:31-75. He is Ciampolo’s master.

    Thisbe

    A Babylonian girl, who in Ovid’s story (Metamorphoses IV 55-166) kills herself, when she finds that Pyramus, her lover, has, in turn, killed himself. He wrongly believes that a lion has savaged and taken her, on reaching their meeting place. The mulberry tree under which they were to meet has red fruit thereafter, its leaves and roots being soaked with his blood. The story is one of true love, and Shakespeare used it as a basis for the ending of Romeo and Juliet, despite his unfortunate ridiculing of the story in The Midsummer Night’s Dream.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:1-45. The story is mentioned.

    Thomas, Saint, the Apostle

    Didymus ‘twin’, doubting Thomas, the apostle who needed physical verification of the resurrection. (See Verrochio’s wonderful bronze in Florence which Leonardo may have had a hand in.)
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned. His feast day is December 21st.

    Thomas Aquinas, Saint

    The ‘Angelic Doctor’ of theology, and medieval philosopher (c1225-1274). He entered the Dominican order, and sought to achieve a synthesis between Aristotelian philosophy and Christian thought. There was an erroneous tradition that he was poisoned in the Abbey of Fossanuova, at the instigation of Charles of Anjou, while travelling to the Council of Lyons in 1274.
    Purgatorio Canto XX:43-96. His death is mentioned.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:115-154. He recommended sobriety to women and young people, quoting Valerius Maximus II i. 3 ‘Vini usus olim romanis feminis ignotus fuit: the use of wine was once unknown to young Roman women.’

    Paradiso Canto X:64-99. He is in the fourth sphere of Prudence. He was the pupil of Albertus Magnus, and with him ‘christianised’ Aristotle. Aquinas completed the work in Summa contra Gentiles, and Summa Theologica. A man of sweetness and holiness he was canonized in 1323, two years after Dante’s death, and influenced Dante greatly.

    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is mentioned.

    Tiberius Caesar

    The third Caesar (14-37AD) in whose reign Christ was crucified. He campaigned against the German tribes. He stifled the conspiracy of Sejanus, who was executed, and, embittered, retired to Capri in 27AD and died at Misenum.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Tiresias

    The Theban seer. He spent seven years in the form of a woman after striking a pair of coupling snakes. On striking them again he was changed back. He was therefore called upon, by Jupiter, to judge an argument, between himself and Juno, as to whether men or women get the most pleasure from lovemaking. Deciding in favour of women, and so Jupiter, Juno struck him blind, Jupiter giving him the power of prophecy to compensate for his blindness.
    See Ovid’s Metamorphoses III 324-332.

    Inferno Canto XX:31-51. He is in the eighth circle.

    Tithonus

    The son of Laomedon, and husband of Aurora, the goddess of the dawn. His wife gained eternal life for him, but not eternal youth. Dante makes the lunar aurora his mistress, while the solar aurora is his wife. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses IX 421.
    Purgatorio Canto IX:1-33. He is mentioned.

    Titus

    The Roman Emperor (79-81 AD), son of Vespasian, who captured Jerusalem and destroyed and looted the Temple in 70AD. The eruption of Pompeii occurred in his reign.
    Purgatorio Canto XXI:76-136. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history. Dante’ views him as having revenged the death of Christ, which was in turn God’s vengeance on Mankind for the sin of the Fall.

    Tityus, Tityos

    A Giant, hurled into Tartarus beneath Mount Etna, by Jupiter.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. He helps guard the central pit.

    Tobit

    Paradiso Canto IV:1-63. The Archangel Raphael helped his son Tobias to cure his blindness. See O. T. Apocrypha, the Book of Tobit.

    Tomyris

    The Scythian queen whose son was murdered by Cyrus, the Persian King, and who in turn murdered Cyrus, throwing his head into a cauldron of blood, saying ‘Satia te sanguine quem sitisti cuius per annos triginta insatiabilis perseverasti’ ‘Be sated with the blood you thirsted for, that you insatiably persisted in drinking for thirty years.’ (Orosius ii 7, ch 6).
    Purgatorio Canto XII:1-63. She is depicted on the roadway.

    Torquatus

    Titus Manlius Torquatus, dictator and consul 353-340BC.
    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Mentioned in the summary of Imperial history.

    Tosinghi, Della Tosa, of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned indirectly.

    Trajan, Emperor

    Adopted Emperor (98-117AD), after the mutiny of the Praetorian Guard (97). The first Emperor of Provincial origin. He was given the title Optimus by the Senate in 117. He oversaw the greatest extent of the Roman Empire, conquering Dacia, Armenia, Assyria, Mesopotamia, and Arabia. Dante gives the popular story of Trajan and the widow derived from the Fiore di Filosofi. Pope Gregory supposedly interceded on his behalf through prayer, to bring about Trajan’s deliverance from hell, to allow him time for repentance.
    Purgatorio Canto X:73-96. The story is depicted on the frieze.

    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72. He is in the sixth sphere of Jupiter.

    Paradiso Canto XX:73-148. He returned from hell to his body at Gregory’s intercession which was predestined and then was saved at the second death.

    Traversari, Piero

    A Ghibelline of Ravenna, (c1145-1225), and the most distinguished member of the Traversara family. He was repeatedly Podestà of Ravenna. From a family of noble Ghibellines, Pier’s son Paolo turned Guelph on his father’s death, and the family influence declined until the Traversari were virtually extinct by 1300.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Tribaldello, Tebaldello

    One of the Zambrasi of Faenza who had a spite against the Ghibelline Lambertazzi, a Bolognese family, opened the gate to their enemies, the Geremei, a Bolognese Guelph family, after the Lambertazzi had taken refuge in Faenza in 1280.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Tristram, Tristan

    The legendary lover of Isolde (Iseult) in the Medieval stories centred around King Arthur. The type of the great lover. (See Gottfried Von Strassburg’s Tristan). He was Tristan of Lyonesse, one of King Arthur’s knights who loved Iseult (Yseult) the wife of King Mark of Cornwall, who subsequently killed him.
    Inferno Canto V:52-72. He is a carnal sinner in Limbo.

    Tully, Cicero

    Marcus Tullius Cicero, 106-43BC, the Roman orator and statesman, born at Arpinum of a wealthy family. He was elected Consul in 63BC, and supported Pompey. His writings were influential on medieval thinking.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the group of wise men in Limbo.

    Turnus

    Inferno Canto I:100-111. The young king of the Rutulians, an Italian people with their capital at Ardea, south of Rome, not far from modern Anzio. His death at the hands of Aeneas is described in Book XII of the Aeneid and concludes the work. Also see Ovid, The Metamorphoses Book XV. Aeneas married Lavinia, Turnus’s intended bride.

    Tydeus

    He killed Menalippus, in the war of the Seven against Thebes, though mortally wounded by him. When Menalippus’s head was brought to him he gnawed at the skull, in a frenzy of rage. See Statius, The Thebaid viii.
    Inferno Canto XXXII:70-123. He is mentioned.

    Typhoeus, or Typhon

    A Giant, hurled into Tartarus beneath Mount Etna, by Jupiter.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:97-145. He helps guard the central pit.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:31-84. He is mentioned in connection with Sicily.

    Ubaldini, Ottaviano degli, Cardinal

    Cardinal Ottiaviano degli Ubaldini who died in 1273 was known simply as ‘the Cardinal’. He is reported to have rejoiced at the outcome of Montaperti, the only one at the Papal Court to do so, and to have said: ‘If I have a soul, I have lost it a thousand times over on behalf of the Ghibellines.’ The Ghibellines were often unfairly accused of heresy for political reasons. Dante seems to assess individuals purely on spiritual grounds.
    Inferno Canto X:94-136. He is among the heretics in the Sixth Circle.

    Ubaldini, Ruggieri degli, Archbishop of Pisa

    In 1288 Ugolino della Gherardesca A leading Guelph of Pisa, who led one party while his grandson Nino de’ Visconti led the other, intrigued with Ruggieri, the Archbishop, the nephew of Cardinal Ottaviano degli Ubaldini, and leader of the Ghibellines in Pisa, who was supported by the Lanfranchi, Sismondi, Gualandi and other families, and Nino was expelled. The Archbishop however betrayed him and had Ugolino and four of his sons and grandsons (his sons were Gaddo, and Uguccione, his grandsons Nino, called Brigata, and Anselmuccio or ‘little Anselm’) imprisoned in the Torre dei Gualandi in July 1288. When Guido da Montefeltro took command of the Pisan forces, in March 1289, the keys were thrown into the river Arno and the prisoners left to starve to death, even a priest being denied them. The tower was known afterwards as the Torre della Fame, the Tower of Famine. (See Blake’s tempera illustration ‘Ugolino with his sons and grandsons in Prison’, Private Collection.) Ugolino had previously acquired a reputation by the surrender of certain castles to the Florentine and Lucchese after the defeat of the Pisans by the Genoese at Meloria in 1284. (The islands of Caprara and Gorgona mentioned, north-west of Elba, and south-west of Livorno respectively, were held by Pisa at the time.)
    Inferno Canto XXXIII:1-90. He is in the Ninth Circle.

    Ubaldini, Ubaldino dalla Pila degli

    A member of the Tuscan Ghibelline family, and brother to Cardinal Ottaviano, father of Archbishop Ruggieri of Pisa, and uncle of Ugolino d’Azzo.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:1-33. He is among the gluttonous.

    Ubaldini, Ugolino d’Azzo degli

    A wealthy nobleman of Faenza. He married Beatrice Lanzia the daughter of Provenzan Salvani and died in 1293 at a great age.
    Purgatorio Canto XIV:67-123. He is mentioned.

    Ubaldo, Saint

    Bishop of Gubbio 1160, selected a hermitage site on the mountain nearby, but was unable ever to retire there.
    Paradiso Canto XI:43-117. He is mentioned.

    Ubbriachi, of Florence

    Inferno Canto XVII:31-78. The Florentine Ubbriachi family were Ghibellines. Their arms were ‘a goose argent upon field gules’.

    Uberti, Farinata degli

    The head of the Uberti clan from 1239, who supported the Ghibellines, Dante’s party, annihilated the Florentine Guelfs at the battle of Montaperti (a village near Siena, on a hill near the River Arbia) on September 4th 1260. Farinata opposed the destruction of Florence urged by the Sienese, and Pisans, but after the final triumph of the Guelfs in 1266, the family were excluded from amnesty, and banished forever. When Arnolfo di Cambio built the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence he was forbidden to build where the rebel Uberti houses had stood. Farinata died around 1264.
    Inferno Canto VI:64-93. Dante enquires of him.

    Inferno Canto X:22-51. Farinata is in the Sixth Circle as a heretic, and recalls the overthrow of his Guelf enemies in 1248 and 1260, and Dante their return in 1251 and 1266. The Uberti were forbidden to return, even after the pacification in 1280.

    Inferno Canto X:73-93. He prophesies Dante’s failed attempt to return from exile, and then explains the knowledge the dead have of the world above, having prophetic vision, but unable to see things that actually happen, once they are dead.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. The family and its pride mentioned.

    Ubertino of Casale

    Ubertino (1259-1338) leader of the Spirituals, the party of strict observance within the Franciscan Order.
    Paradiso Canto XII:106-145. He is mentioned.

    Ughi, of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Ugo, Marquis of Tuscany

    Hugo of Brandenburg, Imperial Vicar of Tuscany for Otho III, died on Saint Thomas’s day. He had created many knights of the families who all retained his coat of arms (barry white and red with divers charges). The Della Bella had a gold border to the arms.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned.

    Ugolino, see Fantolini, Gherardesca, Ubaldini

    Uguccione della Gherardesca

    See Ugolino.

    Ulysses

    The Greek hero, from Ithaca, the son of Laërtes (or by repute Sisyphus) and the great-grandson of Mercury through his mother Anticlea, daughter of the thief Autolycus. He was noted for his cunning and intelligence. See Homer The Iliad, and The Odyssey, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses XIII and XIV. He discovered Achilles hiding on Scyros, where his mother Thetis had concealed him, at the court of Lycomedes, and took him to the Trojan War. Deidamia fell in love with him, and bore him a son, and died of grief when he left. Ulysses stole the Palladium, a wooden statue of Pallas Athene, the safety of which guaranteed the safety of Troy, and he invented the Trojan Horse, by which the Greeks entered Troy. However Troy’s destruction led to Aeneas’s wanderings and the later founding of Rome, by Romulus. Dante is in that sense a Trojan descended from Aeneas, and therefore hostile to Greeks, and vice versa.
    Inferno Canto XXVI:43-84. He is in the eighth circle, eighth chasm.

    Inferno Canto XXVI:85-142. He makes a last voyage, Of Dante’s invention, to the Mount of Purgatory, in the southern hemisphere, via Gibraltar and the Atlantic, where he is wrecked.

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:1-36. The Siren’s song seduced his sailors, and drove his ship off course. He resisted by having himself tied to the mast, and filling his ears with wax. See Homer’s Odyssey XII.

    Paradiso Canto XXVII:67-96. His voyage beyond Cadiz is mentioned.

    Urania, the Muse

    One of the Nine Muses, the mother of Linus the poet by Apollo (though some say otherwise). She was later the Muse of Astronomy, and heavenly things, including the music of the spheres.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:37-61. Dante invokes her aid.

    Urban I, Saint and Pope

    Saint Urban I, Pope (222-230 AD).
    Paradiso Canto XXVII:1-66. He died for the faith.

    Uzzah

    Purgatorio Canto X:46-72. Uzzah is referred to indirectly. He was the son of Abinadab who, when King David danced before the Ark of the Covenant, put his hand out to steady it, because the oxen shook it, and God struck him down, and he died there. See Second Samuel vi 6.

    Valbona, Lizio di

    See Lizio.

    Valéry, see Alardo

    Vanni, see Fucci

    Varro

    Publius Terentius Varro Atacinus, the Roman author of epics and satires (82-36BC)
    Purgatorio Canto XXII:94-114. He is in Limbo.

    Vechietti, of Florence

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. One of the ancient Guelph families. The Vecchio.

    Venedico, see Caccianimico

    Venus, Cytherea, Aphrodite

    The daughter of Jupiter and Dione, and the goddess of Love. As Cytherea she sprang from the sea-foam near that Aegean island. (See Botticelli’s painting The Birth of Venus, Uffizi Gallery, Florence). She is the mother of Cupid, mother of Aeneas by Anchises, lover of Mars and Adonis, and the dove is her sacred bird. As the planet Venus, she is the morning and evening star, and an incarnation of Ashtaroth, or Ishtar, the Assyro-Babylonian goddess. Her attributes, assumed from that goddess, were inherited by the Virgin Mary. She is stella maris, the star of the sea etc.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:94-114. The planet is called, Cytherea.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:52-138.Cupid accidentally wounded her, making her fall in love with Adonis. See Ovid’s Metamorphoses X 524-735.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:1-30. She is called the Cyprian, the island of Cyprus being sacred to her. Dione is her mother, Cupid her son.

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. Dione’s daughter.

    Veronica

    Saint Veronica gave her handkerchief to Christ to wipe his brow as he carried the Cross, and when he returned it to her it was said to carry the imprint of his features. It was exhibited at Rome each year at New Year and Easter.
    Paradiso Canto XXXI:94-142. It is mentioned.

    Verrucchio, see Malatesta

    Victor, Saint see Hugh and Richard

    Vigne, Piero delle

    Chancellor of the Two Sicilies, and minister to the Emperor Frederick II. (c1190-1249) He recast the laws, and was in Frederick’s confidence until 1247, when he was accused of plotting with Pope Innocent IV, was blinded, and imprisoned, subsequently committing suicide. He was born in poverty in Capua. He was a poet, and said to have composed the first Italian sonnet. He was compared, at the height of his power, to St Peter, holding the keys of punishment and mercy.
    Inferno Canto XIII:31-78. He is in the seventh circle.

    Virgil

    Publius Vergilius Maro, the Roman poet, born at Andes near Mantua 70BC, author of the Aeneid, and Dante’s guide from Inferno I to Purgatorio XXX. Julius Caesar died too early to be his patron, in 44BC. He is the type of Human Philosophy, which guides the mind from unworthiness to bliss. Virgil wrote the pastoral Eclogues, the philosophic Georgics, and the epic Aeneid, based on models provided by Theocritus, Hesiod and Homer. He died 19BC and was buried at Naples. The Aeneid, the story of Aeneas, provided the link to Dante between the Greek world of Homer and Troy, and the Roman Empire.
    Inferno Canto I:61-99. He meets Dante and becomes his guide. His position is amongst the virtuous pagans, and he must turn back from Paradise.

    Inferno Canto XIII:31-78. In Aeneid iii 22, Virgil gives the episode of Polydorus from which Dante developed the wood of suicides.

    Purgatorio Canto III:1-45. Virgil’s biographers, Suetonius and Donatus, record that Augustus ordered Virgil’s body moved from Brindisi (Brundisium) in southeast Italy, where he died on an abortive journey to Greece, back to Naples (Parthenope). In La Pia’s words to Dante there is an echo of the lines on Virgil’s tomb, at Naples, ‘MANTUA ME GENUIT, CALABRI RAPUERE, TENET NUNC PARTHENOPE : CECINI PASCUA, RURA, DUCES.’ ‘Mantua bore me, Calabria took me, Naples holds me: I sang of pastures, farms, and heroes.’

    Purgatorio Canto VI 25-48. See Aeneid vi 372 where Aeneas, in the underworld, guided by the Sibyl, meets his pilot Palinurus, who, drowned at sea, and not properly buried, cannot cross the Acheron for a hundred years. He entreats Aeneas to carry him across, at which the Sibyl tells him: ‘Cease to imagine that divine decree can be altered by prayer.’ Virgil explains that the words were uttered in a Pagan world, where Christian prayers had as yet no efficacy, since they were not uttered from a state of grace.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:25-54. Statius refers to the lines from the Aeneid iii 56-57: ‘quid non mortalia pectora cogis Auri sacra fames: why do you not drive the human heart, accursed greed for gold?’ Though Statius suffers for his prodigality, not avarice, he was alerted to his sin by all the dimensions of the power of gold.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:55-93. Statius refers to Virgil’s Eclogue iv 5-7, The Golden Age renews. (‘Iam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto: Now a new race descends from the high heavens.’)

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:115-142. He speaks to Dante for the last time, is still present, but silent, in Canto XXIX 55-56, and Dante mourns his loss in Canto XXX 46-59. He crowns Dante as king and bishop over himself i.e. Dante is beyond earthly temporal and spiritual power and in the primal realm beyond the worldly institutions of Empire and Church.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:1-48. Those in the chariot repeat words from Aeneid vi 884, ‘Manibus o date lilia plenis: Give lilies from full hands! I too shall scatter scarlet flowers…’ the words said by Anchises regarding the funeral of Iulus (Ascanius) his grandson.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:49-81. Just prior to the appearance of Beatrice, Dante’s guide in Paradise, Virgil, has turned back towards Limbo, his guidance no longer needed, or possible. Dante’s last words directed towards him, though he has already departed, are a quotation from his own Aeneid iv:23, ‘Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae: I know the tokens of the ancient flame.’

    Visconti, Galeazzo, of Milan

    He married Beatrice d’Este, after the death of her first husband Nino de’ Visconti of Pisa. His arms were a viper.
    Purgatorio Canto VIII:46-84. He is alluded to.

    Visconti, Nino

    Nino Visconti of Pisa, judge of Gallura, one of the four jurisdictions of Sardinia (Cagliari, Logodoro, Gallura, and Arborea) which belonged at the time to Pisa. He hanged Friar Gomita who took bribes to release prisoners etc. He married Beatrice d’Este, daughter of Obizzo d’Este II of Ferrara, by whom he had a daughter Giovanna, voted a pension by the Guelphs in 1328. After Nino’s death Beatrice married Galeazzo Visconti of Milan, a separate branch. The Milanese Visconti suffered misfortune in 1302. The arms of the Milanese Visconti was a viper, that of Nino, a cock. Giovanna married Riccardo da Cammino of Treviso. The arrangements for Beatrice’s marriage were in progress at easter 1300, and the wedding took place in the June.
    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96. Gomita is in the eighth circle.

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:46-84. Nino is with the negligent rulers.

    Visdomini, of Florence

    An ancient Florentine family. See the note to Paradiso Canto XVI.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Mentioned indirectly.

    Vitaliano, del Dente, or di Jacopo Vitalliani

    Inferno Canto XVII:31-78. One of these Paduan usurers may be intended here.

    Vulcan

    The son of Juno, who was the god of fire and the blacksmith of the gods, and with the Cyclopes forged Jupiter’s lightning bolt in the fires of Mount Aetna on Sicily.
    Inferno Canto XIV:43-72.

    Wenceslaus, King of Bohemia

    Ottocar’s son Wenceslas II (1278-1305)(not the earlier king and Saint) was allowed to retain Bohemia and Moravia, after his father’s death, but had to give up Austria and Styria (Rudolph I’s sons Albert and Rudolph were invested with these), Carinthia and Carniola. He was seemingly noted for his sybaritic ways. He was still alive at the time of the Vision.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is mentioned, unfavourably.

    Paradiso Canto XIX:91-148. He is held as an example of poor kingship.

    William of Orange

    The hero of French Romance, historically one of Charlemagne’s knights, who, after fighting the Saracens, retired to die as a monk in 812.
    Paradiso Canto XVIII:1-57. He is in the Fifth Sphere of Mars.

    William II, King of Sicily

    William, the Good, Norman King of Sicily and Naples (1166-1189), the last king of the House of Tancred, reigning over ‘The Two Sicilies’. He was the nephew of the Empress Constance. He is considered a model ruler by Dante.
    Paradiso Canto XX:1-72. He is in the sixth sphere of Jupiter.

    William, Marquis of Montferrat

    William Longsword, Marquis of Montferrat and Canavese (1254-1292), one of the most powerful and active warrior lords of his age. He also ruled Tortona, Pavia and Vercelli. He favoured Charles of Anjou but turned against him, joined by several towns including Alessandria in Piedmont. Alessandria rebelled against William himself in 1290. He was captured by the citizens, and exhibited in an iron cage until his death seventeen months later in 1292. His son John tried to avenge him, but failed, though causing great suffering in Alessandria, and Canavese, which was part of its territory.
    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. He is one of the negligent rulers.

    Xerxes

    King of Persia (495-465BC) who crossed the Hellespont, the modern Dardanelles, at the gateway to the Black Sea, by a bridge of boats, and returned, having lost an army and a navy, defeated by the Greek Alliance. See Orosius ii 9,10.
    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:52-138. He is mentioned.

    Paradiso Canto VIII:85-148. The type of the military leader.

    Zanche, Michel

    The Vicar in Logodoro, Sardinia, of Enzio, the natural son of Frederick II, who made Enzio King of Sardinia. He married Adelasia di Torres, mistress of Logodoro and Gallura (northwest and northeast respectively). Enzio was captured by the Bolognese in 1249, and died a prisoner in 1271. Adelasia divorced him and married Zanche, who governed corruptly till his murder by his son-in-law Branca d’Oria, about 1290.
    Inferno Canto XXII:76-96. He is in the eighth circle.

    Inferno Canto XXXIII:91-157. His murderer Branca is in the ninth.

    Zeno, the philosopher

    This is not Zeno the Eleatic philosopher, but Zeno of Cittium c.310BC, the founder of the Stoic school of which Seneca was a member.
    Inferno Canto IV:130-151. He is among the philosophers in Limbo.

    Zeno, Abbot of San.

    Gherardo II (d 1187), Abbot of the church and monastery of San Zeno in Verona, who lived during the reign of Frederick Barbarossa.
    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:112-145. He is among the Slothful.

    Zita, Santa

    Inferno Canto XXI:31-58. The patron saint of Lucca. The cathedral there has a crucifix with the face of Christ, santo volto, supposed to have been carved by Nicodemus, and finished by the Angels. Its help was invoked in times of need. (The River Serchio flows a few miles north)
    Notes to Dante’s Inferno

    Contents

    InfNote 1. Structure
    InfNote 2. Chronology, See also the Chronology of the Purgatorio and Paradiso.
    InfNote 3. The Salvation of Italy
    InfNote 4. Ciacco’s prophecy in Canto VI.
    InfNote 5. Arles and Pola.
    InfNote 6. Sodom and Cahors.
    InfNote 7. The Old Man of Crete.
    InfNote 8. The Origins of Florence.
    InfNote 9. Vanni Fucci’s prophecy.
    InfNote 10. Montereggione and the bronze pine-cone of St Peter’s.
    InfNote 1. Structure

    The regions of Dante’s Hell are subdivided, mirroring his descent with Virgil, as follows. The conception derives from Aristotle, Cicero, and Christian teachings. There are twenty-four divisions in all. There are three major groupings divided into seven Circles, consisting of those who failed to exercise self-control (Circles 2-5), the violent (Circle 7), and the fraudulent and traitorous (Circles 8-9). Added to these are the Heathen (Circle 1), the Heretics (Circle 6) and, outside the Acheron, the spiritually neutral. There are thus nine Circles, plus the region this side of Acheron, making ten major divisions. This pattern of three, divided to make seven, augmented to nine and then ten, is the fundamental architecture of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. The keynote of Hell is Charity or Pity, of the Purgatorio, Hope, and of the Paradiso, Faith.

    Canto III. This side of Acheron. The Dark Plain.

    The spiritually neutral, who lived ‘without praise or blame’ and the angels who ‘were neither faithful nor rebellious’. Their punishment is to ‘ have no hope of death’ and to ‘envy every other condition than their own’.

    Canto IV. The First Circle. Limbo. The Heathens.

    Those who lived before Christianity or were unbaptised. Their punishment is ‘without hope to live in desire’

    Canto V. The Second Circle. Hell proper. The first division of those lacking self-restraint. The Carnal sinners.

    The carnal sinners, blown endlessly though the air in darkness.

    Canto VI. The Third Circle. The second division of those lacking self-restraint. The Gluttonous.

    The gluttons, drenched in hail, snow and dark water.

    Canto VII. The Fourth Circle. The third division of those lacking self-restraint. The Avaricious and the Prodigal.

    The misers and the spendthrifts, endlessly rolling heavy weights.

    Canto VII. The Fifth Circle. The Styx. The fourth division of those lacking self-restraint. The Angry and the Sullen.

    The angry and sullen, sunk in the Stygian marsh. On top are the wrathful struggling with each other, below under the bog are the sullen and lazy who ‘sigh and make it bubble at the surface’.

    Cantos IX and X. The City of Dis (Lucifer, Satan). The Sixth Circle. The Heretics.

    The Heretics and their followers, incarcerated in red-hot tombs.

    Canto XII. The Seventh Circle of the Violent. The First Round. The River of Blood. The Violent against others.

    The violent against others, the murderers, tyrants, and assassins, sunk in the River of Blood. They are guarded by Centaurs.

    Canto XIII. The Seventh Circle of the Violent. The Second Round. The Wood of Suicides. The Violent against themselves.

    The suicides, transformed to trees which bleed etc.

    Cantos XIV-XVII. The Seventh Circle of the Violent. The Third Round. The Plain of Burning Sand. The violent against God and Nature.

    The violent against God, the blasphemers, lying supine on the burning sand. The violent against Nature, the sodomites, roaming the sand. The violent against Nature and Art, the usurers, crouched on the sand.

    Canto XVIII. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The First Chasm. The pimps and seducers.

    The pimps and seducers scourged by horned Demons.

    Canto XVIII. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Second Chasm. The flatterers.

    The flatterers, smeared with filth and excrement.

    Canto XIX. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Third Chasm. The Simonists, those who sell spiritual offices.

    The Simonists, the soles of their feet seared endlessly with fire.

    Canto XX. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Fourth Chasm. The augerers, diviners, astrologers and prophets.

    The augerers, their faces twisted round, forced to walk backwards.

    Cantos XXI-XXIII. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Fifth Chasm. The Barrators, who exploited their public office.

    The barrators, barterers, or peculators covered in boiling pitch, and guarded and tormented by Demons.

    Canto XXIII. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Sixth Chasm. The hypocrites.

    The hypocrites, weighed down with cloaks of gilded lead.

    Cantos XXIV-XXV. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Seventh Chasm. The thieves.

    The thieves, in the ditch of dragons and serpents.

    Cantos XXVI-XXVII. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Eighth Chasm. The evil counsellors.

    The evil counsellors, wrapped in flames of conscience.

    Canto XXVIII. The Eighth Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Ninth Chasm. The sowers of discord.

    The sowers of dissension, discord, scandal, sectarianism and schism. Their bodies are split or mutilated in some way reflecting their sin.

    Cantos XXIX-XXX. The Eight Circle of the Fraudulent. Malebolge. The Tenth and last Chasm. The forgers.

    The forgers and falsifiers in things, actions and words, tormented by disease and putrefaction.

    Canto XXXII. The Ninth Circle of the Treacherous. Cocytus. The Central Pit or Well. The First Ring. Caïna. Treachery against kin.

    The traitors to their kin, frozen in the ice. The ring is named after Cain, who murdered Abel.

    Canto XXXII-XXXIII. The Ninth Circle of the Treacherous. Cocytus. The Central Pit or Well. The Second Ring. Antenora. Treachery against country.

    The traitors to their city or country, frozen in the ice. The ring is named after Antenor who was supposed to have betrayed Troy to the Greeks.

    Canto XXXIII. The Ninth Circle of the Treacherous. Cocytus. The Central Pit or Well. The Third Ring. Ptolomaea. Treachery against friends and guests.

    The treacherous to friends and guests, frozen in the ice. The ring is named after Ptolemy the murderer of Simon Maccabeus.

    Canto XXXIV. The Ninth Circle of the Treacherous. The Central Pit or Well. The Fourth and Last Ring. The Judecca. The traitors to their lords and benefactors.

    The betrayers of their masters and benefactors, fixed solid under the ice. The winged form of the Arch Traitor Satan at the centre, towards whom all streams of Guilt flow, frozen from the chest downwards. The ring is named after Judas, the disciple who betrayed Christ.

    InfNote 2. Chronology, See also the Chronology of the Purgatorio and Paradiso.

    The Vision is set in 1300, when Dante was thirty-five, in the middle of a seventy-year life-span (Inf I:1, Inf XVIII:28-33, Inf XXI:112-114, Purg II:98-99, Par IX: 40). It is Easter. The poem begins at the Spring Equinox and the sun’s position remains fixed throughout, in Aries, as according to medieval tradition it was at the Creation. (Inf I:38-40, Par X:7-33, Par I:37-44).
    The Inferno begins on the evening prior to Good Friday (Inf XXI:112-114) at the full moon (Inf XX:124-127, Inf XXI:112-114, Purg IX:1-9). The full set of conditions is imaginary, not corresponding to the actual equinox of 1300.

    With the sun at the equinox, the sun will be in the following signs during the day:

    Sunrise, 6-8am Aries  |   8-10am Taurus  |   10-12noon  |   Gemini  |   12-2pm Cancer  |   2-4pm Leo  |   4-6pm, Sunset Virgo

    The following signs will be rising in the east and setting in the west during the night:

    Rising 6pm Libra  |   8pm Scorpio  |   10pm Sagittarius  |   12midnight Capricorn  |   2am Aquarius  |   4am Pisces

    Setting 6pm Aries  |   8pm Taurus  |   10pm Gemini  |   12midnight Cancer  |   2am Leo  |   4am Virgo

    Canto I

    Inferno Canto I:1-60. The poem opens on the evening prior to Good Friday in the dark wood. Dante witnesses the dawn of Good Friday at 6am on the equinox with the sun rising in Aries. He meets Virgil and travels with him until the evening of Good Friday.

    Canto II

    Inferno Canto II:1-42. The canto starts at the evening of Good Friday.

    Canto VII:97-99

    Inferno Canto VII:67-99. At this point in the Fifth Circle it is past midnight since the stars of Libra (The scales of Justice) that were ascending in the evening sky are now falling from the mid-heaven. It is now Saturday pre-dawn.

    Canto XI:112-114

    Inferno Canto XI:94-115. At the end of the canto, before the descent to the Seventh Circle, Pisces, the Fishes, is visible on the horizon and must have risen in the east at 4am some time before. Bootës, or the Wain, is (correctly: see a star chart for the northern hemisphere in April, or observe it) in the north-west. (Caurus is the north-west wind). It is therefore near dawn of Saturday.

    Canto XX:124-129

    Inferno Canto XX:100-130. At the end of the canto, in the Fourth Chasm of the Eighth Circle, the moon is about to set over the Pillars of Hercules in the West. Being full it will have set at dawn on Good Friday and now a day later will set after dawn. Dante does take account of the moon’s daily movement (See Purg IX:1-11). The moon moves about 12 degrees a day, relative to the ‘fixed’ stars, which equates to 48 minutes, and has not yet set, though it is touching the horizon, so subject to Dante’s astronomical sources, it is approximately 6.45am on Saturday morning, possibly a little earlier.

    Canto XXI:112-114

    Inferno Canto XXI:97-139. At this point of the Fifth Chasm of the Eighth Circle it is five hours earlier than the time of Christ’s death, at noon, so it is 7am Saturday. (As the Easter of the year 1300 =1266+34 full years from the crucifixion on Good Friday, supposing Christ to be incarnated in December of BC1 and to die at age 33, celebrating the anniversary of his 33rd year in December 33AD)

    Canto XXIX:10

    Inferno Canto XXIX:1-36. The moon is at nadir, in the Tenth Chasm, and allowing for its daily movement it is therefore approximately 1pm on the Saturday.

    Canto XXXIV:67

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:55-69. It is 6pm Saturday and night is falling as the poets leave Hell by clambering down Satan’s sides then turning and climbing up to the little sphere which marks the reverse side of the deepest point of the Judecca. This takes them an hour and a half until 7.30pm Saturday.

    Canto XXXIV:94-97 and 103-118

    Inferno Canto XXXIV:70-139. It is morning on the opposite side of the earth to Jerusalem, and evening in Hell is dawn there. It is now mid-tierce, the middle of the first of the four canonical divisions of the day. At the equinox each takes three hours, so tierce is 6am to 9am and we may take it that it is now 7.30am Sunday as the poets begin their ascent by the channel cut there by the River Lethe. Their ascent to the foot of Mount Purgatory takes them all this Sunday and Sunday night, so that they complete it just before dawn on the morning of Easter Monday.

    InfNote 3. The Salvation of Italy

    There are various interpretations of Dante’s imagery, for example that the leopard (panther) represents Florence and worldly pleasure, lust or envy; the lion the Royal House of France, and ambition or pride; the she-wolf the Papacy, and avarice. Lust, pride and avarice are the three roots of sin. The imagery of the three animals may come from Jeremiah (v.6). The she-wolf, the Papacy, made many alliances.
    The Greyhound (Veltro) has been suggested to be Can Grande della Scala, born in Verona, between Feltro in Venetia and Montefeltro in Romagna, the great Ghibelline leader. Dante’s later patron, he may have been regarded by Dante as the deliverer who would restore Imperial power, reinstitute Roman law, eliminate avarice, bring peace, and establish a reformed order of things.

    Dante, whose father Aldighiero was a Guelf, and supporter of the papacy, traced his ancestry back to Cacciaguida, a crusader under Emperor Conrad III, and identified with the Romans who had allied Florence to Imperial Rome. He was of the populo vecchio, the populus, the old inhabitants, not the plebs, from Fiesole etc. Dante’s opposition however to the dishonesty and corruption of the Papacy under Boniface VIII aligned him with the Ghibelline pro-Imperial cause, and opposed him to the pro-Papacy Guelfs. The Florentine families also split between the local Bianchi (white) and Neri (black) factions. Dante’s family belonged to the Bianchi. Ultimately the Bianchi combined with the old half-suppressed Ghibelline party, and the Neri aligned with the Papacy, claiming to represent the old Guelph traditions of Florence.

    Dante’s personal ideals when fully developed were for an apolitical Church, and an earthly Empire, both enfranchised by God, supreme in their own spheres, one of spiritual and the other temporal power. He was therefore opposed to the Guelf principles of his father (the Ultramontanism of Gregory VII and Innocent III), and to the democracy and plutocracy of Florence. He was equally opposed to the supremacy of State over Church asserted by the Emperors Henry IV and Frederick II, by Henry II of England, and Philip the Fair of France. Dante therefore found himself ‘a party of one’ caught in the cross-currents of his time, supporting an autocratic view of the Imperial State, and a desire for a reformed, spiritual Papacy.

    An alternative candidate for ‘the Greyhound’ is Uguccione della Faggiuola, head of the Ghibelline forces at Lucca in 1315 when the Guelphs were driven out, and at the siege of Montecatini (within ten miles of Florence) where he gained a decisive victory. However Uguccione was eclipsed by 1316.

    InfNote 4. Ciacco’s prophecy in Canto VI.

    Inferno Canto VI:64-93. Ciacco prophesies the events in Florence between April 1300, the date of the vision, and April 1303. Pope Boniface the VII exerted pressure on Florence to accept his authority. Dante was at Rome in May 1300, and returned quickly to Florence where he was appointed to the electoral body. Boniface then gave support to the Black (Neri) Guelphs against the White (Bianchi) Ghibellines who insisted on church reforms, and political liberty. The Whites lead by Vieri de’ Cerchi, were ‘the party of the woods’ since the Cerchi came from the wooded Val di Sieve in the Mugello.
    The city expelled both Corso Donati, the leader of the Blacks, and the Cerchi (who included Dante’s friend, the poet Guido Cavalcanti.) This action, that Dante supported, led to life-long enmity against him. Corso Donati went to Rome, and allied himself to the Pope. Boniface VII allied himself in turn to Philip the Fair, Philip the IVth, of France against the Empire of Albert of Hapsburg. (‘King of the Romans’), Dante called this the alliance of the new Pilate and the New Pharisees, or the giant and the harlot (the Papacy) embracing.

    Charles of Valois, the French king’s brother, crossed the Alps in August of 1301, and after treating with Florence, entered the city peaceably on November 1st. The banished Blacks followed him in large numbers. Corso Donati returned on November 5th. The houses of the Whites were sacked and burned, and the Prior, the magistrates were deposed. The Bianchi, the Whites were condemned and exiled. Dante was aligned with a weak Ghibelline party supporting a weak and uncommitted Imperial presence, and opposed by a strong Guelf party (aligned with France, and therefore a caricature of Dante’s Ghibelline beliefs) supporting a corrupt Papacy. What Dante desired was a reformed Papacy in the spiritual sphere, balanced with a strong Imperial presence derived from Roman Imperial history in the secular sphere. In different times he would have been a Guelph like his father in spirit, and a supporter of the Ghibelline Empire in secular practice. In April 1302 he heard that he had been exiled with the Whites, the Ghibellines. He never returned to Florence.

    In March 1303 the exiled Whites under Scarpetta degli Ordelaffi (strangely a papal vicar, indicating a growing rift between Boniface and the French) tried to force an entry into Florence. It failed and many were taken prisoner and beheaded. France, the ‘giant’, had triumphed, and his ‘paramour’ Boniface VII died in October 1303, his policy having led to Italian disaster.

    See also Vanni Fucci’s prophecy.

    InfNote 5. Arles and Pola.

    Inferno Canto IX:106-133. Dante compares the plain of Dis full of heretic tombs with Arles and Pola. Arles, in Provence, in southern France, at the mouth of the River Rhone, has at Aleschans (Les Alyscamps) rows of tombs, the graves of Charlemagne’s warriors, according to legend, buried there after the rout at Roncesvalles (See ‘The Song of Roland’), and of the Christian dead from the battle of Aleschans where the Saracens defeated William of Orange. (See Van Gogh’s painting ‘Les Alyscamps’, Niarchos Collection, Athens, and his letter to Theo, no559, Nov 1888, where he talks of ‘rows of old Roman tombs’.)
    Pola (modern Pula) is a seaport, at the southern tip of Istria (modern Istra), that promontory, once belonging to Venice, and hence part of Italy, that hangs down into the Adriatic to the East of the Golfo di Venezia. The promontory on the East is bounded by the Gulf of Quarnaro (modern Kvarner). It is said that numbers of Slavonians were brought there for burial, and it has Roman remains.

    InfNote 6. Sodom and Cahors.

    Inferno Canto XI:1-66. The city of Sodom represented unnatural vice (Genesis XIX), while Cahors in Guyenne (on the River Lot) in southern France was notorious for its usurers, in the Middle Ages, so that ‘Caorsinus’ was a synonym for ‘usurer’.

    InfNote 7. The Old Man of Crete.

    Inferno Canto XIV:73-120. An allegory of human history. The concept is from Daniel ii. 32. The four metals are the four ages of man: gold, silver, bronze, and iron (See also Ovid’s Metamorphoses I). The iron and clay feet, are secular and spiritual authority, the latter foot being the one humanity looks to for support, but weakened and corrupted by temporal power. Crete in Virgil’s Aeneid iii 104-5 is the ‘cradle of our (Roman) race’ traced back via Troy to Teucer. Damietta stands for Egypt, superseded by Rome. The golden age alone was free of tears.

    InfNote 8. The Origins of Florence.

    Inferno Canto XV:43-78. According to tradition Catiline was besieged, by Caesar, in Fiesole (Faesulae), in the hills, three miles north-west of Florence. When the town fell a new town was established, in the valley, by the River Arno. The inhabitants were a mixture of Fiesolans and Roman soldiers. The Florentine commoners (Whites) were held to be descended from the Fiesolans, the nobility (Blacks) from the Romans. This was regarded as a source of the future conflicts. Dante was for a reformed Papacy and a strong (Holy Roman) Empire, and was active in the expulsion of both Whites and Blacks from Florence, he was therefore opposed by both parties, though ostensibly a Ghibelline (his father having been a Guelf) and courted and vilified by both. Dante is reconciled to this, and Farinata’s, prophecy, of a troubled exile.

    InfNote 9. Vanni Fucci’s prophecy.

    Inferno Canto XXIV:130-151.Vanni Fucci prophesies the defeat of the Ghibelline Whites (Bianci) by the Black Guelph (Neri) faction. The Blacks were expelled from Pistoia in May 1301. Dante was one of those who voted for the expulsions. In November 1301 the Blacks entered Florence, aided by Charles de Valois, and in April 1302 made the city drive out the Whites (changing the people, and its laws). Pistoia became a rallying point for the Whites in Tuscany, until their defeat by the Florentine and Lucchese Guelfs, under Moroello Malaspina, Marquis of Giovagallo in Valdimagra (the extremity of Lunigiana). Piceno’s field is the area between Serravalle and Montecatini. Malaspina took Serravalle in 1302, and reduced Pistoia in 1306. Pistoia was said to have been founded by the remnants of Catiline’s army, leading to Dante’s comment in the next Canto (‘you outdo your seed in evil-doing’)
    See also Ciacco’s Prophecy

    InfNote 10. Montereggione and the bronze pine-cone of St Peter’s.

    Inferno Canto XXXI:1-45The Giants appear like the twelve turrets of the castle of Montereggione eight miles north-west of Siena, between it and San Gimignano. They were the monstrous sons of Earth and Tartarus, with many arms, and serpent feet, who made war against the gods, scaling heaven by piling mountains on one another (Mount Pelion on Mount Ossa, and both on Olympus.). They were overthrown by Jupiter’s thunderbolts and buried under Sicily.
    Inferno Canto XXXI:46-81. The bronze pine-cone, to which Dante compares the size of Nimrod’s head, once on the top of the Mausoleum of Adrian and then moved to the Vatican Gardens, stood in front of St Peter’s, and was between seven and eight feet high.

    Notes to Dante’s Purgatorio

    Contents

    PurgNote 1. Structure
    PurgNote 2. Chronology, See also the Chronology of the Inferno and Paradiso.
    PurgNote 3. The planet Venus and the Southern Cross.
    PurgNote 4. Dawn in Purgatory.
    PurgNote 5. The singing in Purgatory, the Psalms and Beatitudes.
    PurgNote 6. The sun’s position south of the equator.
    PurgNote 7. Dante’s speech concerning the state of Italy.
    PurgNote 8. The three stars.
    PurgNote 9. Dante’s three dreams.
    PurgNote 10. The Gate of Purgatory.
    PurgNote 11. The public records and the standard measure.
    PurgNote 12. The letters OMO.
    PurgNote 13. The Divine Pageant.
    PurgNote 14. The Mystic Tree.
    PurgNote 15. The Church past, present and future.
    PurgNote 1. Structure

    The pattern of three, divided to make seven, augmented to nine and then ten, is the fundamental architecture of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. (The keynote of Hell is Charity or Pity, of the Purgatorio, Hope, and of the Paradiso, Faith.)
    When Satan fell into Hell, he threw up behind him the mountain of Purgatory, at the opposite side of the earth to Jerusalem. The ascent of Purgatory is an ethical journey to recover the life of Eden, the Garden of Eden and Earthly Paradise. Cato, the embodiment of moral virtue, is the guardian of the Mount, and Virgil, the embodiment of human philosophy is the guide. The Earthly Paradise is the goal, where Beatrice will appear to point the way onward, beyond the ethical towards spiritual Revelation.

    There are seven circles of purgation of the deadly sins, arranged in three groupings, consisting of (see Canto XVII) those arising from a perverse desire to see others fail or suffer, namely pride, envy, and anger (Circles 1-3); that arising from inadequate desire, namely spiritual and intellectual sloth (Circle 4); and those arising from excessive desire, namely avarice, gluttony, and lust (Circles 5-7). Added to these are the excommunicated, at the base of the mountain, and the late-repentant below the gate. There are therefore nine major divisions, plus the Earthly Paradise, beyond Purgatory proper, at its summit, making ten in all.

    Cantos III and IV. The Excommunicates. Those disobedient against the Church.

    They must wait for thirty times the period of their disobedience before ascending the mountain.

    Cantos IV-VI. The Late-repentant.

    They must live excluded from purgation for as long as they were impenitent on earth, unless aided by the prayers of souls in grace.

    Cantos X-XII. The Proud.

    They are bent, in humility, under the burden of huge stones.

    Cantos XIII-XIV. The Envious.

    Their eyelids are sealed, and they lean together in supportive love.

    Cantos XV-XVI. The Angry.

    They are covered in a dark fog.

    Canto XVII. The structure of Purgatory.

    Virgil explains the nature of defective, excessive and perverted love.

    Canto XVIII. The Slothful.

    They run in a great throng, to demonstrate new fervour.

    Cantos XIX-XXI. The Avaricious (and the Prodigal).

    They lie bound and motionless, as in life they were bound to earthly things.

    Cantos XXII-XXIV. The Gluttonous.

    They are wasted by hunger.

    Cantos XXV-XXVI. The Lustful.

    They exist in the flames of purgation.

    Canto XXVII. Through the flames. Virgil’s Departure.

    Virgil sends Dante forward to meet Matilda in the Garden of Eden.

    Cantos XXVIII-XXIX. Dante and Matilda.

    The Divine Pageant.

    Cantos XXX-XXXIII. The meeting with Beatrice.

    Lethe. Beatrice. Dante’s purification.

    PurgNote 2. Chronology, See also the Chronology of the Inferno and Paradiso.

    Dante and Virgil reach the Mountain of Purgatory at dawn on Easter Monday.

    Canto I:19-21 and 107-117

    Purgatorio Canto I:1-27. They reach the base of the mountain near sunrise (19-21) and it is near 6am as they leave Cato (107-117).

    Canto II:55-57 and 67-68

    Purgatorio Canto II:46-79. The stars have vanished (55-57) but there are no shadows yet (67-68). The light of the rising sun in Aries has blotted out Capricorn in the mid-heaven which is ninety degrees from it on the zodiac.

    Canto III:16-26

    Purgatorio Canto III:1-45. The sun is up, and it is Vespers (3pm-6pm) the last of the four divisions of the day, that is evening, in Italy, when it is dawn in Purgatory.

    Canto IV:15 and 137-139

    Purgatorio Canto IV:1-18. The conversation with Manfred ends at about 9.20am, since the sun has climbed fifty degrees.

    Purgatorio Canto IV:88-139. The conversation with Belacqua takes Dante to noon in Purgatory, where the midday sun is in the north. It is sunrise on the Ganges, and sunset in Spain. (In Dante’s geography Jerusalem is the centre, with the Ganges at the extreme east, Gibraltar at the extreme west, and Rome midway between Jerusalem and Gibraltar.)

    Canto VI:51

    Purgatorio Canto VI:49-75. The poets are on the east of the mountain, and the sun disappears behind the mountain, so that Dante casts no shadow.

    Canto VII:43

    Purgatorio Canto VII:40-63. The day is declining as Virgil talks to Sordello.

    Canto VIII:1-18 and 43-51

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:1-45. The souls sing their hymn at sunset (1-18: sunset of Easter Monday)……

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:46-84 and the poets descend after sunset (they cannot ascend, see VII:58-59)

    Canto IX:1-12 and 44

    Purgatorio Canto IX:1-33. It is just after 8.30pm on the Monday evening when Dante falls asleep (1-12). Full moon and moonset was at sunrise on the Friday morning, so three days have passed (sunrise in Hell is sunset in Purgatory!). The moon moves 12 degrees, which equates to 48 minutes a day, so it is now approximately 2 and a half hours after sunset, and it is moonrise, in Purgatory, that is about 8.30pm, and the moon on the zodiac has passed through Libra and is in Scorpio. The first stars of Scorpio and the lunar aurora are on the horizon.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:34-63He is carried to the Gate by Lucia, and wakes after 8am on Tuesday morning (44).

    Canto X:13-16

    Purgatorio Canto X:1-45. It is moonset on Tuesday morning. The moon retardation now, after three and a half days, equates to about 42 degrees, or three hours so it is about 9am.

    Canto XII:80-81

    Purgatorio Canto XII:64-99. The sixth handmaiden (or hour that serves the day) is returning, indicating that it is noon on Tuesday, since sunrise was at 6am.

    Canto XV:1-9 and 139

    Purgatorio Canto XV:1-36. It is 3pm, Vespers, (1-9), i.e. as much of the sun’s course is left to run on the zodiac before sunset (nominally at 6pm at the equinox) as it passes in the first three hours of the day between 6am and 9am. The poets are heading due west, and have reached the northern quarter of the mount from the east. It is still evening at line 139.

    Canto XVII:12 and 70-75

    Purgatorio Canto XVII:1-39. It is just after sunset on the Tuesday evening at the base of the mountain(12) and sets for the poets at the fourth circle.

    Canto XVIII:76-81

    Purgatorio Canto XVIII:76-111. Moonrise was at 9.12pm or so, and now, at midnight on the Tuesday the moon is in the east in Sagittarius.

    Canto XIX:1-6 and 37-39

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:1-36. It is some time (4am or so) before dawn when the last stars of Aquarius and the first of Pisces have risen (making the sign called Fortuna Major) (1-6).

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:37-69. It is daylight of the Wednesday morning when Dante wakes and the poets travel west with the risen sun behind them.

    Canto XXII:115-120

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:115-154. It is after 10am in the sixth circle (four handmaidens of the sun have retired i.e. hours of the day, the fifth is in place. Sunrise is 6am).

    Canto XXIII:114

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:91-133. Dante casts a shadow, and they are well to the west.

    Canto XXV:1-3

    Purgatorio Canto XXV:1-79. It is after 2.0pm Wednesday. Taurus the Bull rises at 8.00am at the equinox and will be on the meridian six hours later, i.e. at 2.0pm. Its opposite sign Scorpio will be at the nadir.

    Canto XXVI:1-9

    Purgatorio Canto XXVI:1-66. Dante walks due south with the sun on his right (due west) near sunset.

    Canto XXVII:1-6 and 61-69 and 94-96 and 109-114 and 133

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:1-45.The sun sets at approx. 6pm Wednesday at the base of the mountain.(1-6).

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:46-93. The sun sets higher up on the mountain where the poets are (61-69).

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:94-114. Before sunrise on Thursday, Dante sees Leah in his vision (94-96), and wakes at dawn (109-114).

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:115-142. The sun shines full on their faces as they enter the Earthly Paradise, facing east, from the west (133).

    Canto XXXIII:103-105

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:103-145. It is noon Thursday as they reach the source of Lethe.

    PurgNote 3. The planet Venus and the Southern Cross.

    Purgatorio Canto I:1-27. Venus is taken as being in Pisces at the time of the Creation, with the sun in Aries. Pisces was the sign of the spring equinox during the Christian era. Venus is depicted in that position in the Collegiate Church at San Gimignano. The four stars of the Southern Cross (Note: Dante’s obvious knowledge of it, but the freshness of that knowledge, suggests a recent report of its existence from a voyage south of the equator after 1300.) represent the four Cardinal moral virtues: Prudence, Justice, Temperance and Fortitude. The prima gente may be Adam and Eve, driven out of the Earthly Paradise into the uninhabited world.
    Purgatorio Canto I:28-84. Only part of the Wain, the constellation Bootës, is ever visible in the southern hemisphere, and it is never visible from Purgatory (latitude 32 degrees south, as Jerusalem, opposite it, is approximately 32 degrees north).

    PurgNote 4. Dawn in Purgatory.

    Purgatorio Canto II:1-45. Purgatory and Jerusalem are on the great circle that forms the horizon at dawn and the zenith meridian at noon for both places. It is midnight on the Ganges in India, sunset (notionally 6pm at the equinox) at Jerusalem, and dawn (notionally 6am) on the Mountain of Purgatory. Night falls on the Ganges with Libra rising, since the sun is rising in the opposite sign of Aries at the Visionary equinox. Libra falls from night’s hand at the autumn equinox when the sun enters and blots out the constellation, and the days become shorter.

    PurgNote 5. The singing in Purgatory, the Psalms and Beatitudes.

    Purgatorio Canto II:46-79. ‘In exitu Israel de Aegypto’. Dante indicated the meaning of this Psalm 114, when ‘the mountains skipped like rams’ as being ‘the exit of the sanctified soul, from the slavery of this corruption, to the liberty of eternal glory.’ See Epistle to Can Grande della Scala X 7, Convitio ii. I:63-65.
    Purgatorio Canto V:1-63. The Miserere is a setting of Psalm 51, a psalm of repentance (‘wash me and I shall be whiter than snow’) beginning: ‘Have mercy upon me, O God,’

    Purgatorio Canto VII:64-136. The Salve Regina (Salva Regina, mater misericordiae) is the antiphon sung after Vespers, invoking the aid of the Virgin.

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:1-45. Te lucis ante terminum is the Ambrosian hymn sung at Compline, the last office of the day.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:106-145. Te Deum Laudamus is the Ambrosian hymn sung at Matins and on solemn occasions. Saint Ambrose (c340-397AD) Bishop of Milan, opposed the Arian heresy, and chose simple metres to create hymns to help the uneducated understand the orthodox faith. (The favourite Ambrosian stanza, is an unrhymed, four line stanza, of iambic dimeters).

    Purgatorio Canto XII:100-136. ‘Beati pauperes spiritu, Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven’, the First Beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount, see Matthew v 3.

    Purgatorio Canto XV:37-81. ‘Beati misericordes, Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy’, the Fifth Beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount Matthew v 7. For the words ‘Rejoice you who conquer’ refer to Matthew v 12, Romans xii 21 and Revelation ii 7.

    Purgatorio Canto XVI:1-24. The prayer from the Latin Mass, ‘Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis, dona nobis pacem: Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy on us, give us peace.’ See John i 29.

    Purgatorio Canto XVII:40-69. The Third Beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount Matthew v 5, is spoken, not sung. ‘Beati pacifici: blessed are the meek’ (for they shall inherit the earth.)

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:37-69. The Second Beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount Matthew v 4, is affirmed by the Angel of Zeal. ‘Beati qui lugent: blessed are they that mourn’ (for they shall be comforted.)

    Purgatorio Canto XIX:70-114. Psalm 119 v25. ‘Adhaesit pavimento anima mea, my soul cleaveth unto the dust, quicken thou me according to thy word.’

    Purgatorio Canto XX:97-151. ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo, pax hominibus bonae voluntatis: Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill to all men.’ See Luke ii 8-14.

    Purgatorio Canto XXII:1-24. ‘Sitiunt’: in the Fourth Beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount, Matthew v 6,‘Beati qui esuriunt et sitiunt justitiam: Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:1-36. ‘Labia mea Domine: O Lord open thou my lips (and my mouth shall shew forth thy praise).’ Psalm 51 verse 15. A verse of the Miserere, see above.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIV:100-154. A second reference, see above, to the Fourth Beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount, Matthew v 6, ‘Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXV:109-139. The Matin hymn, with its opening words, as given prior to the revision of the Breviary by Pope Urban VIII in 1631: ‘Summae Deus Clementae: God of supreme mercy,’ which contains a prayer for protection against lustfulness.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:1-45. ‘Beati mundo corde: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ The Sixth Beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount, Matthew v 8.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:46-93. The division of the sheep and goats at the last day, when the King shall say to the sheep on the right: ‘Venite benedicti patris mei: Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.’ Matthew xxv 34.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVIII:52-138. ‘Delectasti me, Domine in factura tua: For, thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy work.’ Psalm 92 v4 is spoken by Matilda.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:1-36. ‘Beati, quorum tecta sunt peccata: Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.’ Psalm 32 verse 1.

    Purgatorio CantoXXIX:82-105. ‘Blessed art thou among women’ are the words of the Angel Gabriel, and of Elizabeth, to Mary. See Luke i 28 and 42.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:1-48. The Elder representing the books of Solomon sings ‘Veni sponsa de Libano: Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse, with me from Lebanon.’ from the Song of Solomon iv 8. Dante mentions that the Saints will sing Alleluia, on the Day of Judgement, an un-translated Hebrew word used as a chant of praise, taken over from synagogue usage (the Hebrew halleluyah meaning ‘praise ye Jehovah’)

    Those in the chariot, sing the Benedictus, prescribed for Lauds, the first day-hour, by St Benedict: ‘Benedictus qui venit: Blessed is he that comest in the name of the Lord.’ See Matthew xxi 9, Mark xi 9, Luke xix 38, John xii 13.

    Purgatorio Canto XXX:82-145. Psalm 31 lines 1-8. ‘In te, Domine, speravi: In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust, let me never be ashamed…thou hast set my feet in a large room.’

    Purgatorio Canto XXXI:91-145. ‘Asperges me: Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.’ Psalm 51 verse 7.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57. Psalm 79. ‘Deus, venerunt gentes: O God, the heathen are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple have they defiled..’

    PurgNote 6. The sun’s position south of the equator.

    Purgatorio Canto IV:52-87. The sun, regarded as a planet, by Dante, here, is a mirror (specchio) that reflects the light from the divine source towards the earth below. It is in Aries, at the equinox, but Virgil explains that if it were in Gemini, the Twins, its (June) arc being higher in the sky would take it even nearer the north (Orse= the Great and Little Bears, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor). The poets, south of the equator, looking east, see the sun, rising towards the north, the converse of what is seen in the diametrically opposite hemisphere of Jerusalem, where the sun will be to the south, towards Arabia. The strada, is the ecliptic, the path of the sun. The equator is equidistant between Mount Zion at Jerusalem, and the Mount of Purgatory.

    PurgNote 7. Dante’s speech concerning the state of Italy.

    Purgatorio Canto VI:76-151. Dante laments the state of Italy. The German Emperor Albert is absent, and indifferent. The power Justinian had to enforce the Roman Law has lapsed. The clergy have usurped secular power (the ‘people who should be obedient’). Feuding is rife. Every petty partisan is a Marcellus, an opponent of Caesar and the Empire. Florence is treated with irony and sarcasm, as a role model of how to sway backwards and forwards with the current, unstable and sick, like a patient tossing on a bed trying to find comfort. Dante shows his firm political stance, in favour of a strong Empire, enforcing the Roman legal code, with state and church separated, the Church handling spiritual, and the state, secular matters.

    PurgNote 8. The three stars.

    Purgatorio Canto VIII:85-108. The four bright stars of the Southern Cross signified the four Cardinal moral virtues Prudence, Justice, Fortitude, and Temperance. The constellation of the Southern Cross is now, after 6pm, low to their southeast, and obscured by the shoulder of the Mount. The three glowing stars that have risen signify Faith, Hope and Charity, the three Cardinal theological virtues, the keynotes to the three portions of the Comedy, but the ascent only continues in the morning when the other four are again in the sky, indicating the force of the moral virtues in the practical life. It is not clear whether the three stars were intended to indicate a real star grouping, known to Dante, low to the south-west, and near the Southern Pole, where the Southern Cross was just before dawn: none is an obvious candidate. (Note also: The Southern Cross is never visible in the northern latitudes if that is what is meant by di là in line 92)

    PurgNote 9. Dante’s three dreams.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:1-33. Dante is carried upwards by Lucia, and dreams he is being carried by an eagle, as Ganymede was by Jupiter. The eagle in the medieval Bestiaries flies into the circle of fire in its old age, its feathers are consumed, and it falls blinded into a fountain, where it is renewed. It is a symbol therefore of baptismal regeneration through Divine Grace. Ganymede was a son of Tros, and an ancestor of Aeneas, linking the regeneration to Roman law and justice.
    Purgatorio Canto XIX:1-36. Dante dreams of the Siren, Sensual Pleasure, the basis of the three sins remaining to be purged, avarice, gluttony and lust. The lady who comes to warn him is the light of reason. Ulysses’s sailors, and thus Ulysses himself, were drawn out of their way by the Sirens, but he, like Dante, resisted their lure.

    Purgatorio Canto XXVII:94-114. Dante dreams of Leah, the symbol of the active life, who talks of Rachel her sister the symbol of the contemplative life. See Genesis xxix and xxx. Matilda and Beatrice are their equivalents in the Paradiso, as Martha and her sister Mary are in Luke’s Gospel x 39-42. The active life, the way of service is good, but the way of contemplation is greater.

    PurgNote 10. The Gate of Purgatory.

    Purgatorio Canto IX:64-105. The Gate of Purgatory has been interpreted as an allegory of the Sacrament of Penance. The Angel is the priestly confessor, while the three steps are the three stages of the Sacrament, Repentance, Confession, and Forgiveness. Repentance is cool marble, Confession rough and scorched, and breaking the stubbornness of the heart, and Forgiveness red with Christ’s blood. The adamantine threshold is the rock of the Church with its power to forgive sin, and the firmness and constancy of the confessor.
    Purgatorio Canto IX:106-145. The Angel inscribes seven letter P’s on Dante’s forehead representing the seven capital sins, peccata capitali, to be purged on the Mount. The Angel’s silver key is experience by which the confessor judges the penitent’s repentance and worthiness, the golden key is the absolution he grants. His robes are ashen with the colour of humility, with which the confessor undertakes his role.

    PurgNote 11. The public records and the standard measure.

    In 1299 Messer Niccola Acciaiuoli, and Messer Baldo d’Aguglione stole a page of the public records of Florence, containing evidence of a shadowy transaction that they, and the Podestà, had been involved in. At about the same time Messer Durante de’ Chiramontesi, officer of the customs for salt, reduced the standard measure.

    PurgNote 12. The letters OMO.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIII:1-36. The circles of the eyes stand inside the legs of the letter M, formed from the sides of the head, the forehead, and the nose. In the emaciated faces Dante sees, the sunken circles of the eyes accentuate the sharp outline of the M. Thus the whole word ‘omo’ or ‘Man’ is seen.

    PurgNote 13. The Divine Pageant.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:37-61. The seven candlesticks are the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. Dante employs the imagery of Revelation i 12, 20 and iv 5. According to Isaiah (Vulgate xi 2,3) the gifts are Wisdom, Understanding, Counsel, Might, Knowledge, Pity and Fear of the Lord. The senses are not individually deceived by their ‘proper’ objects – colour, sound, savour, scent, texture, according to Aristotle, but can be deceived by the ‘common’ objects of the senses – motion, number, shape and size.
    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:61-81. The seven banners are the seven sacraments, or the working of the seven gifts. The rainbow may have been suggested by Revelation iv 3. The ten paces are probably the Ten Commandments.

    Purgatorio CantoXXIX:82-105. The twenty-four elders are the books of the Old Testament (the twelve minor prophets counted as one, First and Second Kings as one, and the same with Samuel, Chronicles, and Ezra-Nehemiah). The white garments are emblematical of Faith: see Hebrews xi. The basic concept is from Revelation iv 4. The lily crowns (fleur-de-luce is iris, but the French royal emblem is equated with a lily) suggest purity of faith and teaching.

    The four beasts are described in Ezekiel i 4-14 and Revelation iv 6-9. Their faces of man, lion, ox and eagle represent Matthew, Mark, Luke and John (and incidentally the four fixed Zodiacal signs of Aquarius, Leo, Taurus, and Scorpio). The green leaves indicate Hope. See I Timothy i 1. The six wings are the six laws (according to Pietro di Dante) Natural, Mosaic, Prophetic, Evangelical, Apostolic, and Canonical. The eyes indicate knowledge of past and future. John says the beasts have six wings, Ezekiel four. Dante follows St John the Divine.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:106-132. The two wheels of the Church’s chariot are the contemplative and active life (or the Old and New Testaments, or the Franciscan and Dominican orders, or all three in simultaneous and complex allegory.). The Grifon is Christ, half eagle and half lion in his divine golden, and human red-and-white aspects. The wings are Mercy, and Truth or Justice. See Psalms 36 verses 5 7, and 10, and 57 verses 1 and 11. The three theological virtues Faith in white, Hope in green, and Charity in red, dance by the right hand wheel (They are also perhaps the Three Graces, Giving, Receiving and Thanking), Charity gives them their measure, See First Corinthians xiii 13 ‘but the greatest of these is Charity,’ while sometimes Faith leads.

    The four moral or cardinal virtues Prudence, Justice, Fortitude and Temperance, are by the left wheel. Prudence has the three eyes, which see Past, Present and Future, and the purple dress of the four moral virtues is that of the Imperial Law.

    Purgatorio Canto XXIX:133-154. The depiction of the Books of the New Testament continues. The two aged men are Luke, considered as the author of Acts. Paul calls him ‘the beloved physician’ in Colossians iv 14, and he is regarded as a spiritual Hippocrates. Paul is shown with the sword of his martyrdom, and of the spirit, see Ephesians vi 17 ‘the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God.’ Behind them come James, Peter, John and Jude, the authors of the four catholic, canonical Epistles. Finally comes John the Divine, the author of Revelation, the visionary Apocalypse. (There are alternative interpretations.)

    The roses, and other crimson flowers, they wear represent Charity, where the Old Testament Elders wore white lilies representing Purity.

    PurgNote 14. The Mystic Tree.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:37-63. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, see Genesis ii 9, is the symbol of the temporal power, of the Empire and obedience to it, since the prohibition to eat of it was the origin of law and duty. Justice is maintained when the Church follows Christ (the Grifon) by not usurping the temporal power of the Empire, and vice versa. The chariot pole is the Cross, which, legend has it, was taken from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. It links Church and Empire. The Empire blossoms in purple after the advent of Christianity (the sun, shining from Aries at the Nativity).

    PurgNote 15. The Church past, present and future.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:64-99. Beatrice, Divine Philosophy and Heavenly Wisdom, is seated at the root of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, which is Rome, the seat of the Empire, and in the shadow of the new foliage that blossomed when the Church was united to the Empire. She watches over the chariot of the Church, attended by the Virtues, who still guard the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit.
    Purgatorio Canto XXXII:100-160. The eagle represents the ten Imperial persecutions of the Church instigated by the Emperors from Nero to Diocletian. See also Ezekiel xvii 3.

    The vixen represents the heresies of the early Church, suppressed by the writings of the Fathers etc.

    The second descent of the eagle represents the Donation of Constantine, whereby temporal and spiritual powers were confused, the Church acquiring its earthly riches. See the entry for Constantine.

    The dragon represents the Islamic schism, its form suggested by Revelation xii 3, or possibly Simony.

    The fresh feathers covering the chariot are those of temporal power and worldly wealth (increased by the Carlovingian Emperors) and the Church becomes transformed into a Monster with the seven capital sins as its heads (suggested by Revelation xvii 3).

    The Whore is the corrupted Papacy under Boniface VIII, and Clement V.

    The Giant is the French dynasty, Philip the Fair specifically. His feud with Boniface ended in the death of the Pope, and he connived with Clement V at transferring the Papal Court to Avignon. If Dante here represents Florence and Italy, then the Pope was punished, and the Whore scourged, for her aspirations in Italy, that is for turning her eye towards him.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:1-57. Beatrice implies that the Church is no longer recognisable as the Church of God, but nothing can save the guilty from God’s vengeance (Dante says no sop will help: referring to the custom where a murderer could escape vendetta if he contrived to eat a sop of bread and wine at the murdered person’s grave, within nine days after the murder. The family kept watch to prevent it.)

    Emperor Frederick II (d1250) was regarded by Dante as the last true Emperor before 1300, despite the reigns of Rudolf, Adolphus, and Albert, so that the throne is empty. But a new heir to the eagle of Empire (Henry VII in 1308) will soon arrive, and a new leader (the Roman letters for five-hundred, ten and five, DXV, rearranged, stand for dux, a leader), Dante’s ‘greyhound’ perhaps (Can Grande or Henry of Luxembourg) will rise to rid Italy of the corrupt Papacy, the Whore, and the false French Empire, the Giant.

    The tree has been twice spoiled, once by Adam in the Garden of Eden, by taking the apple, secondly by the wood, the chariot pole, being taken to form the Cross.

    Purgatorio Canto XXXIII:58-102. It is blasphemy to usurp the Imperial prerogatives as the Empire is divinely ordained, and is a sin comparable in its disobedience with Adam’s disobedience in eating the apple.

    The height, and inverted cone of the tree, signifies the power and extent of the Empire, and its Divine origin.

    Notes to Dante’s Paradiso

    Contents

    ParNote 1. Structure
    ParNote 2. Chronology, See also the Chronology of the Inferno and the Purgatorio.
    ParNote 3. Four circles in three crosses.
    ParNote 4. Dante is lifted towards the Heavens.
    ParNote 5. The Three Mirrors experiment.
    ParNote 6. The Divine Influence.
    ParNote 7. The Singing in Paradise
    ParNote 8. Justininian’s speech concerning the Empire.
    ParNote 9. The Sun’s movement.
    ParNote 10. Ancient Florence.
    ParNote 11. Cacciaguida’s unfolding of Dante’s fate.
    ParNote 12. The Julian Calendar.
    ParNote13. The Chessboard.
    ParNote14. The Angelic Hierarchies.
    ParNote15. The Oriflamme.
    ParNote 1. Structure

    The pattern of three, divided to make seven, augmented to nine and then ten, is the fundamental architecture of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. (The keynote of Hell is Charity or Pity, of the Purgatorio, Hope, and of the Paradiso, Faith.)
    Dante follows the earth-centred Ptolemaic view of the solar system, and the order of the planets is as our own with the earth and sun interchanged i.e. from the earth outwards, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn. The other planets were not known.

    The Paradisial planetary orbits, through which Dante ascends, are concentric spheres, arranged in three groups, divided into seven spheres. These are the infra-solar, where Dante meets spirits weakened by some impairment of faith, hope, or love, namely (Spheres 1-3) of the Moon (Inconstancy), Mercury (Ambition), and Venus( Earthly Love); the solar (Sphere 4) that of the Sun (Prudence) the leader of the cardinal virtues; and the supra-solar spheres of the remaining cardinal virtues (Spheres 5-7) namely Mars (Fortitude), Jupiter (Justice) and Saturn (Temperance).

    This pattern of seven is augmented to nine by the addition of the Stellar Heaven of souls, and the Primum Mobile of the Angels.

    Finally all symbolic places and times are subsumed in the ultimate vision of the Empyrean, the place of God and all spirits, in the eternal, completing the tenfold structure.

    ParNote 2. Chronology, See also the Chronology of the Inferno and the Purgatorio.

    Canto I:43-44
    Paradiso Canto I:37-72. Dante will rise into Heaven at midday on Thursday (in Purgatory, it is midnight at Jerusalem). He then goes round the world with the day, so that, for him, it remains mid-day, and no ‘earth-time’ passes. The sun is in Aries throughout, since it is at the equinox.

    Canto XXII:97-120 and 127-154

    Paradiso Canto XXII:100-154. Beatrice raises Dante into his sun-sign of Gemini. He looks down, from the sphere of Saturn, on earth and the preceding spheres, and sees the earth from ‘ridge to river-mouth’ from Jerusalem to the Ganges. (It is noon at Jerusalem, sunset on the Ganges).

    Canto XXVII:79-87

    Paradiso Canto XXVII:67-96. Dante, in Gemini, is separated from the sun, in Aries, by the sign of Taurus. It is now sunset over Jerusalem. (Jupiter snatched Europa from Phoenician Tyre, the modern Lebanon, at the longitude of Jerusalem) Dante looking down sees from the dark of sunset at Jerusalem to sunlit Gibraltar.

    The action of the Divine Comedy has therefore taken a week, as follows:

    Prior to the Poem: Dante spends Thursday night in the wood.

    Inferno: From Good Friday am, in Italy, to Easter Monday am, at the foot of the mountain of Purgatory, opposite Jerusalem.

    Purgatorio: From Monday am to noon on Thursday, on the mountain, and in the Earthly Paradise (six hours).

    Paradiso: From Thursday noon, in Purgatory, to Thursday noon, over Italy ( Midnight in Jerusalem to the following sunset in Jerusalem.)

    There is a switch in time from Inferno time to Purgatory time, of twelve hours, at the end of the Inferno, and a change in position from Purgatory opposite Jerusalem, to a position over Italy, occupying eighteen hours of earth-time, during the Paradiso, which compensates for the twelve hours gained, and takes the time from midday at Jerusalem (morning in Italy) at the start of the poem, to evening in Jerusalem (noon in Italy) at the end.

    ParNote 3. Four circles in three crosses.

    Paradiso Canto I:37-72. At the equinox, at sunrise, the celestial circles of the Ecliptic, and the Equinoctial and Equatorial colures, cross the celestial circle of the Horizon at the same point. Each of the three then forms a cross with the Horizon. Allegorically, God most influences the world through the four Cardinal virtues (Temperance, Fortitude, Justice, and Prudence) when they are joined to form the three theological virtues (Faith, Hope and Charity). The happiest constellation is Aries, the sign in which the Sun was at the Creation.

    ParNote 4. Dante is lifted towards the Heavens.

    Paradiso Canto I:73-99. Dante is lifted into the Heavens at noon.
    See Second Corinthians xii 2. The soul is a new creation of God’s, not generated by nature.

    According to Aristotle, God causes the eternal movement of the celestial spheres through the love and longing he inspires in the universe.

    The sphere of fire surrounds the sphere of air with ‘a second atmosphere’. Air is relatively light, and fire absolutely light.

    The seven planetary spheres produce divine harmonies like the seven strings of a lyre (expressly rejected by Aristotle).

    Paradiso Canto I:100-142. The Empyrean which is not spatial does not move, and has no poles, It surrounds the Primum Mobile, the ninth heaven, the outermost and swiftest of the spheres, with light and love.

    ParNote 5. The Three Mirrors experiment.

    Brightness is the ratio of the quantity of light reaching the eyes to the apparent size of the object. These both diminish as the square of the distance, so the brightness remains constant. This ignores absorption by the medium, and the reflective capability of a coarse surface like the moon.

    ParNote 6. The Divine Influence.

    Paradiso Canto II:106-148. Beatrice explains the diffusion of the Divine Spirit from the Empyrean where all space is here and time is now, and where God is, and the Angels, and Blessed spirits truly are (as opposed to merely manifesting themselves) down to the lowest sphere of the Moon. The Primum Mobile, or ninth Heaven, where the Angels manifest themselves (in symbolic meeting) contains all Nature. It receives the Divine influence and communicates it downwards to the eighth sphere of the Stellar Heavens, where the Blessed Souls are all manifest. The Stellar Heaven divides it among the stars. Each of the seven lower Heavens (Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sun, Venus, Mercury and Moon, in the Ptolemaic system) likewise receives the influence from the sphere above, and passes it to the sphere below (as in the emanations of medieval mysticism). See the General Structure, Note 1, for the attributes of the spheres. Each of the lower spheres virtue and motion derives from an Angelic presence, which is melded to each planetary body, and the mingled virtue of Angel and planet shines throughout that sphere. The Stellar Heaven is, likewise, animated by the deep spirit of the Cherubim. Each Angel is connected with its sphere, but still distinct within it. The combination is an alloy, a union, a mingling, a melding. The virtue that shines there is likewise the personality of the Angel mingled with the creative and inspirational power of God.
    Groups of blessed spirits manifest themselves in the lower spheres as symbolic meeting places with Dante, appropriate to them.

    Note that in Hell spirits are fixed in their location, below Limbo, ‘unable to go forward, or to go back’: in Purgatory they progress through time, until the will is free: and in Paradise they are free and timeless, but manifest in the appropriate sphere, ‘all places being Paradise that are in Heaven’. The journey therefore allows increasing degrees of freedom, until freedom itself becomes an irrelevance within God’s will.

    ParNote 7. The Singing in Paradise

    Paradiso Canto III:97-130. Piccarda sings the ‘Ave Maria: Hail Mary’
    Paradiso Canto VII:1-54. Justinian sings the Hosanna. ‘Osanna Sanctus Deus Sabaoth, superillustrans claritate tua felices ignes horum malachoth! Hosanna, Holy God of Sabaoth, illuminating the blessed fires of these kingdoms, with your brightness from above!’

    Paradiso Canto XXIII:88-139. Regina Coeli laetare: O Queen of Heaven: the Easter antiphon of the Blessed Virgin is sung by the Apostles in the Stellar Heaven.

    ParNote 8. Justininian’s speech concerning the Empire.

    Paradiso Canto VI:1-111. Aeneas, coming from Troy, landed in Italy, took Lavinia as his bride, and fought Turnus. Aeneas was allied with Evander, whose kingdom was based on the seven hills of the site of Rome. Evander’s son and heir Pallas led these allies and was killed by Turnus, and avenged by Aeneas.
    Aeneas founded his kingdom at Lavinium, and it was transferred by his son Ascanius (Iulus) to Alba Longa where it remained for more than three hundred years till in the reign of Tullus Hostilius (670-638BC) Alba fell to Rome, when the three Curiatii, the Alban champions, were defeated by the survivor of the three Horatii, the Roman champions. Rome had been founded by Romulus, an Alban outcast, on the Palatine, one of the seven hills, and the Romans made wives of the Sabine women.

    Under Romulus and his six successors Rome’s power grew until Sextus Tarquinius, son of the last king, raped Lucretia, and the monarchy was ended in 510BC. Rome then became supreme in Italy. Lucius Quintius Cincinnatus (from cincinnus, a curl) called from the plough to the dictatorship conquered the Aequiana in 458BC. One of the Fabii, and Titus Manlius Torquatus, distinguished themselves against Brennus and his Gauls (390BC etc). The Decii, three generations, died fighting against the Latins in 340BC, the Samnites in 295BC and Pyrrhus the Greek invader in 280BC. The greatest of the Fabii, Quintus Fabius Maximus Cunctator, defeated Hannibal, who crossed the Alps in 218BC, and Scipio Africanus the Elder, a boy of seventeen, saved his father’s life, at the defeat of Ticinus. He forced Hannibal’s withdrawal from Italy. (Dante calls the northern Africans Arabs)

    Pompey who conquered the east and defeated Marius celebrated a triumph, when not yet twenty-five, in 81BC. The Romans reduced Fiesole, which overhangs Florence, and was the refuge of Catiline.

    Julius Caesar campaigned in Gaul (58-50BC), crossed the Rubicon, between Ravenna and Rimini, in 49BC, leaving his province, without the Senate’s permission, and precipitating a Civil War. He overcame opposition in Spain, and besieged Pompey at Dyrrachium, defeating him at Pharsalia in Thessaly. Pompey escaped to Egypt, where he was murdered by Ptolemy. Caesar crossed the Hellespont, took Egypt from Ptolemy and gave it to Cleopatra, subdued Juba, King of Numidia, who had protected his opponents after Pharsalia, and returned to Spain in 45BC to fight Pompey’s sons.

    Caesar was assassinated, and Octavian (later Augustus) his adopted son defeated Mark Antony at Modena in 43BC. He then defeated Brutus and Cassius, the leaders of the assassination plot, with Antony’s help, at Philippi in 42 BC, and Lucius, Antony’s brother at Perugia in 41BC. At Actium in 31BC he defeated Antony, who committed suicide, Cleopatra his consort dying by the sting of a viper (asp)

    Augustus was master of the Empire to the remotest ends of Egypt and the gates of the Temple of Janus were closed for the third time in Roman history to signal the Empire at peace.

    Christ was born, and crucified in the reign of Tiberius, Augustus’s successor, and the sin of the Fall thereby avenged. Jerusalem fell to Titus and the sin of killing Christ was avenged on the Jews, with the destruction of the Temple.

    The Church was defended by Charlemagne against the Lombard king Desiderius whom he dethroned in 774AD.

    ParNote 9. The Sun’s movement.

    The Equatorial Circle, a circle projected from the earth’s equator onto the Heavens, and the Ecliptic (Zodiac), the path of the sun against the ‘fixed’ stars, cross at the Equinoctial points (the first point of Aries, and the first point of Libra, at the Creation, with precession, the ‘wobble’ of the earth on its axis, ignored. The Spring equinox in fact now falls in Pisces due to precession, and will move into Aquarius.). The Equinoxes, of equal day and night, fall in Spring and Autumn, at latitudes away from the equator and poles. The daily apparent movement of the sun and the planets is parallel to the equator (i.e. at ninety degrees to the plane of the earth’s axis) and the apparent annual movement against the stars is along the Ecliptic. From mid-winter to mid-summer the Sun rises a little earlier and further to the north than the day before, and from mid-summer to mid-winter a little later and further south, so travelling a progressive spiral. Dante describes the movement to reach the Spring Equinox in Aries, round which the Divine Comedy is constructed.

    ParNote 10. Ancient Florence.

    Paradiso Canto XV:88-148. The Badia, the belltower from which the ancient canonical hours were rung (tierce at nine, nones at twelve) was close to the ancient circle of walls, within which, in Cacciaguida’s time Florence was still enclosed. The second circle of walls was built in 1173, the third circle which is still intact in part, was built at the beginning of the fourteenth century.
    Paradiso Canto XVI:1-45. The Patron Saint of the city was John the Baptist. An annual race was run along the Corso. Of the six sections into which Florence was divided, the sesto of San Piero was the last to be entered. The Elisei house was on the right.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:46-87. The statue of Mars stood by the northern end of the Ponte Vecchio, in the south of the city by the Arno, and the Baptistery in the north, marking the old boundaries. New families filtered in from the towns of the Contado. In the eleventh century, Galuzzo and Trespiano were the southern and northern limits of Florentine territory, which did not include Aguglione or Signa. Simifonti was a fortress in the Valdelsa destroyed by the Florentines in 1202. The Conti Guidi sold their castle at Montemurlo, between Pistoia and Prato, to Florence in 1254 being unable to defend it from the Pistoians. Acone was probably in the Val de Sieve. Luni was on the Macra, the northern boundary of Tuscany. Urbisaglia was in the March of Ancona. Chiusi, is ancient Clusium, in the malarial Val di Chiana. Sinaglia is on the seashore north of Ancona.

    Paradiso Canto XVI:88-154. Cacciaguida mentions the great families of ancient Florence. The gate of St Peter was where the Cerchi lived in Dante’s time. They had purchased the houses over the gate before 1300, which had belonged to the Ravignani, from whom the Conti Guidi were descended through Bellincion Berti’s daughter Gualdrada. The Pigli arms were barred with ermine=vair. The Chiaramontesi lived in the Saint Peter quarter. One of the family, in Dante’s time, falsified the measures for the issue of salt to the Florentines. The Calfucci were a branch of the Donati. The Uberti were once the dominant Florentine family. Their pride was exhibited by Farinata. The golden balls were the device of the Lamberti, of whom Mosca was one. The ancestors of the Visdomini and Della Tosa families while having the revenues of the Bishopric of Florence in their hands were accused of perverting them to their own uses whenever the See was vacant. The Della Pera in Dante’s time had dwindled to the extent that it seemed incredible a gate of the city had been named after them. The Uccellini and Gherardini were associates of the Amidei. Associates were members of a family who joined the tower-club of another for the purposes of its military maintenance, and were legal consorts of that family. These were members of a family which had ceased to act with their true family, and were therefore regarded as no longer belonging to it. The old standard of Florence carried white lilies on a red field. The Ghibellines maintained this, but the Guelphs adopted a red lily on a white field in 1251.

    ParNote 11. Cacciaguida’s unfolding of Dante’s fate.

    Paradiso Canto XVII:1-99. Cacciaguida reveals Dante’s fast approaching exile from Florence, engineered by Rome. Dante was sentenced with four others to fine and banishment January 27th 1302. With fifteen others, he was sentenced to death by burning, on March 10th. The Whites were expelled from Florence on April 4th, Between June 8th 1302 and June 18th 1303 he broke away from them (becoming ‘a party of one’) in disgust and took refuge with Bartolommeo della Scala at Verona.

    ParNote 12. The Julian Calendar.

    Paradiso Canto XXVII:97-148. The Julian calendar (rectified in 1752) made the year 11 minutes 14 seconds too long, roughly a hundredth of a day. In Dante’s time January began a little later in the real year each time, and so eventually it would fall outside winter altogether.

    ParNote13. The Chessboard.

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:58-93. The old tale has a reward being demanded of an amount of corn equal to that obtained by placing one ear on the first of the sixty-four squares of the chessboard, and then doubling the amount of the previous square, at each new square. The number obtained is 2 to the power 63 plus one, which is about 18.5 million million million.

    ParNote14. The Angelic Hierarchies.

    Paradiso Canto XXVIII:94-139. The Angels are divided in three Hierarchies, each of three orders, here they are three triplets of circles. In the first triplet, Seraphs with their wings, and Cherubs with their eyes emphasise movement towards God (Love) and insight into His being (Knowledge). Thrones signify the Power of God, manifested through the Angels and drawing them towards Him, they are the mirrors of his judgments, and also represent his steadfastness. Joy is connected with the Seraphim, and trust in God’s power with the Thrones. In the second triplet, the Dominions are an image of God’s dominion, the Virtues indicate Divine strength and fortitude, while the Powers represent Divine power and majesty. In the third, outermost triplet, Principalities, or Princedoms, Archangels and Angels are concerned with the things of this world, love of the Holy Spirit, and communication of the gifts of God to man. The Angels is a term applied collectively to all the nine Hierarchies, signifying ‘messengers’ and the higher Angels can execute the functions of the lower, while having their special additional qualities. So Christ is the Angel of the Great Counsel.
    The circles of the Angels are in reverse order to the spheres surrounding Earth, the outermost, and fastest sphere to Earth, corresponding to the highest virtue, and therefore matching the innermost circle of the Angels concentrated on God.

    ParNote15. The Oriflamme.

    Paradiso Canto XXXI:94-142. Dante refers to the Oriflamme, aurea flamma, which was the standard given to the ancient Kings of France by the Angel Gabriel, representing a flame on a golden ground. Those who fought under it were invincible. The golden glow of the Virgin’s Oriflamme is in contrast that of invincible peace not of war.

  • 130 Lessons Einstein Has Taught Me About Life

    130 Lessons Einstein Has Taught Me About Life

    einstein-red-wallpaper-tongue

    Personal notes on what Einstein has taught me about life:

    (more…)

  • 130 Lessons Einstein Has Taught Me About Life

    130 Lessons Einstein Has Taught Me About Life

    einstein-red-wallpaper-tongue

    Personal notes on what Einstein has taught me about life:

    1. Venerate the past

    A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving…
    
    Thank for the labor of men in the past (dead) and those alive— to receive gratefully, but to give to others gratefully.

    2. Think against authority

    Unthinking respect for authority is the greatest enemy of truth.

    3. Retract my past judgements

    “It’s convenient with that fellow Einstein, every year he retracts what he wrote the year before.” – (Einstein talking bout himself)

    If I learn something that I was wrong in the past; take back what I wrote in the past.

    4. Learn how to think

    The value of a college education is not the learning of many facts but the training of the mind to think.

    Don’t learn facts for the sake of it; learn how to think critically— to question, analyze, and come up with your own conclusions.

    5. What theory do you have in life?

    Whatever you can observe a thing or not depends on the theory which you use. It is the theory which decides what can be observed.

    Whatever theory you have in life; that is how you will observe the world and reality.

    If your theory is positive and optimistic— you will see everything that way. Vice-versa for pessimism.

    What colored glasses do you see the world with?

    6. God

    I believe in Spinoza’s God, who reveals himself in the lawful harmony of the world, not in a God who concerns himself with the fate and doings of mankind

    God as the universe; and vice versa.

    7. Never stop moving

    “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving.” – Einstein

    Never stop moving in life.

    Similar to the saying:

    The rolling stone gathers no moss.

    8. Don’t think about the future

    I never think of the future. It comes soon enough.

    9. Freedom of speech

    A dictatorship means muzzles all round and consequently stultification (loss of enthusiasm and passion). Science can flourish only in an atmosphere of free speech.

    Live in a country where free speech exists— better yet, promote free speech to all countries!

    If you live in a country with free speech, cherish it with all your heart; and pursue your passion.

    10. What brings us happiness?

    Gadgets don’t bring us more happiness:

    Why does this magnificent applied science which saves work and makes life easier bring us so little happiness? The simple answer runs: because we have not yet learned to make sensible use of it. In war it serves that we may poison and mutilate each other. In peace it has made our lived hurried and uncertain. Instead of freeing us in great measure from spiritually exhausting labor, it has made men into slaves of machinery, who for the most part complete their monotonous long days work with disgust and must continually tremble for their poor rations (of food).

    We have all this great time-saving technology; yet we become slaves to our technology.

    Rather, we should make technology our slaves. Spend less time on time-consuming crap, and more time to do artistic, creative things.

    It is not enough that you should understand about applied science in order that your work may increase man’s blessings. Concern for the man himself and his fate must always form the chief interest of all technical endeavors. Concern for the great unsolved problems of the organization of labor and the distribution of goods in order that the creations of our mind shall be a blessing and not a curse to mankind. Never forget this in the midst of your diagrams and equations.

    To realize that science and technology should help us human beings, be more human.

    To use science and technology to empower people and humankind — not technology for the sake of it.

    11. Follow your gut

    I believe in intuition and inspiration. At times I feel certain I am right while not knowing the reason. When the eclipse of 1919 confirmed my intuition, I was not in least surprised. In fact I would have been astonished had it turned out otherwise. Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving brith to evolution. It is strictly speaking, a real factor in scientific research.

    Follow intuition, and inspiration.

    Imagination is more important than knowledge — children are the ultimate geniuses.

    Imagine more in life. Ask more questions. Daydream, and wonder about the questions of the universe.

    12. Unlock your prison gate

    Unlock yourself from the prison of your own mind:

    Everyone sits int he prison of his own ideas; he must burst it open, and that in his youth, and so try to text his ideas on reality.

    13. On isolation

    Although I am a typical loner in daily life, my consciousness of belonging to the invisible community of those who strive for truth, beauty, and justice has prevented me from feeling isolated.

    You are part of society, of great men and women in history, and connected to the past.

    You will never be alone.

    14. Live for others

    Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.

    He who lives for himself is truly dead to others.

    Another version of Einstein’s quote:

    Only a life in the service of others is worth living.

    Life is all about being of service, of being useful to other human beings. To bestow more benefits upon others. To help more, empower more, and share more.

    Life is not a zero-sum game.

    15. Simplicity

    Everything should be made as simple as possible, but no simpler.

    Find the optimum simplicity in life. But not too simple.

    Also called ‘Einstein’s Razor’ — you use a razor to cut away the superfluous from your life. To cut away the unsimple.

    16. Everyday thinking

    Anyone and everyone is a scientist— if you think of everyday life:

    All of science is nothing more than the refinement of everyday thinking.

    Don’t see science as a big and scary thing; but simple.

    17. Science and Philosophy

    It has often been said, and certainly not without justification, that the man of science is a poor philosopher. Why then should it not be the right thing for the physicist to let the philosopher do the philosophizing?

    Science is philosophy; philosophy is science.

    The physicist cannot simply surrender to the philosopher the critical contemplation of theoretical foundations; for he himself knows best and feels more surely where the shoe pinches. In looking for an new foundation, he must try to make clear in his own mind just how far the concepts which he uses are justified, and are necessities.

    Science can teach us how to do things; but philosophy teaches us why we should (or should not) do certain things.

    We need both.

    18. We are all the branches of the same tree

    All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree. All these aspirations are directed toward ennobling man’s life, lifting it from the sphere of mere physical existence and leading the individual towards freedom. It is no mere chance that our older universities developed from clerical schools. Both churches and universities — insofar as they live up to their true function — serve the ennoblement of the individual. They seek to fulfill this great task by spreading moral and cultural understanding, renouncing the use of brute force.

    We all belong to the same true of humanity.

    Seek to empower the individual.

    19. Don’t have lukewarm attitudes in life

    Be strong, and valorous in your beliefs:

    The standard bearers have grown weak in the defense of their priceless heritage, and the powers of darkness have been strengthened thereby. Weakness of attitude becomes weakness of character; it becomes lack of power to act with courage proportionate to danger. All this must lead to the destruction of our intellectual life unless the danger summons up strong personalities able to fill the lukewarm and discouraged with new strength and resolution.

    Defend your priceless heritage. Don’t let the powers of darkness grow.

    Have a strong attitude and character. Have the courage to act with power.

    20. You have a great mind

    When you have a great mind and spirit; you will always encounter violent opposition from lesser men:

    Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.

    Refuse to bow down blindly to conventional prejudice.

    As a courageous person, you should have the courage to express your opinions honestly, openly, without self-censorship.

    21. Childlike curiosity for life

    People like you and I, though mortal of course like everyone else, do not grow old no matter how long we live. We will always be like curious children, before the great mystery into which we were born.

    Re-tap into that child-like sense of curiosity. You will die; but never grow old.

    22. Judgement from others

    Why is it that nobody understands me, yet everyone likes me?

    Also the opposite can be said:

    Why is it that everyone understands me, yet nobody likes me?

    To sum up, realize that a lot of people will not understand you — and will probably not like you.

    Or the idea that you can be of use to people, and they might not appreciate or love you.

    23. Why do humans keep killing one another?

    Albert Einstein when asked:

    “Dr. Einstein, why is it that when the mind of man has stretched so far as to discover the structure of the atom we have been unable to devise the political means to keep the atom from destroying us?”

    Einstein responded:

    That is simple my friend. It is because politics is more difficult than physics.

    24. Change our thoughts and thinking

    “The world we have created is a product of our thinking; it cannot be changed without changing our thinking.”

    We need to change our thinking to change the world.

    25. Avoid humanity’s extinction

    Einstein on the atom bomb:

    Often in evolutionary processes a species must adapt to new conditions in order to survive. Today the atomic bomb has altered profoundly the nature of the world as we knew it, and the human race consequently finds itself in a new habitat to which it must adapt its thinking.
> In the light of new knowledge, a world authority and an eventual world state are not just desirable in the name of brotherhood, they are necessary for survival. In previous ages a nation’s life and culture could be protected to some extent by the growth of armies in national competition. Today we must abandon competition and secure cooperation. This must be the central fact in all our considerations of international affairs; otherwise we face certain disaster. Past thinking and methods did not prevent world wars. Future thinking must prevent wars.

    We need to cooperate. We need to prevent future wars; or all of humanity will die.

    Also another quote from Einstein:

    I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.

    26. Gift of fantasy

    More science fiction; more exploring; more fantasy:

    When I examine myself and my methods of thought I come to the conclusion that the gift of fantasy has meant more to me than my talent for absorbing positive knowledge.

    Gaining knowledge or information is nothing.

    Learn how to wonder, to explore ideas, to live in fantasy.

    27. Where does intuition come from?

    A new idea comes suddenly and in a rather intuitive way. But intuition is nothing but the outcome of earlier intellectual experience.

    To follow your gut; to instcintively follow the knowledge you’ve already gained in the past.

    28. Never betray your conscience

    Never do anything against conscience even if the state demands it.

    29. On Gandhi

    Taken on the whole, I would believe that Gandhi’s views were the most enlightened of all the political men in our time. We should strive to do things in his spirit… not to use violence in fighting for our cause, but by non-participation in what we believe is evil.

    To make chance in society via non-violence.

    Also to not participate in what we believe is evil.

    Action through inaction.

    Or another way to think about it: ethics as deciding what not to do in your life— rather than what to do.

    You are defined by what you decide not to do in life.

    30. Universal love and compassion for all of humanity

    A human being is a part of the whole, called by us “Universe”, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest — a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such achievement is in itself a part of the liberation and a foundation for inner security.

    Let us not care just about ourselves, and a few family members and friends.

    Widen the circle of compassion for all living beings, and all the earth.

    31. Passionately curious

    I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious.

    Don’t call yourself smart or dumb. Just curious or not curious.

    32. Study the past

    Somebody who reads only newspapers and at best books of contemporary authors appears to me like an extremely near-sighted person who scorns eyeglasses. He is completely dependent on the prejudices and fashions of his times, since he never gets to see or hear anything else. And what a person thinks on his own, without being stimulated by the thoughts and experiences of other people, is, similarly, even in the best case rather paltry and monotonous.

    Look into the past for wisdom.

    33. Don’t be a specialist; be a generalist

    It is not enough to teach a man a specialty. Through it he may become a kind of useful machine but not a harmoniously developed personality. It is essential that the student acquire an understanding of and a lively feeling for values. He must acquire a vivid sense of the beautiful and of the morally good. Otherwise he—with his specialized knowledge—more closely resembles a well-trained dog than a harmoniously developed person.

    To not be a specialist. To have a harmoniously developed personality. To acquire values, virtue, and morality.

    Also, to study sociology and human beings:

    He must learn to understand the motives of human beings, their illusions, and their sufferings in order to acquire a proper relationship to individual fellow-men and to the community. These precious things are conveyed to the younger generation through personal contact with those who teach, not—or at least not in the main—through textbooks. It is this that primarily constitutes and preserves culture. This is what I have in mind when I recommend the “humanities” as important, not just dry specialized knowledge in the fields of history and philosophy.

    ‘Humanities’ as studying humans — not just dry subjects.

    34. Think daring thoughts

    I think that only daring speculation can lead us further and not accumulation of facts.

    Leave fact-accumulation to Google. Let us think daring thoughts— something an algorithm can never do.

    35. Infinity

    The universe as infinite— time and space shifting, and you’re part of the whole universe:

    The strange thing about growing old is that the intimate identification with the here and now is slowly lost; one feels transposed into infinity, more or less alone, no longer in hope or fear, only observing.

    No more fear or hope in life— just observing the beauty of life and the universe.

    36. Do something

    Stand up for your beliefs:

    The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch them without doing anything.

    As Nassim Taleb says:

    If you see fraud, and do not call fraud—you are a fraud.

    37. Western science

    Development of Western Science is based on two great achievements, the invention of the formal logical system (in Euclidean geometry) by the Greek philosophers, and the discovery of the possibility to find out causal relationships by systematic experiment (Renaissance). In my opinion one has not to be astonished that the Chinese sages have not made these steps. The astonishing thing is that these discoveries were made at all.

    Formal logic system, and discovery to find causal relationships by experimentation.

    38. No fear of death

    To think with fear of the end of one’s life is pretty general with human beings. It is one of the means nature uses to conserve the life of the species. Approached rationally, that fear is the most unjustified of all fears, for there is no risk of any accidents to one who is dead or not yet born. In short, the fear is stupid but it cannot be helped.

    Dying is the same as not being born— why we afraid of it?

    39. How to make a living

    “If I would be a young man again and had to decide how to make my living, I would not try to become a scientist or scholar or teacher. I would rather choose to be a plumber or a peddler in the hope to find that modest degree of independence still available under present circumstances.” – Einstein

    Don’t be full-time scientist, scholar, or teacher.

    Rather, seek a job that allows you fullest degree of freedom.

    40. On death

    He has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That means nothing. People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present, and future is a stubbornly persistent illusion.

    Physics: realize that there is no ‘past, present, or future’.

    Death not just a single time continuum. What does it matter how old or young we die?

    41. Don’t be an academic

    Follow a ‘practical’ profession:

    Following a practical profession is a blessing for people of my type. Because the academic career puts a young person in a sort of compulsory situation to produce scientific papers in impressive quantity, a temptation to superficiality arises that only strong characters are able to resist.

    Academic career — you need to ‘publish or perish’ — you have no freedom.

    42. Never lose a holy curiosity

    “The important thing is to never stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, life, and the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery everyday. Never lose a holy curiosity. Don’t stop to marvel.” – Einstein

    Be like a kid, saying “WOW…” to everything you see. Never lose a holy curiosity.

    43. Be valuable; not successful

    Try not to become a man of success. Rather, try to become a man of value.

    Be valuable to other humans; not ‘successful’ in showing off.

    44. Speak to everyone the same way

    I speak to everyone in the same way, whether he is the garbage man or the president of the university.

    45. Think of the future

    Yes, we now have to divide up our time like that, between politics and our equations. But to me our equations are far more important, for politics are only a matter of present concern. A mathematical equation stands forever.

    What can you do that will stand forever?

    46. Never arrive

    I love to travel, but I hate to arrive.

    The journey of life is better than the destination.

    47. The theory of relativity

    Einstein explains the theory of relativity in simple terms:

    When a man sits with a pretty girl for an hour, it seems like a minute. But let him sit on a hot stove for a minute and it’s longer than any hour. That’s relativity.

    48. How to live a happy life

    “If you want to live a happy life, tie it to a goal, not to people or objects.” – Einstein

    Unhappiness: seeking happiness through admiration of people, or obtaining objects.

    Happiness: To achieve a noble goal in life.

    49. Visual imagination

    “If I can’t picture it, I can’t understand it.” – Einstein

    How can we apply this to photography?

    50. What is a religious experience?

    I said before, the most beautiful and most profound religious emotion that we can experience is the sensation of the mystical. And this mysticality is the power of all true science. If there is any such concept as a God, it is a subtle spirit, not an image of a man that so many have fixed in their minds. In essence, my religion consists of a humble admiration for this illimitable superior spirit that reveals itself in the slight details that we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble minds.

    The sense of rapture and awe.

    Experience the sensation of the mystical. Have a humble admiration for the illimitable superior spirit that reveals itself in the slight details that we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble minds.

    Or the saying:

    God is in the details.

    51. Why do men pursue science and art?

    One of the strongest motives that lead men to art and science is escape from everyday life with its painful crudeness and hopeless dreariness, from the fetters of one’s own ever-shifting desires. A finely tempered nature longs to escape from the personal life into the world of objective perception and thought. With this negative motive goes a positive one. Man seeks to form for himself a simplified and lucid view of the world, in order to overcome the world of experience by striving to replace it to some extend by this image. Into this image and its formation, he places the center of gravity of his emotional life, in order to attain the peace and serenity that he cannot find within the narrow confines of a swirling personal experience.

    We all just want peace and serenity in life. We pursue power, in order to gain control over our lives, and reality.

    52. Don’t get confused

    The meaning of relativity has been widely misunderstood. Philosophers play with the word, like a child with a doll. Relativity, as I see it, merely denotes that certain physical and mechanical facts, which have been regarded as positive and permanent, are relative with regard to certain other facts in the sphere of physics and mechanics. It does not mean that everything in life is relative and that we have the right to turn the whole world mischievously topsy-turvy.

    Avoid certain moral ills; there is certain ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in life.

    53. On music

    If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician. I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music. … I cannot tell if I would have done any creative work of importance in music, but I do know that I get most joy in life out of my violin.

    54. Don’t read too much

    Creativity is often stunted by too much reading:

    Reading after a certain age diverts the mind too much from its creative pursuits. Any man who reads too much and uses his own brain too little falls into lazy habits of thinking, just as the man who spends too much time in the theater is tempted to be content with living vicariously instead of living his own life.

    Don’t live through books; live your own life.

    55. Become a dominant personality

    Our time is Gothic in its spirit. Unlike the Renaissance, it is not dominated by a few outstanding personalities. The twentieth century has established the democracy of the intellect. In the republic of art and science there are many men who take an equally important part in the intellectual movements of our age. It is the epoch rather than the individual that is important. There is no one dominant personality like Galileo or Newton. Even in the nineteenth century there were still a few giants who outtopped all others. Today the general level is much higher than ever before in the history of the world, but there are few men whose stature immediately sets them apart from all others.

    Be a giant. Set yourself apart as an individual.

    56. On American style

    In America, more than anywhere else, the individual is lost in the achievements of the many. America is beginning to be the world leader in scientific investigation. American scholarship is both patient and inspiring. The Americans show an unselfish devotion to science, which is the very opposite of the conventional European view of your countrymen. Too many of us look upon Americans as dollar chasers. This is a cruel libel, even if it is reiterated thoughtlessly by the Americans themselves. It is not true that the dollar is an American fetish. The American student is not interested in dollars, not even in success as such, but in his task, the object of the search. It is his painstaking application to the study of the infinitely little and the infinitely large which accounts for his success in astronomy.

    Be unselfish in devoting yourself to science and finding the truth.

    Not interested in dollars, but in the object of our search; our life task.

    57. Imagination is all

    I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.

    58. Don’t make humans standard

    But to return to the Jewish question. Other groups and nations cultivate their individual traditions. There is no reason why we should sacrifice ours. Standardization robs life of its spice. To deprive every ethnic group of its special traditions is to convert the world into a huge Ford plant. I believe in standardizing automobiles. I do not believe in standardizing human beings. Standardization is a great peril which threatens American culture.

    Standardization robs life of its spice— standardize technology, but not humans.

    We need diversity to survive as human species, and culture.

    59. Want nothing from nobody

    I am happy because I want nothing from anyone. I do not care for money. Decorations, titles, or distinctions mean nothing to me. I do not crave praise. The only thing that gives me pleasure, apart from my work, my violin and my sailboat, is the appreciation of my fellow workers.

    60. No credit

    I claim credit for nothing. Everything is determined, the beginning as well as the end, by forces over which we have no control.

    Don’t claim credit for our own work.

    61. On understanding the universe

    The problem involved is too vast for our limited minds. May I not reply with a parable? The human mind, no matter how highly trained, cannot grasp the universe. We are in the position of a little child, entering a huge library whose walls are covered to the ceiling with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written those books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order, which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of the human mind, even the greatest and most cultured, toward God. We see a universe marvelously arranged, obeying certain laws, but we understand the laws only dimly. Our limited minds cannot grasp the mysterious force that sways the constellations. I am fascinated by Spinoza’s Pantheism. I admire even more his contributions to modern thought. Spinoza is the greatest of modern philosophers, because he is the first philosopher who deals with the soul and the body as one, not as two separate things.

    Pantheism: identifies God with the universe; and the universe being God. Not God as being a being.

    And Spinoza says: the human body and soul are one (not separate).

    62. Attain proficiency in your own work

    Every man knows that in his work he does best and accomplishes most when he has attained a proficiency that enables him to work intuitively. That is, there are things which we come to know so well that we do not know how we know them. So it seems to me in matters of principle. Perhaps we live best and do things best when we are not too conscious of how and why we do them.

    Have faith in your own work, but build your skills.

    63. Rules on living

    I have only two rules which I regard as principles of conduct. The first is: Have no rules. The second is: Be independent of the opinion of others.

    Have no rules in your life; and don’t care about the opinions of others.

    64. Pleasure and pain

    Everything that men do or think concerns the satisfaction of the needs they feel or the escape from pain. This must be kept in mind when we seek to understand spiritual or intellectual movements and the way in which they develop. For feelings and longings are the motive forces of all human striving and productivity—however nobly these latter may display themselves to us.

    Do we live, just bring to escape from pain?

    Or we are productive— in order to feel something?

    65. Daily life

    How strange are us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief time. What purpose are we here for? Sometimes we think we sense it.

    I am strongly drawn to the simple life and am often oppressed by the feeling that I am engrossing an unnecessary amount of the labor of my fellow-men. I regard class differences as contrary to justice and in the last resort, based on force. I also consider that plain living is good for everyone— physically and mentally.

    Live a simple life.

    66. Don’t just live a life for ease and happiness:

    I have never looked upon ease and happiness as ends in themselves. This is the ideal of pigs. The ideals that have lighted my way have been kindness, beauty, and truth. Without the sense of kinship with fellow like-minded men, without the occupation with the objective world, the eternally unattainable in the field of art and scientific endeavors — life would have seemed empty to me.

    The life of pigs: To seek a life of ease and happiness.

    The life of humans: To seek kindness (to all of humans), beauty, and truth.

    We need kinship with fellow man — or else life will be empty.

    The trite objects of human efforts— possessions, outward success, luxury— have always seemed to me contemptible.

    Disregard trite things in our lives— like owning stuff (expensive luxury goods), having ‘success’ in the outward sense, and luxury — a matter of contempt.

    67. The beauty of mystery of life

    The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.

    Pursue mystery, even when mixed with fear.

    Feel wonderment, amazement in life — or else we are good as dead, like a snuffed-out candle.

    Pursue mystery of universe, even when we fear it.

    68. Why waste your effort in life?

    We are just struggling to eat— but some of us are struggling to obtain more, expensive, worldly goods:

    The efforts of most human-beings are consumed in the struggle for their daily bread, but most of those who are, either through fortune or some special gift, relieved of this struggle are largely absorbed in further improving their worldly lot.

    It is false that the end of happiness in life is to just have the most toys:

    Beneath the effort directed toward the accumulation of worldly goods lies all too frequently the illusion that this is the most substantial and desirable end to be achieved; but there is, fortunately, a minority composed of those who recognize early in their lives that the most beautiful and satisfying experiences open to humankind are not derived from the outside, but are bound up with the development of the individual’s own feeling, thinking and acting.

    Rather, true happiness: the most beautiful and satisfying experience as humans is not from the outside world, but building up our own faculties of feeling, thinking, and acting.

    69. Poetry of logical ideas

    Pure mathematics is, the poetry of logical ideas. One seeks the most general ideas of operation which will bring together in simple, logical, and unified form the largest possible circle of formal relationships. In this effort toward logical beauty spiritual formulas are discovered necessary for the deeper penetration into the laws of nature.

    Pure math = poetry.

    70. What is enlightenment?

    Liberate yourself from your own selfish desires— and don’t care about the values of the external world:

    A person who is religiously enlightened appears to me to be one who has, to the best of his ability, liberated himself from the fetters of his selfish desires and is preoccupied with thoughts, feelings, and aspirations to which he clings because of their superpersonal value. It seems to me that what is important is the force of this superpersonal content and the depth of the conviction concerning its overpowering meaningfulness, regardless of whether any attempt is made to unite this content with a divine Being, for otherwise it would not be possible to count Buddha and Spinoza as religious personalities.

    To have overwhelmingly meaningful purpose in life— to do work to empower other humans.

    To be religious: to know your significance, and the significance of helping other humans:

    Accordingly, a religious person is devout in the sense that he has no doubt of the significance and loftiness of those superpersonal objects and goals which neither require nor are capable of rational foundation. They exist with the same necessity and matter-of-factness as he himself. In this sense religion is the age-old endeavor of mankind to become clearly and completely conscious of these values and goals and constantly to strengthen and extend their effect. If one conceives of religion and science according to these definitions then a conflict between them appears impossible. For science can only ascertain what is, but not what should be, and outside of its domain value judgments of all kinds remain necessary.

    Don’t take the Bible verbatim (word for word):

    A conflict arises when a religious community insists on the absolute truthfulness of all statements recorded in the Bible. This means an intervention on the part of religion into the sphere of science; this is where the struggle of the Church against the doctrines of Galileo and Darwin belongs. On the other hand, representatives of science have often made an attempt to arrive at fundamental judgments with respect to values and ends on the basis of scientific method, and in this way have set themselves in opposition to religion. These conflicts have all sprung from fatal errors.

    Bible as symbolism. Still can learn a lot of important moral lessons from Bible.

    71. Religion needs science; science needs religion

    Even though the realms of religion and science in themselves are clearly marked off from each other, nevertheless there exist between the two strong reciprocal relationships and dependencies. Though religion may be that which determines the goal, it has, nevertheless, learned from science, in the broadest sense, what means will contribute to the attainment of the goals it has set up. But science can only be created by those who are thoroughly imbued with the aspiration toward truth and understanding. This source of feeling, however, springs from the sphere of religion. To this there also belongs the faith in the possibility that the regulations valid for the world of existence are rational, that is, comprehensible to reason. I cannot conceive of a genuine scientist without that profound faith. The situation may be expressed by an image: science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind.

    Science without religion is crippled; religion without science is blind.

    We need religion to guide the ethics of science. We need science to reveal more truth about the world and reality.

    72. God is created in man’s image

    Though I have asserted above that in truth a legitimate conflict between religion and science cannot exist, I must nevertheless qualify this assertion once again on an essential point, with reference to the actual content of historical religions. This qualification has to do with the concept of God. During the youthful period of mankind’s spiritual evolution human fantasy created gods in man’s own image, who, by the operations of their will were supposed to determine, or at any rate to influence, the phenomenal world. Man sought to alter the disposition of these gods in his own favor by means of magic and prayer. The idea of God in the religions taught at present is a sublimation of that old concept of the gods. Its anthropomorphic character is shown, for instance, by the fact that men appeal to the Divine Being in prayers and plead for the fulfillment of their wishes.

    Why do we see God as a man?

    73. What is the goal of religion?

    If it is one of the goals of religion to liberate mankind as far as possible from the bondage of egocentric cravings, desires, and fears, scientific reasoning can aid religion in yet another sense. Although it is true that it is the goal of science to discover rules which permit the association and foretelling of facts, this is not its only aim. It also seeks to reduce the connections discovered to the smallest possible number of mutually independent conceptual elements.

    Liberate mankind from bondage of stupid desires, fears, and cravings.

    Science can also help liberate us from the vain.

    74. Art of living

    The great moral teachers of humanity were artistic geniuses in the art of living.

    Teach morality, virtue, to fellow human beings.

    Art of living — the ultimate art.

    75. No competition

    Why we all kill each other—over religion?

    While religion prescribes brotherly love in the relations among the individuals and groups, the actual spectacle more resembles a battlefield than an orchestra. Everywhere, in economic as well as in political life, the guiding principle is one of ruthless striving for success at the expense of one’s fellow men. This competitive spirit prevails even in school and, destroying all feelings of human fraternity and cooperation, conceives of achievement not as derived from the love for productive and thoughtful work, but as springing from personal ambition and fear of rejection.

    Economics, life, business— NOT a zero-sum game. Meaning, no winners and losers. We can expand the pie for everyone.

    No competition. No winning and losing.

    Practical assignment: don’t play any games where there is a ‘winner’ or ‘loser’ (aka, almost all games)

    Competitive spirit: breaks sense of fraternity and fellowship with fellow humans. We cooperate less, because we want to win.

    76. Early sense of wonderment

    A wonder of such nature I experienced as a child of 4 or 5 years, when my father showed me a compass. That this needle behaved in such a determined way did not at all fit into the nature of events, which could find a place in the unconscious world of concepts (effect connected with direct “touch”). I can still remember—or at least believe I can remember—that this experience made a deep and lasting impression upon me.

    There are deeper mysteries in universe:

    Something deeply hidden had to be behind things. What man sees before him from infancy causes no reaction of this kind; he is not surprised over the falling of bodies, concerning wind and rain, nor concerning the moon or about the fact that the moon does not fall down, nor concerning the differences between living and non-living matter.

    Why does a compass work? How does gravity work? Why does the moon not fall out of the sky? Where does wind and rain come from? What is the difference between organic and inorganic matter?

    77. Modern school kills curiosity in children

    It is, in fact, nothing short of a miracle that the modern methods of instruction have not yet entirely strangled the holy curiosity of inquiry; for this delicate little plant, aside from stimulation, stands mainly in need of freedom; without this it goes to wreck and ruin without fail. It is a very grave mistake to think that the enjoyment of seeing and searching can be promoted by means of coercion and a sense of duty.

    Nurture our ‘holy curiosity of inquiry’ — and in our kids.

    Give children, like little plants, need of freedom!

    78. Simplicity

    A theory is more impressive when it is simpler.

    79. What is the meaning of human life?

    What is the meaning of human life, or of organic life altogether? To answer this question at all implies a religion. Is there any sense then, you ask, in putting it? I answer, the man who regards his own life and that of his fellow creatures as meaningless is not merely unfortunate but almost disqualified for life.

    To me: the meaning of human life is to empower other humans, reduce suffering of other humans, and to create our own art— to uplift our spirits to the heavens.

    80. We are all connected to other humans

    When we survey our lives and endeavors we soon observe that almost the whole of our actions and desires are bound up with the existence of other human beings.

    We need to learn to live in harmony with other humans. We are social animals:

    We see that our whole nature resembles that of the social animals. We eat food that others have grown, wear clothes that others have made, live in houses that others have built.

    History, knowledge, information — all built on backs of the masters from the past:

    The greater part of our knowledge and beliefs has been communicated to us by other people through the medium of a language which others have created. Without language our mental capacities would be poor indeed, comparable to those of the higher animals; we have, therefore, to admit that we owe our principal advantage over the beasts to the fact of living in human society.

    No individual can survive without collective efforts of society in the past.

    We couldn’t communicate our thoughts and beliefs without invention of language.

    Without language, we would have no mental capacities.

    To be human (versus other animal): to have control of thought, via language.

    The individual, if left alone from birth would remain primitive and beast-like in his thoughts and feelings to a degree that we can hardly conceive. The individual is what he is and has the significance that he has not so much in virtue of his individuality, but rather as a member of a great human society, which directs his material and spiritual existence from the cradle to the grave.

    What would a human without language and society be like? Same as beast.

    81. How to be valuable in society

    A man’s value to the community depends primarily on how far his feelings, thoughts, and actions are directed towards promoting the food of his fellows.

    Help others more.

    82. Power of one man

    You have power, as one person, to create great things:

    It is clear that all the valuable things, material, spiritual, and moral, which we receive from society can be traced back through countless generations to certain creative individuals. The use of fire, the cultivation of edible plants, the steam engine — each was discovered by one man.

    Great innovation: from one man. A singular person.

    Be an individual. think for yourself, create new values for society— and create new moral standards.

    You need to be a creative, independent-thinker. Learn to judge, with love.

    Learn to work toward ‘upward development of society’ — you need to think. Build your individual personality, in order to ‘nourish the soil of the community.’

    The health of society depends on the independence of individuals.

    The health of society depends on your independence, and your work.

    83. On wealth

    I am absolutely convinced that no wealth in the world can help humanity forward, even in the hands of the most devoted worker in this cause. The example of great and pure characters is the only thing that can produce fine ideas and noble deeds. Money only appeals to selfishness and always tempts its owners irresistibly to abuse it.

    For me, I can help humanity by writing, sharing ideas, making videos. More money will not help society.

    Create fine ideas, and embark on ‘noble deeds.’

    84. The cult of the individual

    America, as praising the individual.

    The cult of individual personalities is always, in my view, unjustified. To be sure, nature distributes her gifts variously among her children. But there are plenty of the well-endowed ones too, thank God, and I am firmly convinced that most of them live quiet, unregarded lives. It strikes me as unfair, and even in bad taste, to select a few of them for boundless admiration, attributing superhuman powers of mind and character to them.

    Don’t just worship a few heroes; know all humans have inner-greatness.

    The people of America must realize that they have a great responsibility in the sphere of international politics. The part of passive spectator is unworthy of this country and is bound in the end to lead to disaster all round.

    We have a great responsibility. Don’t be a passive spectator!

    85. Fuck bureaucracy

    Bureaucracy is the death of all sound work.

    86. Moral teachings

    If one purges the Judaism of the Prophets and Christianity as Jesus Christ taught it of all subsequent additions, especially those of the priests, one is left with a teaching which is capable of curing all the social ills of humanity.

    Let us seek to cure all the social ills of humanity.

    It is the duty of every man of good will to strive steadfastly in his own little world to make this teaching of pure humanity a living force, so far as he can. If he makes an honest attempt in this direction without being crushed and trampled under foot by his contemporaries, he may consider himself and the community to which he belongs lucky.

    Our duty: to strive in my little world, to share a teaching of pure love, and humanity.

    87. What is our knowledge?

    What does a fish know about the water in which he swims all his life?

    Do we actually have insight about reality, or society in which we live in?

    Or are we just fishes, swimming in the vast ocean, without any conscious thought or wisdom?

    88. Open communication

    Open-source information, open, free to all — to benefit all of humanity:

    This freedom of communication is indispensable for the development and extension of scientific knowledge, a consideration of much practical import. In the first instance it must be guaranteed by law. But laws alone cannot secure freedom of expression; in order that every man may present his views without penalty there must be a spirit of tolerance in the entire population. Such an ideal of external liberty can never be fully attained but must be sought unremittingly if scientific thought, and philosophical and creative thinking in general, are to be advanced as far as possible.

    89. Solitude

    I believe that solitude is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity.

    Love solitude.

    90. Help others without fear

    Hail to the man who went through life always helping others, knowing no fear, and to whom aggressiveness and resentment are alien. This is the stuff of which the great moral leaders are made.

    Don’t be afraid to help others. No pettiness, aggressiveness, competition, and resentment.

    Pure love.

    Another translation:

    “I salute the man who is going through life always helpful, knowing no fear, and to whom aggressiveness and resentment are alien. Such is the stuff of which the great moral leaders are made who proffer consolation to mankind in their self-created miseries.” – Einstein

    91. Power and wisdom don’t mix

    If we seek power, it is like trying to mix water with oil. They don’t mix:

    The attempt to combine wisdom and power has only rarely been successful, and then only for a short while.

    No power seeking — I will become tyrant.

    92. Do you have your own opinion?

    Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions that differ from the prejudices of their social environment. Most people are even incapable of forming such opinions.

    Have the courage to express your own freedom of speech, of your own opinion.

    Don’t just follow the flock. Don’t be a lemming, falling off the cliff to your death.

    93. Joy in looking

    The greatest joy of photographer: to look at the world with wonderment, and appreciation:

    Joy in looking and comprehending is nature’s most beautiful gift.

    94. What do you do when you have it all?

    Live freely. Admire, ask, observe, and study art and science:

    Where the world ceases to be the scene of our personal hopes and wishes, where we face it as free beings admiring, asking, observing, there we enter the realm of Art and Science. If what is seen and experienced is portrayed in the language of logic, we are engaged in science. If it is communicated through forms whose connections are not accessible to the conscious mind but are recognized intuitively as meaningful, then we are engaged in art. Common to both is love and devotion to that which transcends personal concerns and volition.

    To be human: to seek art and science, to understand, to devote ourselves to something that is beyond ourselves.

    95. Body and soul

    Body and soul are one.

    Body and soul are not two different things, but only two different ways of perceiving the same thing. Similarly, physics and psychology are only different attempts to link our experiences together by way of systematic thought.

    We perceive the world differently via our bodies, and our soul.

    96. Ethics

    We will not live forever. But human rules, morals, and ethics/virtue will live forever:

    I do not believe in immortality of the individual, and I consider ethics to be an exclusively human concern with no superhuman authority behind it.

    97. What is the purpose of the universe?

    I have never imputed to Nature a purpose or a goal, or anything that could be understood as anthropomorphic. What I see in Nature is a magnificent structure that we can comprehend only very imperfectly, and that must fill a thinking person with a feeling of “humility.” This is a genuinely religious feeling that has nothing to do with mysticism.

    Nature doesn’t have a goal like humans. Rather, we should be humble, and know there are things we will never understand as tiny ants.

    Imagine trying to explain to an ant how the internet works. We are the ant.

    98. We learn wisdom from self-study

    Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it.

    99. Ambition to love others more

    Nothing truly valuable arises from ambition or from a mere sense of duty; it stems rather from love and devotion towards men.

    Be ambitious not to become richer, but to help more people.

    100. Always be young

    Something there is that can refresh and revivify older people: joy in the activities of the younger generation—a joy, to be sure, that is clouded by dark forebodings in these unsettled times. And yet, as always, the springtime sun brings forth new life, and we may rejoice because of this new life and contribute to its unfolding; and Mozart remains as beautiful and tender as he always was and always will be. There is, after all, something eternal that lies beyond reach of the hand of fate and of all human delusions. And such eternals lie closer to an older person than to a younger one oscillating between fear and hope. For us, there remains the privilege of experiencing beauty and truth in their purest forms.

    Older people: spend more time with younger. Younger people — spend more time with older people.

    101. Strive to be virtuous

    The most important human endeavor is the striving for morality in our actions. Our inner balance and even our very existence depend on it. Only morality in our actions can give beauty and dignity to life. To make this a living force and bring it to clear consciousness is perhaps the foremost task of education. The foundation of morality should not be made dependent on myth nor tied to any authority lest doubt about the myth or about the legitimacy of the authority imperil the foundation of sound judgment and action.

    Live a morally-right life, via the right actions.

    Have dignity and respect for all human beings.

    102. Life advice

    Life advice from Einstein:

    • Read no newspapers
    • Try to find a few friends who think like you
    • Read the wonderful writers of earlier times (Kant, Goethe, Lessing) and the classics of other lands
    • Enjoy the natural beautifies of the world
    • While you’re living, always play ‘make believe’
    • Pretend living on Earth is like living on Mars among alien creatures.
    • Have no interest in what other aliens (on earth) are doing.
    • Make friends with a few animals.
    • You will be a cheerful man, and nothing will trouble you.

    Summed up, disregard the external world. Find joy and happiness in the work you do, the few friends you have, and always live in a child-like state of curiosity.

    Don’t let other humans disrupt your inner-zen and tranquility/peace.

    103. Enjoy the purity of your own atmosphere

    Bear in mind that those who are finer and nobler are always alone — and necessarily so — and that because of this they can enjoy the purity of their own atmosphere.

    Create your own ideal environment for yourself (mental/physical).

    104. Throw away bad ideas

    The most important tool of the theoretical physicist is his wastebasket.

    105. Avoid big data

    More data doesn’t mean more knowledge or wisdom:

    Who would have thought around 1900 that in fifty years time we would know so much more and understand so much less.

    Less information = more wisdom

    106. Don’t send your kids to a boring school

    School failed me, and I failed the school. It bored me. The teachers behaved like Feldwebel (sergeants). I wanted to learn what I wanted to know, but they wanted me to learn for the exam.

    School trains kids to be good test-takers; not inquisitive human beings.

    Schools make kids competitive. Idea: send kid to Montessori//or make my own Montessori school?

    What I hated most was the competitive system there, and especially sports. Because of this, I wasn’t worth anything, and several times they suggested I leave. This was a Catholic School in Munich. I felt that my thirst for knowledge was being strangled by my teachers; grades were their only measurement.

    Don’t let teachers strangle you— to beat your inner-curiosity (by only caring about grades).

    How can a teacher understand youth with such a system? . . . from the age of twelve I began to suspect authority and distrust teachers. I learned mostly at home, first from my uncle and then from a student who came to eat with us once a week.

    Self-directed learning, via internet. Via Wikipedia/YouTube/Google/Internet Archive/Project Gutenberg/etc:

    He would give me books on physics and astronomy. The more I read, the more puzzled I was by the order of the universe and the disorder of the human mind, by the scientists who didn’t agree on the how, the when, or the why of creation. Then one day this student brought me Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Reading Kant, I began to suspect everything I was taught. I no longer believed in the known God of the Bible, but rather in the mysterious God expressed in nature.

    Make your own school of learning.

    107. Freedom from senses

    We have higher mathematics, haven’t we? This gives me freedom from my senses. The language of mathematics is even more inborn and universal than the language of music; a mathematical formula is crystal clear and independent of all sense organs. I therefore built a mathematical laboratory, set myself in it as if I were sitting in a car, and moved along with a beam of light.

    Uplift you soul from mere sensory perception (in terms of vision, feeling, touching, smell, hearing, etc).

    You can build your own lab in your own mind.

    108. Best way to annoy a poet: explain his poetry to him (Nassim Taleb)

    “Since others have explained my theory, I can no longer understand it myself.” – Einstein

    109. Science will never be finished:

    Devote life to using the most of my brain, and mind:

    Science is never finished because the human mind only uses a small portion of its capacity, and man’s exploration of his world is also limited. If we look at this tree outside whose roots search beneath the pavement for water, or a flower which sends its sweet smell to the pollinating bees, or even our own selves and the inner forces that drive us to act, we can see that we all dance to a mysterious tune, and the piper who plays this melody from an inscrutable distance—whatever name we give him—Creative Force, or God—escapes all book knowledge.

    Never stop learning/exploring/being curious.

    110. Have a boring job

    Boring job, to deduce theories of universe:

    “What do you think of Spinoza? For me he is the ideal example of the cosmic man. He worked as an obscure diamond cutter, disdaining fame and a place at the table of the great. He tells us the importance of understanding our emotions and suggests what causes them. Man will never be free until he is able to direct his emotions to think clearly. Only then can he control his environment and preserve his energy for creative work.” – Einstein

    Spinoza’s job was making lenses, and disdained fame. He philosophized in his free time.

    How can you control your environment, and preserve your mind for creative work?

    Idea: do minimum possible mental work at your 9-5 job, and devote the rest of your mental idea on thinking, being creative, making art.

    111. Mind \> Emotions

    What a betrayal of man’s dignity. He uses the highest gift, his mind, only ten percent, and his emotions and instincts ninety percent.

    Don’t let my instincts and emotions rule me.

    Focus on mind.

    112. Cosmic life

    I believe that I have cosmic religious feelings. I never could grasp how one could satisfy these feelings by praying to limited objects. The tree outside is life, a statue is dead. The whole of nature is life, and life, as I observe it, rejects a God resembling man. I like to experience the universe as one harmonious whole. Every cell has life. Matter, too, has life; it is energy solidified. Our bodies are like prisons, and I look forward to be free, but I don’t speculate on what will happen to me. I live here now, and my responsibility is in this world now. . . . I deal with natural laws. This is my work here on earth.

    Even in-organic material has energy, and ‘life’.

    113. What is a genuine scientist?

    Not moved by praise, blame, and doesn’t preach:

    The genuine scientist is not moved by praise or blame, nor does he preach. He unveils the universe and people come eagerly, without being pushed, to behold a new revelation: the order, the harmony, the magnificence of creation! And as man becomes conscious of the stupendous laws that govern the universe in perfect harmony, he begins to realize how small he is. He sees the pettiness of human existence, with its ambitions and intrigues, its ‘I am better than thou’ creed. This is the beginning of cosmic religion within him; fellowship and human service become his moral code. And without such moral foundations, we are hopelessly doomed.

    Realize how small we are; and how petty human existence is.

    My religion: fellowship of all of humanity, and dedicating my life to serving other humans.

    114. Live life for others

    I believe in one thing— that only a life lived for others is a life worth living.

    A life living for others is worth living.

    A life living for (only) yourself is not worth living.

    My idea: Live selfishly for myself, in order to be more beneficial to living for others.

    ‘Virtuous selfishness’

    115. Be an idealist

    Change society with better moral codes, ideals, and virtues:

    If we want to improve the world we cannot do it with scientific knowledge but with ideals. Confucius, Buddha, Jesus and Gandhi have done more for humanity than science has done. We must begin with the heart of man—with his conscience—and the values of conscience can only be manifested by selfless service to mankind.

    Focus on ‘selfless service to mankind.’

    116. Don’t worry about life after death

    I believe that we don’t need to worry about what happens after we die, as long as we do our duty here— to love and serve others.

    Purpose of life: to love and serve others.

    117. A reasoning mind

    I have faith in the universe, for it is rational. Law underlies each happening. And I have faith in my purpose here on earth. I have faith in my intuition, the language of my conscience, but I have no faith in speculation about Heaven and Hell. I’m concerned with this time—here and now.

    • Trust the universe; it is rational
    • Stay focused on your purpose on earth
    • Trust your intuition
    • Trust the language of your conscience
    • Don’t think about heaven or hell.
    • Concern yourself with this time— here and now.

    118. Interpret meaning

    Philosophy is empty if it isn’t based on science. Science discovers, philosophy interprets.

    How to interpret science, to benefit humankind?

    119. My eternity is now

    Don’t think of life after death:

    I do not need any promise of eternity to be happy. My eternity is now. I have only one interest: to fulfill my purpose here where I am. This purpose is not given me by my parents or my surroundings. It is induced by some unknown factors. These factors make me a part of eternity.

    Focus my entire life: to fulfill my life purpose (on Earth, now).

    120. Einstein religion

    My religion is based on Moses: Love God and love your neighbor as yourself. And for me God is the First Cause. David and the prophets knew that there could be no love without justice or justice without love. I don’t need any other religious trappings.

    Love God, and love your neighbor as yourself.

    Don’t do unto others as you don’t want others to do unto you.

    121. Our task

    I believe the main task of the spirit is to free man from his ego.

    Selfless, no ego.

    122. You can’t prove what you believe in

    Just believe in yourself:

    Certainly there are things worth believing. I believe in the brotherhood of man and in personal originality. But if you asked me to prove what I believe, I couldn’t. You can spend your whole life trying to prove what you believe; you may hunt for reasons, but it will all be in vain. Yet our beliefs are like our existence; they are facts. If you don’t yet know what to believe in, then try to learn what you feel and desire.

    What do you believe in?

    Me: I believe in open-source information/photography.

    123. Make leaps ahead by following your intuition

    Build knowledge, but when you advance, follow your gut— to make big leaps forward:

    “The intellect has little to do on the road to discovery. There comes a leap in consciousness, call it intuition or what you will, and the solution comes to you and you do not know how or why. All great discoveries are made in this way.” – Einstein

    Build foundational knowledge:

    “It’s not as simple as that. Knowledge is necessary, too. An intuitive child couldn’t accomplish anything without some knowledge. There will come a point in everyone’s life, however, where only intuition can make the leap ahead, without ever knowing precisely how. One can never know why, but one must accept intuition as a fact.” – Einstein

    Take a leap of faith to innovate.

    124. Never stop questioning

    Don’t ask why you are curious, or why you ask questions. Just keep asking the questions about life:

    Don’t think about why you question, simply don’t stop questioning. Don’t worry about what you can’t answer, and don’t try to explain what you can’t know. Curiosity is its own reason. Aren’t you in awe when you contemplate the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure behind reality? And this is the miracle of the human mind—to use its constructions, concepts, and formulas as tools to explain what man sees, feels and touches. Try to comprehend a little more each day. Have holy curiosity.

    Curiosity as an end in itself.

    Try to understand a little more everyday — have that ‘holy curiosity.’

    125. Practical tips

    ‘Be a loner. That gives you time to wonder, to search for the truth. Have holy curiosity. Make your life worth living.’ – Einstein

    More time to wonder, ask questions, and seek truth. Make a meaningful life.

    126. Get more out of life, by giving more

    Try not to become a man of success, but a man of value. Look around at how people want to get more out of life than they put in. A man of value will give more than he receives. Be creative, but make sure that what you create is not a curse for mankind.

    Man of value: give more than you receive.

    Keep giving more. Be kind.

    Create things which are useful and valuable to others.

    127. Don’t be a bigot

    The bigotry of the nonbeliever is for me nearly as funny as the bigotry of the believer.

    128. Jesus was Jewish

    A Catholic student asks Einstein to pray to Jesus, Virgin Mary, and convert to Christianity. Einstein then said:

    “If I would follow your advice and Jesus could perceive it, he, as a Jewish teacher, surely would not approve of such behavior.”

    129. Dogs will bark at you

    Ignore the barking of dogs:

    I was barked at by numerous dogs who are earning their food guarding ignorance and superstition for the benefit of those who profit from it. Then there are the fanatical atheists whose intolerance is of the same kind as the intolerance of the religious fanatics and comes from the same source.

    Don’t be a fanatical atheist— same as fanatical religious zealots.

    Have universal love for all — regardless if they are religious, or not.

    Don’t be a slave:

    They are like slaves who are still feeling the weight of their chains which they have thrown off after hard struggle. They are creatures who—in their grudge against the traditional “opium for the people”—cannot bear the music of the spheres. The Wonder of nature does not become smaller because one cannot measure it by the standards of human moral and human aims.

    130. How did God make the world?

    I want to know how God created this world. I’m not interested in this or that phenomenon, in the spectrum of this or that element. I want to know His thoughts, the rest are details.

    Why does the universe exist?

    Conclusion

    To sum up what I have learned from Einstein:

    1. Stay curious for your entire life
    2. Reject authority
    3. The purpose of life: to be useful to other human beings, and to uplift all of humanity, and to prevent humans from killing one another.

    Or summed up:

    Stay hungry; stay foolish – Steve Jobs

    Be strong,
    Eric


    Learn From the Titans >

    For inspiration, learn from these contemporary titans:

  • Fountain Head

    Fountain head

    Victor Hugo: If a writer wrote merely for his time, I would have to break my pen and throw it away.

    dojnt live; think, or write on the range of the moment.

    dont let things fade rapidly like magazines.

    longevity is the place of romanticism.

    Romanticism: conceptual school of art. not with random trivia, but with timeless, fundamental, universal problems and values of human existence.

    dont just record or hotograph; it creates and projects (into the future)

    concerned not with things as they are, but with things as they might be ought (aristotle)

    consider my time and my relevance of upmost crucial importance!

    And for the benefit of those who consider relevance to one’s own time as of crucial importance, I will add, in regard to our age, that never has there been a time when men have so desperately needed a projection of things as they ought to be.
    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.
    But that I knew it over twenty-five years ago–that I knew it while The Fountainhead was being rejected by twelve publishers, some of whom declared that it was “too intellectual,”
    “too controversial” and would not sell because no audience existed for it–that was the difficult part of its history; difficult for me to bear. 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.
    It would be impossible for me to discuss The Fountainhead or any part of its history without mentioning the man who made it possible for me to write it: my husband, Frank O’Connor.
    In a play I wrote in my early thirties, Ideal, the heroine, a screen star, speaks for me when she
    says: “I want to see, real, living, and in the hours of my own days, that glory I create as an illusion. 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.”
    Frank was the fuel. 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.
    If there is in me any touch of the Naturalistic writer who records “real-life” dialogue for use in a novel, it has been exercised only in regard to Frank. For instance, one of the most effective lines in The Fountainhead comes at the end of Part II, when, in reply to Toohey’s question: “Why don’t you tell me what you think of me?” Roark answers: “But I don’t think of you.” That line was Frank’s answer to a different type of person, in a somewhat similar context. “You’re casting pearls without getting even a pork chop in return,” was said by Frank to me, in regard to my professional position. I gave that line to Dominique at Roark’s trial.
    I did not feel discouragement very often, and when I did, it did not last longer than overnight. But there was one evening, during the writing of The Fountainhead, when I felt so profound an indignation at the state of “things as they are” that it seemed as if I would never regain the energy to move one step farther toward “things as they ought to be.” Frank talked to me for hours, that night. He convinced me of why one cannot give up the world to those one despises. By the time he finished, my discouragement was gone; it never came back in so intense a form.
    I had been opposed to the practice of dedicating books; I had held that a book is addressed to any reader who proves worthy of it. But, that night, I told Frank that I would dedicate The Fountainhead to him because he had saved it. And one of my happiest moments, about two years later, was given to me by the look on his face when he came home, one day, and saw the page-proofs of the book, headed by the page that stated in cold, clear, objective print: To Frank O’Connor.
    I have been asked whether I have changed in these past twenty-five years. No, I am the same–only more so. Have my ideas changed? No, my fundamental convictions, my view of life and of man, have never changed, from as far back as I can remember, but my knowledge of their applications has grown, in scope and in precision. What is my present evaluation of The Fountainhead? I am as proud of it as I was on the day when I finished writing it.
    Was The Fountainhead written for the purpose of presenting my philosophy? Here, I shall quote from The Goal of My Writing, an address I gave at Lewis and Clark College, on October 1, 1963: “This is the motive and purpose of my writing; the projection of an ideal man. The portrayal of a moral ideal, as my ultimate literary goal, as an end in itself–to which any didactic, intellectual or philosophical values contained in a novel are only the means.
    “Let me stress this: my purpose is not the philosophical enlightenment of my readers…My purpose, first cause and prime mover is the portrayal of Howard Roark [or the heroes of Atlas Shrugged} as an end in himself…
    “I write–and read–for the sake of the story…My basic test for any story is: ‘Would I want to meet these characters and observe these events in real life? Is this story an experience worth living through for its own sake? Is the pleasure of contemplating these characters an end in itself?’…
    “Since my purpose is the presentation of an ideal man, I had to define and present the conditions which make him possible and which his existence requires. Since man’s character is the product of his premises, I had to define and present the kinds of premises and values that create the character of an ideal man and motivate his actions; which means that I had to define and present a rational code of ethics. Since man acts among and deals with other men, I had to present the kind of social system that makes it possible for ideal men to exist and to function–a free, productive, rational system which demands and rewards the best in every
    man, and which is, obviously, laissez-faire capitalism.
    “But neither politics nor ethics nor philosophy is an end in itself, neither in life nor in literature. Only Man is an end in himself.”
    Are there any substantial changes I would want to make in The Fountainhead? No–and, therefore, I have left its text untouched. I want it to stand as it was written. But there is one minor error and one possibly misleading sentence which I should like to clarify, so I shall mention them here.
    The error is semantic: the use of the word “egotist” in Roark’s courtroom speech, while actually the word should have been “egoist.” The error was caused by my reliance on a dictionary which gave such misleading definitions of these two words that “egotist” seemed closer to the meaning I intended (Webster’s Daily Use Dictionary, 1933). (Modern philosophers, however, are guiltier than lexicographers in regard to these two terms.)
    The possibly misleading sentence is in Roark’s speech: “From this simplest necessity to the highest religious abstraction, from the wheel to the skyscraper, everything we are and everything we have comes from a single attribute of man–the function of his reasoning mind.”
    This could be misinterpreted to mean an endorsement of religion or religious ideas. I remember hesitating over that sentence, when I wrote it, and deciding that Roark’s and my atheism, as well as the overall spirit of the book, were so clearly established that no one would misunderstand it, particularly since I said that religious abstractions are the product of man’s mind, not of supernatural revelation.
    But an issue of this sort should not be left to implications. What I was referring to was not religion as such, but a special category of abstractions, the most exalted one, which, for centuries, had been the near-monopoly of religion: ethics–not the particular content of religious ethics, but the abstraction “ethics,” the realm of values, man’s code of good and evil, with the emotional connotations of height, uplift, nobility, reverence, grandeur, which pertain to the realm of man’s values, but which religion has arrogated to itself.
    The same meaning and considerations were intended and are applicable to another passage of the book, a brief dialogue between Roark and Hopton Stoddard, which may be misunderstood if taken out of context:
    “‘You’re a profoundly religious man, Mr. Roark–in your own way. I can see that in your buildings.’
    “‘That’s true,’ said Roark.”
    In the context of that scene, however, the meaning is clear: it is Roark’s profound dedication to values, to the highest and best, to the ideal, that Stoddard is referring to (see his explanation of the nature of the proposed temple). The erection of the Stoddard Temple and the subsequent trial state the issue explicitly.
    This leads me to a wider issue which is involved in every line of The Fountainhead and which has to be understood if one wants to understand the causes of its lasting appeal.
    Religion’s monopoly in the field of ethics has made it extremely difficult to communicate the emotional meaning and connotations of a rational view of life. Just as religion has preempted the field of ethics, turning morality against man, so it has usurped the highest moral concepts of our language, placing them outside this earth and beyond man’s reach. “Exaltation” is usually taken to mean an emotional state evoked by contemplating the supernatural. “Worship” means the emotional experience of loyalty and dedication to something higher than man. “Reverence” means the emotion of a sacred respect, to be experienced on one’s knees. “Sacred” means superior to and not-to-be-touched-by any concerns of man or of this earth. Etc.
    But such concepts do name actual emotions, even though no supernatural dimension exists; and these emotions are experienced as uplifting or ennobling, without the self-abasement required by religious definitions. What, then, is their source or referent in reality? It is the entire
    emotional realm of man’s dedication to a moral ideal. Yet apart from the man-degrading aspects introduced by religion, that emotional realm is left unidentified, without concepts, words or recognition.
    It is this highest level of man’s emotions that has to be redeemed from the murk of mysticism and redirected at its proper object: man.
    It is in this sense, with this meaning and intention, that I would identify the sense of life dramatized in The Fountainhead as man-worship.
    It is an emotion that a few–a very few–men experience consistently; some men experience it in rare, single sparks that flash and die without consequences; some do not know what I am talking about; some do and spend their lives as frantically virulent spark-extinguishers.
    Do not confuse “man-worship” with the many attempts, not to emancipate morality from religion and bring it into the realm of reason, but to substitute a secular meaning for the worst, the most profoundly irrational elements of religion. For instance, there are all the variants of modern collectivism (communist, fascist, Nazi, etc.), which preserve the religious-altruist ethics in full and merely substitute “society” for God as the beneficiary of man’s self- immolation. There are the various schools of modern philosophy which, rejecting the law of identity, proclaim that reality is an indeterminate flux ruled by miracles and shaped by whims– not God’s whims, but man’s or “society’s.” These neo-mystics are not man-worshipers; they are merely the secularizers of as profound a hatred for man as that of their avowedly mystic predecessors.
    A cruder variant of the same hatred is represented by those concrete-bound, “statistical” mentalities who–unable to grasp the meaning of man’s volition–declare that man cannot be an object of worship, since they have never encountered any specimens of humanity who deserved it.
    The man-worshipers, in my sense of the term, are those who see man’s highest potential and strive to actualize it. The man-haters are those who regard man as a helpless, depraved, contemptible creature–and struggle never to let him discover otherwise. It is important here to remember that the only direct, introspective knowledge of man anyone possesses is of himself.
    More specifically, the essential division between these two camps is: those dedicated to the exaltation of man’s self-esteem and the sacredness of his happiness on earth–and those determined not to allow either to become possible. The majority of mankind spend their lives and psychological energy in the middle, swinging between these two, struggling not to allow the issue to be named. This does not change the nature of the issue.
    Perhaps the best way to communicate The Fountainhead’s sense of life is by means of the quotation which had stood at the head of my manuscript, but which I removed from the final, published book. With this opportunity to explain it, I am glad to bring it back.
    I removed it, because of my profound disagreement with the philosophy of its author, Friedrich Nietzsche. Philosophically, Nietzsche is a mystic and an irrationalist. His metaphysics consists of a somewhat “Byronic” and mystically “malevolent” universe; his epistemology subordinates reason to “will,” or feeling or instinct or blood or innate virtues of character. But, as a poet, he projects at times (not consistently) a magnificent feeling for man’s greatness, expressed in emotional, not intellectual terms.
    This is especially true of the quotation I had chosen. I could not endorse its literal meaning: it proclaims an indefensible tenet–psychological determinism. But if one takes it as a poetic projection of an emotional experience (and if, intellectually, one substitutes the concept of an acquired “basic premise” for the concept of an innate “fundamental certainty”), then that quotation communicates the inner state of an exalted self-esteem–and sums up the emotional consequences for which The Fountainhead provides the rational, philosophical base:
    “It is not the works, but the belief which is here decisive and determines the order of rank–to employ once more an old religious formula with a new and deeper meaning,–it is some fundamental certainty which a noble soul has about itself, something which is not to be
    sought, is not to be found, and perhaps, also, is not to be lost.–The noble soul has reverence for itself.–” (Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil.)
    This view of man has rarely been expressed in human history. Today, it is virtually non- existent. Yet this is the view with which–in various degrees of longing, wistfulness, passion and agonized confusion–the best of mankind’s youth start out in life. It is not even a view, for most of them, but a foggy, groping, undefined sense made of raw pain and incommunicable happiness. It is a sense of enormous expectation, the sense that one’s life is important, that great achievements are within one’s capacity, and that great things lie ahead.
    It is not in the nature of man–nor of any living entity–to start out by giving up, by spitting in one’s own face and damning existence; that requires a process of corruption whose rapidity differs from man to man. Some give up at the first touch of pressure; some sell out; some run down by imperceptible degrees and lose their fire, never knowing when or how they lost it. Then all of these vanish in the vast swamp of their elders who tell them persistently that maturity consists of abandoning one’s mind; security, of abandoning one’s values; practicality, of losing self-esteem. Yet a few hold on and move on, knowing that that fire is not to be betrayed, learning how to give it shape, purpose and reality. But whatever their future, at the dawn of their lives, men seek a noble vision of man’s nature and of life’s potential.
    There are very few guideposts to find. The Fountainhead is one of them.
    This is one of the cardinal reasons of The Fountainhead’s lasting appeal: it is a confirmation of the spirit of youth, proclaiming man’s glory, showing how much is possible.
    It does not matter that only a few in each generation will grasp and achieve the full reality of man’s proper stature–and that the rest will betray it. It is those few that move the world and give life its meaning–and it is those few that I have always sought to address. The rest are no concern of mine; it is not me or The Fountainhead that they will betray: it is their own souls.
    AYN RAND New York, May 1968
    CONTENTS
PART ONE
Peter Keating
PART TWO Ellsworth M. Toohey PART THREE
    Gail Wynand PART FOUR Howard Roark
    I offer my profound gratitude to the great profession of architecture and its heroes who have given us some of the highest expressions of man’s genius, yet have remained unknown, undiscovered by the majority of men. And to the architects who gave me their generous assistance in the technical matters of this book.
    No person or event in this story is intended as a reference to any real person or event. The titles of the newspaper columns were invented and used by me in the first draft of this novel five years ago. They were not taken from and have no reference to any actual newspaper columns or features.
    –AYN RAND March 10, 1943
    Part One: PETER KEATING
    1.
HOWARD ROARK laughed.
    He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone– flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays.
    The lake below was only a thin steel ring that cut the rocks in half. The rocks went on into the depth, unchanged. They began and ended in the sky. So that the world seemed suspended in space, an island floating on nothing, anchored to the feet of the man on the cliff.
    His body leaned back against the sky. It was a body of long straight lines and angles, each curve broken into planes. He stood, rigid, his hands hanging at his sides, palms out. He felt his shoulder blades drawn tight together, the curve of his neck, and the weight of the blood in his hands. He felt the wind behind him, in the hollow of his spine. The wind waved his hair against the sky. His hair was neither blond nor red, but the exact color of ripe orange rind.
    He laughed at the thing which had happened to him that morning and at the things which now lay ahead.
    He knew that the days ahead would be difficult. There were questions to be faced and a plan of action to be prepared. He knew that he should think about it. He knew also that he would not think, because everything was clear to him already, because the plan had been set long ago, and because he wanted to laugh.
    He tried to consider it. But he forgot. He was looking at the granite.
    He did not laugh as his eyes stopped in awareness of the earth around him. His face was like a law of nature–a thing one could not question, alter or implore. It had high cheekbones over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the mouth of an executioner or a saint.
    He looked at the granite. To be cut, he thought, and made into walls. He looked at a tree. To be split and made into rafters. He looked at a streak of rust on the stone and thought of iron ore under the ground. To be melted and to emerge as girders against the sky.
    These rocks, he thought, are here for me; waiting for the drill, the dynamite and my voice; waiting to be split, ripped, pounded, reborn; waiting for the shape my hands will give them.
    Then he shook his head, because he remembered that morning and that there were many things to be done. He stepped to the edge, raised his arms, and dived down into the sky below.
    He cut straight across the lake to the shore ahead. He reached the rocks where he had left his clothes. He looked regretfully about him. For three years, ever since he had lived in Stanton, he had come here for his only relaxation, to swim, to rest, to think, to be alone and alive, whenever he could find one hour to spare, which had not been often. In his new freedom the first thing he had wanted to do was to come here, because he knew that he was coming for the last time. That morning he had been expelled from the Architectural School of the Stanton Institute of Technology. He pulled his clothes on: old denim trousers, sandals, a shirt with short sleeves and most of its buttons missing. He swung down a narrow trail among the
    boulders, to a path running through a green slope, to the road below.
    He walked swiftly, with a loose, lazy expertness of motion. He walked down the long road, in the sun. Far ahead Stanton lay sprawled on the coast of Massachusetts, a little town as a setting for the gem of its existence–the great institute rising on a hill beyond.
    The township of Stanton began with a dump. A gray mound of refuse rose in the grass. It smoked faintly. Tin cans glittered in the sun. The road led past the first houses to a church. The church was a Gothic monument of shingles painted pigeon blue. It had stout wooden buttresses supporting nothing. It had stained-glass windows with heavy traceries of imitation stone. It opened the way into long streets edged by tight, exhibitionist lawns. Behind the lawns stood wooden piles tortured out of all shape: twisted into gables, turrets, dormers; bulging with porches; crushed under huge, sloping roofs. White curtains floated at the windows. A garbage can stood at a side door, flowing over. An old Pekinese sat upon a cushion on a door step, its mouth drooling. A line of diapers fluttered in the wind between the columns of a porch.
    People turned to look at Howard Roark as he passed. Some remained staring after him with sudden resentment. They could give no reason for it: it was an instinct his presence awakened in most people. Howard Roark saw no one. For him, the streets were empty. He could have walked there naked without concern. He crossed the heart of Stanton, a broad green edged by shop windows. The windows displayed new placards announcing:
    WELCOME TO THE CLASS OF ’22! GOOD LUCK, CLASS OF ’22! The Class of ’22 of the Stanton Institute of Technology was holding its commencement exercises that afternoon.
    Roark swung into a side street, where at the end of a long row, on a knoll over a green ravine, stood the house of Mrs. Keating. He had boarded at that house for three years.
    Mrs. Keating was out on the porch. She was feeding a couple of canaries in a cage suspended over the railing. Her pudgy little hand stopped in mid-air when she saw him. She watched him with curiosity. She tried to pull her mouth into a proper expression of sympathy; she succeeded only in betraying that the process was an effort.
    He was crossing the porch without noticing her. She stopped him.
    “Mr. Roark!”
    “Yes?”
    “Mr. Roark, I’m so sorry about–” she hesitated demurely, “–about what happened this morning.”
    “What?” he asked.
    “Your being expelled from the Institute. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I only want you to know that I feel for you.”
    He stood looking at her. She knew that he did not see her. No, she thought, it was not that exactly. He always looked straight at people and his damnable eyes never missed a thing, it was only that he made people feel as if they did not exist. He just stood looking. He would not answer.
    “But what I say,” she continued, “is that if one suffers in this world, it’s on account of error. Of course, you’ll have to give up the architect profession now, won’t you? But then a young man can always earn a decent living clerking or selling or something.”
    He turned to go.
”Oh, Mr. Roark!” she called.
”Yes?”
”The Dean phoned for you while you were out.”
    For once, she expected some emotion from him; and an emotion would be the equivalent of seeing him broken. She did not know what it was about him that had always made her want to see him broken.
    “Yes?” he asked.
    “The Dean,” she repeated uncertainly, trying to recapture her effect. “The Dean himself through his secretary.”
    “W ell?”
    “She said to tell you that the Dean wanted to see you immediately the moment you got back.”
    “Thank you.”
    “What do you suppose he can want now?”
    “I don’t know.”
    He had said: “I don’t know.” She had heard distinctly: “I don’t give a damn.” She stared at him incredulously.
    “By the way,” she said, “Petey is graduating today.” She said it without apparent relevance. “Today? Oh, yes.”
    “It’s a great day for me. When I think of how I skimped and slaved to put my boy through school. Not that I’m complaining. I’m not one to complain. Petey’s a brilliant boy.”
    She stood drawn up. Her stout little body was corseted so tightly under the starched folds of her cotton dress that it seemed to squeeze the fat out to her wrists and ankles.
    “But of course,” she went on rapidly, with the eagerness of her favorite subject, “I’m not one to boast. Some mothers are lucky and others just aren’t. We’re all in our rightful place. You just watch Petey from now on. I’m not one to want my boy to kill himself with work and I’ll thank the Lord for any small success that comes his way. But if that boy isn’t the greatest architect of this U.S.A., his mother will want to know the reason why!”
    He moved to go.
    “But what am I doing, gabbing with you like that!” she said brightly. “You’ve got to hurry and change and run along. The Dean’s waiting for you.”
    She stood looking after him through the screen door, watching his gaunt figure move across the rigid neatness of her parlor. He always made her uncomfortable in the house, with a vague feeling of apprehension, as if she were waiting to see him swing out suddenly and smash her coffee tables, her Chinese vases, her framed photographs. He had never shown any inclination to do so. She kept expecting it, without knowing why.
    Roark went up the stairs to his room. It was a large, bare room, made luminous by the clean glow of whitewash. Mrs. Keating had never had the feeling that Roark really lived there. He had not added a single object to the bare necessities of furniture which she had provided; no pictures, no pennants, no cheering human touch. He had brought nothing to the room but his clothes and his drawings; there were few clothes and too many drawings; they were stacked high in one comer; sometimes she thought that the drawings lived there, not the man.
    Roark walked now to these drawings; they were the first things to be packed. He lifted one of them, then the next, then another. He stood looking at the broad sheets.
    They were sketches of buildings such as had never stood on the face of the earth. They were as the first houses built by the first man born, who had never heard of others building before him. There was nothing to be said of them, except that each structure was inevitably what it
    had to be. It was not as if the draftsman had sat over them, pondering laboriously, piecing together doors, windows and columns, as his whim dictated and as the books prescribed. It was as if the buildings had sprung from the earth and from some living force, complete, unalterably right. The hand that had made the sharp pencil lines still had much to learn. But not a line seemed superfluous, not a needed plane was missing. The structures were austere and simple, until one looked at them and realized what work, what complexity of method, what tension of thought had achieved the simplicity. No laws had dictated a single detail. The buildings were not Classical, they were not Gothic, they were not Renaissance. They were only Howard Roark.
    He stopped, looking at a sketch. It was one that had never satisfied him. He had designed it as an exercise he had given himself, apart from his schoolwork; he did that often when he found some particular site and stopped before it to think of what building it should bear. He had spent nights staring at this sketch, wondering what he had missed. Glancing at it now, unprepared, he saw the mistake he had made.
    He flung the sketch down on the table, he bent over it, he slashed lines straight through his neat drawing. He stopped once in a while and stood looking at it, his fingertips pressed to the paper; as if his hands held the building. His hands had long fingers, hard veins, prominent joints and wristbones.
    An hour later he heard a knock at his door. “Come in!” he snapped, without stopping.
    “Mr. Roark!” gasped Mrs. Keating, staring at him from the threshold. “What on earth are you doing?”
    He turned and looked at her, trying to remember who she was.
    “How about the Dean?” she moaned. “The Dean that’s waiting for you?”
    “Oh,” said Roark. “Oh, yes. I forgot.”
    “You…forgot?”
    “Yes.” There was a note of wonder in his voice, astonished by her astonishment.
    “Well, all I can say,” she choked, “is that it serves you right! It just serves you right. And with the commencement beginning at four-thirty, how do you expect him to have time to see you?”
    “I’ll go at once, Mrs. Keating.”
    It was not her curiosity alone that prompted her to action; it was a secret fear that the sentence of the Board might be revoked. He went to the bathroom at the end of the hall; she watched him washing his hands, throwing his loose, straight hair back into a semblance of order. He came out again, he was on his way to the stairs before she realized that he was leaving.
    “Mr. Roark!” she gasped, pointing at his clothes. “You’re not going like this?” “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 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 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 record, there might be a very good chance.”
    Roark smiled. It was not a happy smile, it was not a grateful one. It was a simple, easy smile and it was amused.
    “I don’t think you understood me,” said Roark. “What made you suppose that I want to come back?”
    “Eh?”
    “I won’t be back. I have nothing further to learn here.”
    “I don’t understand you,” said the Dean stiffly.
    “Is there any point in explaining? It’s of no interest to you any longer.”
    “You will kindly explain yourself.”
    “If you wish. I want to be an architect, not an archeologist. I see no purpose in doing Renaissance villas. Why learn to design them, when I’ll never build them?”
    “My dear boy, the great style of the Renaissance is far from dead. Houses of that style are being erected every day.”
    “They are. And they will be. But not by me.”
    “Come, come, now, this is childish.”
    “I came here to learn about building. When I was given a project, its only value to me was to learn to solve it as I would solve I a real one in the future. I did them the way I’ll build them. I’ve | learned all I could learn here–in the structural sciences of which you don’t approve. One more year of drawing Italian post cards would give me nothing.” ‘
    An hour ago the Dean had wished that this interview would proceed as calmly as possible. Now he wished that Roark would display some emotion; it seemed unnatural for him to be so quietly natural in the circumstances.
    “Do you mean to tell me that you’re thinking seriously of building that way, when and if you are an architect?”
    “Yes.”
”My dear fellow, who will let you?”
”That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?”
    “Look here, this is serious. I am sorry that I haven’t had a long, earnest talk with you much earlier…I know, I know, I know, don’t interrupt me, you’ve seen a modernistic building or two, and it gave you ideas. But do you realize what a passing fancy that whole so-called modern movement is? You must learn to understand–and it has been proved by all authorities–that everything beautiful in architecture has been done already. There is a treasure mine in every style of the past. We can only choose from the great masters. Who are we to improve upon them? We can only attempt, respectfully, to repeat.”
    “Why?” asked Howard Roark.
    No, thought the Dean, no, he hasn’t said anything else; it’s a perfectly innocent word; he’s not threatening me.
    “But it’s self-evident!” said the Dean.
    “Look,” said Roark evenly, and pointed at the window. “Can you see the campus and the town? Do you see how many men are walking and living down there? Well, I don’t give a damn what any or all of them think about architecture–or about anything else, for that matter. Why should I consider what their grandfathers thought of it?”
    “That is our sacred tradition.”
    “Why?”
    “For heaven’s sake, can’t you stop being so naive about it?”
    “But I don’t understand. Why do you want me to think that this is great architecture?” He pointed to the picture of the Parthenon.
    “That,” said the Dean, “is the Parthenon.”
    “So it is.”
    “I haven’t the time to waste on silly questions.”
    “All right, then.” Roark got up, he took a long ruler from the desk, he walked to the picture. “Shall I tell you what’s rotten about it?”
    “It’s the Parthenon!” said the Dean.
    “Yes, God damn it, the Parthenon!”
    The ruler struck the glass over the picture.
    “Look,” said Roark. “The famous flutings on the famous columns–what are they there for? To hide the joints in wood–when columns were made of wood, only these aren’t, they’re marble. The triglyphs, what are they? Wood. Wooden beams, the way they had to be laid when people began to build wooden shacks. Your Greeks took marble and they made copies of their wooden structures out of it, because others had done it that way. Then your masters of the Renaissance came along and made copies in plaster of copies in marble of copies in wood. Now here we are, making copies in steel and concrete of copies in plaster of copies in marble of copies in wood. Why?”
    The Dean sat watching him curiously. Something puzzled him, not in the words, but in Roark’s manner of saying them.
    “Rules?” said Roark. “Here are my rules: what can be done with one substance must never be done with another. No two materials are alike. No two sites on earth are alike. No two buildings have the same purpose. The purpose, the site, the material determine the shape. Nothing can be reasonable or beautiful unless it’s made by one central idea, and the idea sets every detail. A building is alive, like a man. Its integrity is to follow its own truth, its one single theme, and to serve its own single purpose. A man doesn’t borrow pieces of his body. A building doesn’t borrow hunks of its soul. Its maker gives it the soul and every wall, window and stairway to express it.”
    “But all the proper forms of expression have been discovered long ago.”
    “Expression–of what? The Parthenon did not serve the same purpose as its wooden ancestor. An airline terminal does not serve the same purpose as the Parthenon. Every form has its own meaning. Every man creates his meaning and form and goal. Why is it so important–what others have done? Why does it become sacred by the mere fact of not being your own? Why is anyone and everyone right–so long as it’s not yourself? Why does the number of those others take the place of truth? Why is truth made a mere matter of arithmetic–and only of addition at that? Why is everything twisted out of all sense to fit everything else? There must be some reason. I don’t know. I’ve never known it. I’d like to understand.”
    “For heaven’s sake,” said the Dean. “Sit down….That’s better….Would you mind very much putting that ruler down?…Thank you….Now listen to me. No one has ever denied the importance of modern technique to an architect. We must learn to adapt the beauty of the past to the needs of the present. The voice of the past is the voice of the people. Nothing has ever been invented by one man in architecture. The proper creative process is a slow, gradual, anonymous, collective one, in which each man collaborates with all the others and subordinates himself to the standards of the majority.”
    “But you see,” said Roark quietly, “I have, let’s say, sixty years to live. Most of that time will be spent working. I’ve chosen the work I want to do. If I find no joy in it, then I’m only condemning myself to sixty years of torture. And I can find the joy only if I do my work in the best way possible to me. But the best is a matter of standards–and I set my own standards. I inherit nothing. I stand at the end of no tradition. I may, perhaps, stand at the beginning of one.”
    “How old are you?” asked the Dean. “Twenty-two,” said Roark.
    “Quite excusable,” said the Dean; he seemed relieved. “You’ll outgrow all that.” He smiled. “The old standards have lived for thousands of years and nobody has been able to improve upon them. What are your modernists? A transient mode, exhibitionists trying to attract attention. Have you observed the course of their careers? Can you name one who has achieved any permanent distinction? Look at Henry Cameron. A great man, a leading architect twenty years ago. What is he today? Lucky if he gets–once a year–a garage to remodel. A bum and a drunkard, who…”
    “We won’t discuss Henry Cameron.” “Oh? Is he a friend of yours?”
”No. But I’ve seen his buildings.” “And you found them…”
    “I said we won’t discuss Henry Cameron.”
    “Very well. You must realize that I am allowing you a great deal of…shall we say, latitude? I am not accustomed to hold a discussion with a student who behaves in your manner. However, I am anxious to forestall, if possible, what appears to be a tragedy, the spectacle of a young man of your obvious mental gifts setting out deliberately to make a mess of his life.”
    The Dean wondered why he had promised the professor of mathematics to do all he could for this boy. Merely because the professor had said: “This,” and pointed to Roark’s project, “is a great man.” A great man, thought the Dean, or a criminal. The Dean winced. He did not approve of either.
    He thought of what he had heard about Roark’s past. Roark’s father had been a steel puddler somewhere in Ohio and had died long ago. The boy’s entrance papers showed no record of nearest relatives. When asked about it, Roark had said indifferently: “I don’t think I have any relatives. I may have. I don’t know.” He had seemed astonished that he should be expected to have any interest in the matter. He had not made or sought a single friend on the campus. He had refused to join a fraternity. He had worked his way through high school and through the three years here at the Institute. He had worked as a common laborer in the building trades since childhood. He had done plastering, plumbing, steel work, anything he could get, going from one small town to another, working his way east, to the great cities. The Dean had seen him, last summer, on his vacation, catching rivets on a skyscraper in construction in Boston; his long body relaxed under greasy overalls, only his eyes intent, and his right arm swinging forward, once in a while, expertly, without effort, to catch the flying ball of fire at the last moment, when it seemed that the hot rivet would miss the bucket and strike him in the face.
    “Look here, Roark,” said the Dean gently. “You have worked hard for your education. You had only one year left to go. There is something important to consider, particularly for a boy in your position. There’s the practical side of an architect’s career to think about. An architect is not an end in himself. He is only a small part of a great social whole. Co-operation is the key word to our modern world and to the profession of architecture in particular. Have you thought of your potential clients?”
    “Yes,” said Roark.
    “The Client,” said the Dean. “The Client. Think of that above all. He’s the one to live in the house you build. Your only purpose is to serve him. You must aspire to give the proper artistic expression to his wishes. Isn’t that all one can say on the subject?”
    “Well, I could say that I must aspire to build for my client the most comfortable, the most logical, the most beautiful house that can be built. I could say that I must try to sell him the best I have and also teach him to know the best. I could say it, but I won’t. Because I don’t intend to build in order to serve or help anyone. I don’t intend to build in order to have clients. I intend to have clients in order to build.”
    “How do you propose to force your ideas on them?”
    “I don’t propose to force or be forced. Those who want me will come to me.”
    Then the Dean understood what had puzzled him in Roark’s manner.
    “You know,” he said, “you would sound much more convincing if you spoke as if you cared whether I agreed with you or not.”
    “That’s true,” said Roark. “I don’t care whether you agree with me or not.” He said it so simply
    that it did not sound offensive, it sounded like the statement of a fact which he noticed, puzzled, for the first time.
    “You don’t care what others think–which might be understandable. But you don’t care even to make them think as you do?”
    “No.”
”But that’s…that’s monstrous.” “Is it? Probably. I couldn’t say.”
    “I’m glad of this interview,” said the Dean, suddenly, too loudly. “It has relieved my conscience. I believe, as others stated at the meeting, that the profession of architecture is not for you. I have tried to help you. Now I agree with the Board. You are a man not to be encouraged. You are dangerous.”
    “To whom?” asked Roark.
But the Dean rose, indicating that the interview was over.
    Roark left the room. He walked slowly through the long halls, down the stairs, out to the lawn below. He had met many men such as the Dean; he had never understood them. He knew only that there was some important difference between his actions and theirs. It had ceased to disturb him long ago. But he always looked for a central theme in buildings and he looked for a central impulse in men. He knew the source of his actions; he could not discover theirs. He did not care. He had never learned the process of thinking about other people. But he wondered, at times, what made them such as they were. He wondered again, thinking of the Dean. There was an important secret involved somewhere in that question, he thought. There was a principle which he must discover.
    But he stopped. He saw the sunlight of late afternoon, held still in the moment before it was to fade, on the gray limestone of a stringcourse running along the brick wall of the Institute building. He forgot men, the Dean and the principle behind the Dean, which he wanted to discover. He thought only of how lovely the stone looked in the fragile light and of what he could have done with that stone.
    He thought of a broad sheet of paper, and he saw, rising on the paper, bare walls of gray limestone with long bands of glass, admitting the glow of the sky into the classrooms. In the comer of the sheet stood a sharp, angular signature–HOWARD ROARK.
    2.
    “…ARCHITECTURE, my friends, is a great Art based on two cosmic principles: Beauty and Utility. In a broader sense, these are but part of the three eternal entities: Truth, Love and Beauty. Truth–to the traditions of our Art, Love–for our fellow men whom we are to serve, Beauty–ah, Beauty is a compelling goddess to all artists, be it in the shape of a lovely woman or a building….Hm….Yes….In conclusion, I should like to say to you, who are about to embark upon your careers in architecture, that you are now the custodians of a sacred heritage….Hm….Yes….So, go forth into the world, armed with the three eternal entities–armed with courage and vision, loyal to the standards this great school has represented for many years. May you all serve faithfully, neither as slaves to the past nor as those parvenus who preach originality for its own sake, which attitude is only ignorant vanity. May you all have many rich, active years before you and leave, as you depart from this world, your mark on the sands of time!”
    Guy Francon ended with a flourish, raising his right arm in a sweeping salute; informal, but with an air, that gay, swaggering air which Guy Francon could always permit himself. The huge hall before him came to life in applause and approval.
    A sea of faces, young, perspiring and eager, had been raised solemnly–for forty-five minutes–
    to the platform where Guy Francon had held forth as the speaker at the commencement exercises of the Stanton Institute of Technology, Guy Francon who had brought his own person from New York for the occasion; Guy Francon, of the illustrious firm of Francon & Heyer, vice-president of the Architects’ Guild of America, member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, member of the National Fine Arts Commission, Secretary of the Arts and Crafts League of New York, chairman of the Society for Architectural Enlightenment of the U.S.A.; Guy Francon, knight of the Legion of Honor of France, decorated by the governments of Great Britain, Belgium, Monaco and Siam; Guy Francon, Stanton’s greatest alumnus, who had designed the famous Frink National Bank Building of New York City, on the top of which, twenty-five floors above the pavements, there burned in a miniature replica of the Hadrian Mausoleum a wind-blown torch made of glass and the best General Electric bulbs.
    Guy Francon descended from the platform, fully conscious of his timing and movements. He was of medium height and not too heavy, with just an unfortunate tendency to stoutness. Nobody, he knew, would give him his real age, which was fifty-one. His face bore not a wrinkle nor a single straight line; it was an artful composition in globes, circles, arcs and ellipses, with bright little eyes twinkling wittily. His clothes displayed an artist’s infinite attention to details. He wished, as he descended the steps, that this were a co-educational school.
    The hall before him, he thought, was a splendid specimen of architecture, made a bit stuffy today by the crowd and by the neglected problem of ventilation. But it boasted green marble dadoes, Corinthian columns of cast iron painted gold, and garlands of gilded fruit on the walls; the pineapples particularly, thought Guy Francon, had stood the test of years very well. It is, thought Guy Francon, touching; it was I who built this annex and this very hall, twenty years ago; and here I am.
    The hall was packed with bodies and faces, so tightly that one could not distinguish at a glance which faces belonged to which bodies. It was like a soft, shivering aspic made of mixed arms, shoulders, chests and stomachs. One of the heads, pale, dark haired and beautiful, belonged to Peter Keating.
    He sat, well in front, trying to keep his eyes on the platform, because he knew that many people were looking at him and would look at him later. He did not glance back, but the consciousness of those centered glances never left him. His eyes were dark, alert, intelligent. His mouth, a small upturned crescent faultlessly traced, was gentle and generous, and warm with the faint promise of a smile. His head had a certain classical perfection in the shape of the skull, in the natural wave of black ringlets about finely hollowed temples. He held his head in the manner of one who takes his beauty for granted, but knows that others do not. He was Peter Keating, star student of Stanton, president of the student body, captain of the track team, member of the most important fraternity, voted the most popular man on the campus.
    The crowd was there, thought Peter Keating, to see him graduate, and he tried to estimate the capacity of the hall. They knew of his scholastic record and no one would beat his record today. Oh, well, there was Shlinker. Shlinker had given him stiff competition, but he had beaten Shlinker this last year. He had worked like a dog, because he had wanted to beat Shlinker. He had no rivals today….Then he felt suddenly as if something had fallen down, inside his throat, to his stomach, something cold and empty, a blank hole rolling down and leaving that feeling on its way: not a thought, just the hint of a question asking him whether he was really as great as this day would proclaim him to be. He looked for Shlinker in the crowd; he saw his yellow face and gold-rimmed glasses. He stared at Shlinker warmly, in relief, in reassurance, in gratitude. It was obvious that Shlinker could never hope to equal his own appearance or ability; he had nothing to doubt; he would always beat Shlinker and all the Shlinkers of the world; he would let no one achieve what he could not achieve. Let them all watch him. He would give them good reason to stare. He felt the hot breaths about him and the expectation, like a tonic. It was wonderful, thought Peter Keating, to be alive.
    His head was beginning to reel a little. It was a pleasant feeling. The feeling carried him, unresisting and unremembering, to the platform in front of all those faces. He stood–slender, trim, athletic–and let the deluge break upon his head. He gathered from its roar that he had graduated with honors, that the Architects’ Guild of America had presented him with a gold medal and that he had been awarded the Prix de Paris by the Society for Architectural Enlightenment of the U.S.A.–a four-year scholarship at the École des Beaux Arts in Paris.
    Then he was shaking hands, scratching the perspiration off his face with the end of a rolled parchment, nodding, smiling, suffocating in his black gown and hoping that people would not notice his mother sobbing with her arms about him. The President of the Institute shook his hand, booming: “Stanton will be proud of you, my boy.” The Dean shook his hand, repeating: “…a glorious future…a glorious future…a glorious future…” Professor Peterkin shook his hand, and patted his shoulder, saying: “…and you’ll find it absolutely essential; for example, I had the experience when I built the Peabody Post Office…” Keating did not listen to the rest, because he had heard the story of the Peabody Post Office many times. It was the only structure anyone had ever known Professor Peterkin to have erected, before he sacrificed his practice to the responsibilities of teaching. A great deal was said about Keating’s final project–a Palace of Fine Arts. For the life of him, Keating could not remember at the moment what that project was.
    Through all this, his eyes held the vision of Guy Francon shaking his hand, and his ears held the sounds of Francon’s mellow voice: “…as I have told you, it is still open, my boy. Of course, now that you have this scholarship…you will have to decide…a Beaux-Arts diploma is very important to a young man…but I should be delighted to have you in our office….”
    The banquet of the Class of ’22 was long and solemn. Keating listened to the speeches with interest; when he heard the endless sentences about “young men as the hope of American Architecture” and “the future opening its golden gates,” he knew that he was the hope and his was the future, and it was pleasant to hear this confirmation from so many eminent lips. He looked at the gray-haired orators and thought of how much younger he would be when he reached their positions, theirs and beyond them.
    Then he thought suddenly of Howard Roark. He was surprised to find that the flash of that name in his memory gave him a sharp little twinge of pleasure, before he could know why. Then he remembered: Howard Roark had been expelled this morning. He reproached himself silently; he made a determined effort to feel sorry. But the secret glow came back, whenever he thought of that expulsion. The event proved conclusively that he had been a fool to imagine Roark a dangerous rival; at one time, he had worried about Roark more than about Shlinker, even though Roark was two years younger and one class below him. If he had ever entertained any doubts on their respective gifts, hadn’t this day settled it all? And, he remembered, Roark had been very nice to him, helping him whenever he was stuck on a problem…not stuck, really, just did not have the time to think it out, a plan or something. Christ! how Roark could untangle a plan, like pulling a string and it was open…well, what if he could? What did it get him? He was done for now. And knowing this, Peter Keating experienced at last a satisfying pang of sympathy for Howard Roark.
    When Keating was called upon to speak, he rose confidently. He could not show that he was terrified. He had nothing to say about architecture. But he spoke, his head high, as an equal among equals, just subtly diffident, so that no great name present could take offense. He remembered saying: “Architecture is a great art…with our eyes to the future and the reverence of the past in our hearts…of all the crafts, the most important one sociologically…and, as the man who is an inspiration to us all has said today, the three eternal entities are: Truth, Love and Beauty….”
    Then, in the corridors outside, in the noisy confusion of leave-taking, a boy had thrown an arm about Keating’s shoulders and whispered: “Run on home and get out of the soup-and-fish, Pete, and it’s Boston for us tonight, just our own gang; I’ll pick you up in an hour.” Ted Shlinker had urged: “Of course you’re coming, Pete. No fun without you. And, by the way, congratulations and all that sort of thing. No hard feelings. May the best man win.” Keating had thrown his arm about Shlinker’s shoulders; Keating’s eyes had glowed with an insistent kind of warmth, as if Shlinker were his most precious friend; Keating’s eyes glowed like that on everybody. He had said: “Thanks, Ted, old man. I really do feel awful about the A.G.A. medal–I think you were the one for it, but you never can tell what possesses those old
    fogies.” And now Keating was on his way home through the soft darkness, wondering how to get away from his mother for the night.
    His mother, he thought, had done a great deal for him. As she pointed out frequently, she was a lady and had graduated from high school; yet she had worked hard, had taken boarders into their home, a concession unprecedented in her family.
    His father had owned a stationery store in Stanton. Changing times had ended the business and a hernia had ended Peter Keating, Sr., twelve years ago. Louisa Keating had been left with the home that stood at the end of a respectable street, an annuity from an insurance kept up accurately–she had seen to that–and her son. The annuity was a modest one, but with the help of the boarders and of a tenacious purpose Mrs. Keating had managed. In the summers her son helped, clerking in hotels or posing for hat advertisements. Her son, Mrs. Keating had decided, would assume his rightful place in the world, and she had clung to this as softly, as inexorably as a leech….It’s funny, Keating remembered, at one time he had wanted to be an artist. It was his mother who had chosen a better field in which to exercise his talent for drawing. “Architecture,” she had said, “is such a respectable profession. Besides, you meet the best people in it.” She had pushed him into his career, he had never known when or how. It’s funny, thought Keating, he had not remembered that youthful ambition of his for years. It’s funny that it should hurt him now–to remember. Well, this was the night to remember it–and to forget it forever.
    Architects, he thought, always made brilliant careers. And once on top, did they ever fail? Suddenly, he recalled Henry Cameron; builder of skyscrapers twenty years ago; old drunkard with offices on some waterfront today. Keating shuddered and walked faster.
    He wondered, as he walked, whether people were looking at him. He watched the rectangles of lighted windows; when a curtain fluttered and a head leaned out, he tried to guess whether it had leaned to watch his passing; if it hadn’t, some day it would; some day, they all would.
    Howard Roark was sitting on the porch steps when Keating approached the house. He was leaning back against the steps, propped up on his elbows, his long legs stretched out. A morning-glory climbed over the porch pillars, as a curtain between the house and the light of a lamppost on the corner.
    It was strange to see an electric globe in the air of a spring night. It made the street darker and softer; it hung alone, like a gap, and left nothing to be seen but a few branches heavy with leaves, standing still at the gap’s edges. The small hint became immense, as if the darkness held nothing but a flood of leaves. The mechanical ball of glass made the leaves seem more living; it took away their color and gave the promise that in daylight they would be a brighter green than had ever existed; it took away one’s sight and left a new sense instead, neither smell nor touch, yet both, a sense of spring and space.
    Keating stopped when he recognized the preposterous orange hair in the darkness of the porch. It was the one person whom he had wanted to see tonight. He was glad to find Roark alone, and a little afraid of it.
    “Congratulations, Peter,” said Roark.
    “Oh…Oh, thanks….” Keating was surprised to find that he felt more pleasure than from any other compliment he had received today. He was timidly glad that Roark approved, and he called himself inwardly a fool for it. “…I mean…do you know or…” He added sharply: “Has mother been telling you?”
    “She has.”
    “She shouldn’t have!”
    “Why not?”
    “Look, Howard, you know that I’m terribly sorry about your being…”
    Roark threw his head back and looked up at him.
    “Forget it,” said Roark.
    “I…there’s something I want to speak to you about, Howard, to ask your advice. Mind if I sit down?”
    “What is it?”
    Keating sat down on the steps beside him. There was no part that he could ever play in Roark’s presence. Besides, he did not feel like playing a part now. He heard a leaf rustling in its fall to the earth; it was a thin, glassy, spring sound.
    He knew, for the moment, that he felt affection for Roark; an affection that held pain, astonishment and helplessness.
    “You won’t think,” said Keating gently, in complete sincerity, “that it’s awful of me to be asking about my business, when you’ve just been…?”
    “I said forget about that. What is it?”
    “You know,” said Keating honestly and unexpectedly even to himself, “I’ve often thought that you’re crazy. But I know that you know many things about it–architecture, I mean–which those fools never knew. And I know that you love it as they never will.”
    “W ell?”
    “Well, I don’t know why I should come to you, but–Howard, I’ve never said it before, but you see, I’d rather have your opinion on things than the Dean’s–I’d probably follow the Dean’s, but it’s just that yours means more to me myself, I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m saying this, either.”
    Roark turned over on his side, looked at him, and laughed. It was a young, kind, friendly laughter, a thing so rare to hear from Roark that Keating felt as if someone had taken his hand in reassurance; and he forgot that he had a party in Boston waiting for him.
    “Come on,” said Roark, “you’re not being afraid of me, are you? What do you want to ask about?”
    “It’s about my scholarship. The Paris prize I got.” “Yes?”
    “It’s for four years. But, on the other hand, Guy Francon offered me a job with him some time ago. Today he said it’s still open. And I don’t know which to take.”
    Roark looked at him; Roark’s fingers moved in slow rotation, beating against the steps.
    “If you want my advice, Peter,” he said at last, “you’ve made a mistake already. By asking me. By asking anyone. Never ask people. Not about your work. Don’t you know what you want? How can you stand it, not to know?”
    “You see, that’s what I admire about you, Howard. You always know.” “Drop the compliments.”
”But I mean it. How do you always manage to decide?”
”How can you let others decide for you?”
    “But you see, I’m not sure, Howard. I’m never sure of myself. I don’t know whether I’m as good as they all tell me I am. I wouldn’t admit that to anyone but you. I think it’s because you’re always so sure that I…”
    “Petey!” Mrs. Keating’s voice exploded behind them. “Petey, sweetheart! What are you doing there?”
    She stood in the doorway, in her best dress of burgundy taffeta, happy and angry.
    “And here I’ve been sitting all alone, waiting for you! What on earth are you doing on those filthy steps in your dress suit? Get up this minute! Come on in the house, boys. I’ve got hot
    chocolate and cookies ready for you.”
    “But, Mother. I wanted to speak to Howard about something important,” said Keating. But he rose to his feet.
    She seemed not to have heard. She walked into the house. Keating followed. Roark looked after them, shrugged, rose and went in also.
Mrs. Keating settled down in an armchair, her stiff skirt crackling.
”Well?” she asked. “What were you two discussing out there?”
    Keating fingered an ash tray, picked up a matchbox and dropped it, then, ignoring her, turned to Roark.
    “Look, Howard, drop the pose,” he said, his voice high. “Shall I junk the scholarship and go to work, or let Francon wait and grab the Beaux-Arts to impress the yokels? What do you think?”
    Something was gone. The one moment was lost.
”Now, Petey, let me get this straight…” began Mrs. Keating.
    “Oh, wait a minute, Mother!…Howard, I’ve got to weigh it carefully. It isn’t everyone who can get a scholarship like that. You’re pretty good when you rate that. A course at the Beaux-Arts– you know how important that is.”
    “I don’t,” said Roark.
    “Oh, hell, I know your crazy ideas, but I’m speaking practically, for a man in my position. Ideals aside for a moment, it certainly is…”
    “You don’t want my advice,” said Roark. “Of course I do! I’m asking you!”
    But Keating could never be the same when he had an audience, any audience. Something was gone. He did not know it, but he felt that Roark knew; Roark’s eyes made him uncomfortable and that made him angry.
    “I want to practice architecture,” snapped Keating, “not talk about it! Gives you a great prestige–the old École. Puts you above the rank and file of the ex-plumbers who think they can build. On the other hand, an opening with Francon–Guy Francon himself offering it!”
    Roark turned away.
    “How many boys will match that?” Keating went on blindly. “A year from now they’ll be boasting they’re working for Smith or Jones if they find work at all. While I’ll be with Francon & Heyer!”
    “You’re quite right, Peter,” said Mrs. Keating, rising. “On a question like that you don’t want to consult your mother. It’s too important. I’ll leave you to settle it with Mr. Roark.”
    He looked at his mother. He did not want to hear what she thought of this; he knew that his only chance to decide was to make the decision before he heard her; she had stopped, looking at him, ready to turn and leave the room; he knew it was not a pose–she would leave if he wished it; he wanted her to go; he wanted it desperately. He said:
    “Why, Mother, how can you say that? Of course I want your opinion. What…what do you think?”
    She ignored the raw irritation in his voice. She smiled.
    “Petey, I never think anything. It’s up to you. It’s always been up to you.”
    “Well…” he began hesitantly, watching her, “if I go to the Beaux-Arts…”
    “Fine,” said Mrs. Keating, “go to the Beaux-Arts. It’s a grand place. A whole ocean away from your home. Of course, if you go, Mr. Francon will take somebody else. People will talk about that. Everybody knows that Mr. Francon picks out the best boy from Stanton every year for his office. I wonder how it’ll look if some other boy gets the job? But I guess that doesn’t matter.”
    “What…what will people say?”
    “Nothing much, I guess. Only that the other boy was the best man of his class. I guess he’ll take Shlinker.”
    “No!” he gulped furiously. “Not Shlinker!”
”Yes,” she said sweetly. “Shlinker.”
”But…”
”But why should you care what people will say? All you have to do is please yourself.” “And you think that Francon…”
    “Why should I think of Mr. Francon? It’s nothing to me.” “Mother, you want me to take the job with Francon?”
”I don’t want anything, Petey. You’re the boss.”
    He wondered whether he really liked his mother. But she was his mother and this fact was recognized by everybody as meaning automatically that he loved her, and so he took for granted mat whatever he felt for her was love. He did not know whether there was any reason why he should respect her judgment. She was his mother; this was supposed to take the place of reasons.
    “Yes, of course, Mother….But…Yes, I know, but.. Howard?”
    It was a plea for help. Roark was there, on a davenport in the corner, half lying, sprawled limply like a kitten. It had often astonished Keating; he had seen Roark moving with the soundless tension, the control, the precision of a cat; he had seen him relaxed, like a cat, in shapeless ease, as if his body held no single solid bone. Roark glanced up at him. He said:
    “Peter, you know how I feel about either one of your opportunities. Take your choice of the lesser evil. What will you learn at the Beaux-Arts? Only more Renaissance palaces and operetta settings. They’ll kill everything you might have in you. You do good work, once in a while, when somebody lets you. If you really want to learn, go to work. Francon is a bastard and a fool, but you will be building. It will prepare you for going on your own that much sooner.”
    “Even Mr. Roark can talk sense sometimes,” said Mrs. Keating, “even if he does talk like a truck driver.”
    “Do you really think that I do good work?” Keating looked at him, as if his eyes still held the reflection of that one sentence–and nothing else mattered.
    “Occasionally,” said Roark. “Not often.”
”Now that it’s all settled…” began Mrs. Keating.
”I…I’ll have to think it over, Mother.”
”Now that it’s all settled, how about the hot chocolate? I’ll have it out to you in a jiffy!”
    She smiled at her son, an innocent smile that declared her obedience and gratitude, and she rustled out of the room.
    Keating paced nervously, stopped, lighted a cigarette, stood spitting the smoke out in short jerks, then looked at Roark.
    “What are you going to do now, Howard?” “I?”
    “Very thoughtless of me, I know, going on like that about myself. Mother means well, but she drives me crazy….Well, to hell with that. What are you going to do?”
    “I’m going to New York.” “Oh, swell. To get a job?” “To get a job.”
”In…in architecture?”
    “In architecture, Peter.”
”That’s grand. I’m glad. Got any definite prospects?
”I’m going to work for Henry Cameron.”
”Oh, no, Howard!”
Roark smiled slowly, the corners of his mouth sharp, and said nothing. “Oh, no, Howard!”
”Yes ”
    “But he’s nothing, nobody any more! Oh, I know he has a name but he’s done for! He never gets any important buildings, hasn’t had any for years! They say he’s got a dump for an office. What kind of future will you get out of him? What will you learn?”
    “Not much. Only how to build.”
    “For God’s sake, you can’t go on like that, deliberately ruining yourself! I thought…well, yes, I thought you’d learned something today!”
    “I have.”
    “Look, Howard, if it’s because you think that no one else will have you now, no one better, why, I’ll help you. I’ll work old Francon and I’ll get connections and…”
    “Thank you, Peter. But it won’t be necessary. It’s settled. “What did he say?”
”W ho?”
”Cameron.”
    “I’ve never met him.”
    Then a horn screamed outside. Keating remembered, started off to change his clothes, collided with his mother at the door and knocked a cup off her loaded tray.
    “Petey!”
    “Never mind, Mother!” He seized her elbows. “I’m in a hurry, sweetheart. A little party with the boys–now, now, don’t say anything–I won’t be late and–look! We’ll celebrate my going with Francon & Heyer!”
    He kissed her impulsively, with the gay exuberance that made him irresistible at times, and flew out of the room, up the stairs. Mrs. Keating shook her head, flustered, reproving and happy.
    In his room, while flinging his clothes in all directions, Keating thought suddenly of a wire he would send to New York. That particular subject had not been in his mind all day, but it came to him with a sense of desperate urgency; he wanted to send that wire now, at once. He scribbled it down on a piece of paper:
    “Katie dearest coming New York job Francon love ever “Peter”
    That night Keating raced toward Boston, wedged in between two boys, the wind and the road whistling past him. And he thought that the world was opening to him now, like the darkness fleeing before the bobbing headlights. He was free. He was ready. In a few years–so very soon, for time did not exist in the speed of that car–his name would ring like a horn, ripping people out of sleep. He was ready to do great things, magnificent things, things unsurpassed in…in…oh, hell…in architecture.
    3.
    PETER KEATING looked at the streets of New York. The people, he observed, were extremely well dressed.
    He had stopped for a moment before the building on Fifth Avenue, where the office of Francon & Heyer and his first day of work awaited him. He looked at the men who hurried past. Smart, he thought, smart as hell. He glanced regretfully at his own clothes. He had a great deal to learn in New York.
    When he could delay it no longer, he turned to the door. It was a miniature Doric portico, every inch of it scaled down to the exact proportions decreed by the artists who had worn flowing Grecian tunics; between the marble perfection of the columns a revolving door sparkled with nickel plate, reflecting the streaks of automobiles flying past. Keating walked through the revolving door, through the lustrous marble lobby, to an elevator of gilt and red lacquer that brought him, thirty floors later, to a mahogany door. He saw a slender brass plate with delicate letters:
    FRANCON & HEYER, ARCHITECTS.
    The reception room of the office of Francon & Heyer, Architects, looked like a cool, intimate ballroom in a Colonial mansion. The silver white walls were paneled with flat pilasters; the pilasters were fluted and curved into Ionic snails; they supported little pediments broken in the middle to make room for half a Grecian urn plastered against the wall. Etchings of Greek temples adorned the panels, too small to be distinguished, but presenting the unmistakable columns, pediments and crumbling stone.
    Quite incongruously, Keating felt as if a conveyor belt was under his feet, from the moment he crossed the threshold. It carried him to the reception clerk who sat at a telephone switchboard behind the white balustrade of a Florentine balcony. It transferred him to the threshold of a huge drafting room. He saw long, flat tables, a forest of twisted rods descending from the ceiling to end in green-shaded lamps, enormous blueprint files, towers of yellow drawers, papers, tin boxes, sample bricks, pots of glue and calendars from construction companies, most of them bearing pictures of naked women. The chief draftsman snapped at Keating, without quite seeing him. He was bored and crackling with purpose simultaneously. He jerked
    his thumb in the direction of a locker room, thrust his chin out toward the door of a locker, and stood, rocking from heels to toes, while Keating pulled a pearl-gray smock over his stiff, uncertain body. Francon had insisted on that smock. The conveyor belt stopped at a table in a corner of the drafting room, where Keating found himself with a set of plans to expand, the scaggy back of the chief draftsman retreating from him in the unmistakable manner of having forgotten his existence.
    Keating bent over his task at once, his eyes fixed, his throat rigid. He saw nothing but the pearly shimmer of the paper before him. The steady lines he drew surprised him, for he felt certain that his hand was jerking an inch back and forth across the sheet. He followed the lines, not knowing where they led or why. He knew only that the plan was someone’s tremendous achievement which he could neither question nor equal. He wondered why he had ever thought of himself as a potential architect.
    Much later, he noticed the wrinkles of a gray smock sticking to a pair of shoulder blades over the next table. He glanced about him, cautiously at first, then with curiosity, then with pleasure, then with contempt. When he reached this last, Peter Keating became himself again and felt love for mankind. He noticed sallow cheeks, a funny nose, a wart on a receding chin, a stomach squashed against the edge of a table. He loved these sights. What these could do, he could do better. He smiled. Peter Keating needed his fellow men.
    When he glanced at his plans again, he noticed the flaws glaring at him from the masterpiece. It was the floor of a private residence, and he noted the twisted hallways that sliced great hunks of space for no apparent reason, the long, rectangular sausages of rooms doomed to darkness. Jesus, he thought, they’d have flunked me for this in the first term. After which, he proceeded with his work swiftly, easily, expertly–and happily.
    Before lunchtime. Keating had made friends in the room, not any definite friends, but a vague soil spread and ready from which friendship would spring. He had smiled at his neighbors and winked in understanding over nothing at all. He had used each trip to the water cooler to caress those he passed with the soft, cheering glow of his eyes, the brilliant eyes that seemed to pick each man in turn out of the room, out of the universe, as the most important specimen of humanity and as Keating’s dearest friend. There goes–there seemed to be left in his wake– a smart boy and a hell of a good fellow.
    Keating noticed that a tall blond youth at the next table was doing the elevation of an office building. Keating leaned with chummy respect against the boy’s shoulder and looked at the laurel garlands entwined about fluted columns three floors high.
    “Pretty good for the old man,” said Keating with admiration.
    “Who?” asked the boy.
    “Why, Francon,” said Keating.
    “Francon hell,” said the boy placidly. “He hasn’t designed a doghouse in eight years.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, at a glass door behind them. “Him.”
    “What?” asked Keating, turning.
”Him,” said the boy. “Stengel. He does all these things.”
    Behind the glass door Keating saw a pair of bony shoulders above the edge of a desk, a small, triangular head bent intently, and two blank pools of light in the round frames of glasses.
    It was late in the afternoon when a presence seemed to have passed beyond the closed door, and Keating learned from the rustle of whispers around him that Guy Francon had arrived and had risen to his office on the floor above. Half an hour later the glass door opened and Stengel came out, a huge piece of cardboard dangling between his fingers.
    “Hey, you,” he said, his glasses stopping on Keating’s face. “You doing the plans for this?” He swung the cardboard forward. “Take this up to the boss for the okay. Try to listen to what he’ll
    say and try to look intelligent. Neither of which matters anyway.”
    He was short and his arms seemed to hang down to his ankles; arms swinging like ropes in the long sleeves, with big, efficient hands. Keating’s eyes froze, darkening, for one-tenth of a second, gathered in a tight stare at the blank lenses. Then Keating smiled and said pleasantly:
    “Yes, sir.”
    He carried the cardboard on the tips of his ten fingers, up the crimson-plushed stairway to Guy Francon’s office. The cardboard displayed a water-color perspective of a gray granite mansion with three tiers of dormers, five balconies, four bays, twelve columns, one flagpole and two lions at the entrance. In the corner, neatly printed by hand, stood: “Residence of Mr. and Mrs. James S. Whattles. Francon & Heyer, Architects.” Keating whistled softly: James S. Whattles was the multimillionaire manufacturer of shaving lotions.
    Guy Francon’s office was polished. No, thought Keating, not polished, but shellacked; no, not shellacked, but liquid with mirrors melted and poured over every object. He saw splinters of his own reflection let loose like a swarm of butterflies, following him across the room, on the Chippendale cabinets, on the Jacobean chairs, on the Louis XV mantelpiece. He had time to note a genuine Roman statue in a corner, sepia photographs of the Parthenon, of Rheims Cathedral, of Versailles and of the Frink National Bank Building with the eternal torch.
    He saw his own legs approaching him in the side of the massive mahogany desk. Guy Francon sat behind the desk. Guy Francon’s face was yellow and his cheeks sagged. He looked at Keating for an instant as if he had never seen him before, then remembered and smiled expansively.
    “Well, well, well, Kittredge, my boy, here we are, all set and at home! So glad to see you. Sit down, boy, sit down, what have you got there? Well, there’s no hurry, no hurry at all. Sit down. How do you like it here?”
    “I’m afraid, sir, that I’m a little too happy,” said Keating, with an expression of frank, boyish helplessness. “I thought I could be businesslike on my first job, but starting in a place like this…I guess it knocked me out a little….I’ll get over it, sir,” he promised.
    “Of course,” said Guy Francon. “It might be a bit overwhelming for a boy, just a bit. But don’t you worry. I’m sure you’ll make good.”
    “I’ll do my best, sir.”
    “Of course you will. What’s this they sent me?” Francon extended his hand to the drawing, but his fingers came to rest limply on his forehead instead. “It’s so annoying, this headache….No, no, nothing serious–” he smiled at Keating’s prompt concern–“just a little mal de tête. One works so hard.”
    “Is there anything I can get for you, sir?”
    “No, no, thank you. It’s not anything you can get for me, it’s if only you could take something away from me.” He winked. “The champagne. Entre nous, that champagne of theirs wasn’t worth a damn last night. I’ve never cared for champagne anyway. Let me tell you, Kittredge, it’s very important to know about wines, for instance when you’ll take a client out to dinner and will want to be sure of the proper thing to order. Now I’ll tell you a professional secret. Take quail, for instance. Now most people would order Burgundy with it. What do you do? You call for Clos Vougeot 1904. See? Adds that certain touch. Correct, but original. One must always be original….Who sent you up, by the way?”
    “Mr. Stengel, sir.”
    “Oh, Stengel.” The tone in which he pronounced the name clicked like a shutter in Keating’s mind: it was a permission to be stored away for future use. “Too grand to bring his own stuff up, eh? Mind you, he’s a great designer, the best designer in New York City, but he’s just getting to be a bit too grand lately. He thinks he’s the only one doing any work around here, just because he smudges at a board all day long. You’ll learn, my boy, when you’ve been in
    the business longer, that the real work of an office is done beyond its walls. Take last night, for instance. Banquet of the Clarion Real Estate Association. Two hundred guests–dinner and champagne–oh, yes, champagne!” He wrinkled his nose fastidiously, in self-mockery. “A few words to say informally in a little after-dinner speech–you know, nothing blatant, no vulgar sales talk–only a few well-chosen thoughts on the responsibility of realtors to society, on the importance of selecting architects who are competent, respected and well established. You know, a few bright little slogans that will stick in the mind.”
    “Yes, sir, like ‘Choose the builder of your home as carefully as you choose the bride to inhabit it.’”
    “Not bad. Not bad at all, Kittredge. Mind if I jot it down?”
    “My name is Keating, sir,” said Keating firmly. “You are very welcome to the idea. I’m happy if it appeals to you.”
    “Keating, of course! Why, of course, Keating,” said Francon with a disarming smile. “Dear me, one meets so many people. How did you say it? Choose the builder…it was very well put.”
    He made Keating repeat it and wrote it down on a pad, picking a pencil from an array before him, new, many-colored pencils, sharpened to a professional needle point, ready, unused.
    Then he pushed he pad aside, sighed, patted the smooth waves of his hair and said wearily: “Well, all right, I suppose I’ll have to look at the thing.”
    Keating extended the drawing respectfully. Francon leaned back, held the cardboard out at arm’s length and looked at it. He closed his left eye, then his right eye, then moved the cardboard an inch farther. Keating expected wildly to see him turn the drawing upside down. But Francon just held it and Keating knew suddenly that he had long since stopped seeing it. Francon was studying it for his, Keating’s, benefit; and then Keating felt light, light as air, and he saw the road to his future, clear and open.
    “Hm…yes,” Francon was saying, rubbing his chin with the tips of two soft fingers. “Hm…yes…” He turned to Keating.
    “Not bad,” said Francon. “Not bad at all….Well…perhaps…it would have been more distinguished, you know, but…well, the drawing is done so neatly….What do you think, Keating?”
    Keating thought that four of the windows faced four mammoth granite columns. But he looked at Francon’s fingers playing with a petunia-mauve necktie, and decided not to mention it. He said instead:
    “If I may make a suggestion, sir, it seems to me that the cartouches between the fourth and fifth floors are somewhat too modest for so imposing a building. It would appear that an ornamented stringcourse would be so much more appropriate.”
    “That’s it. I was just going to say it. An ornamented stringcourse….But…but look, it would mean diminishing the fenestration, wouldn’t it?”
    “Yes,” said Keating, a faint coating of diffidence over the tone he had used in discussions with his classmates, “but windows are less important than the dignity of a building’s facade.”
    “That’s right. Dignity. We must give our clients dignity above all. Yes, definitely, an ornamented stringcourse….Only…look, I’ve approved the preliminary drawings, and Stengel has had this done up so neatly.”
    “Mr. Stengel will be delighted to change it if you advise him to.”
    Francon’s eyes held Keating’s for a moment. Then Francon’s lashes dropped and he picked a piece of lint off his sleeve.
    “Of course, of course…” he said vaguely. “But…do you think the stringcourse is really important?”
    “I think,” said Keating slowly, “it is more important to make changes you find necessary than to okay every drawing just as Mr. Stengel designed it.”
    Because Francon said nothing, but only looked straight at him, because Francon’s eyes were focused and his hands limp, Keating knew that he had taken a terrible chance and won; he became frightened by the chance after he knew he had won.
    They looked silently across the desk, and both saw that they were two men who could understand each other.
    “We’ll have an ornamented stringcourse,” said Francon with calm, genuine authority. “Leave this here. Tell Stengel that I want to see him.”
    He had turned to go. Francon stopped him. Francon’s voice was gay and warm:
    “Oh, Keating, by the way, may I make a suggestion? Just between us, no offense intended, but a burgundy necktie would be so much better than blue with your gray smock, don’t you think so?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Keating easily. “Thank you. You’ll see it tomorrow.” He walked out and closed the door softly.
    On his way back through the reception room, Keating saw a distinguished, gray-haired gentleman escorting a lady to the door. The gentleman wore no hat and obviously belonged to the office; the lady wore a mink cape, and was obviously a client.
    The gentleman was not bowing to the ground, he was not unrolling a carpet, he was not waving a fan over her head; he was only holding the door for her. It merely seemed to Keating that the gentleman was doing all of that.
    The Frink National Bank Building rose over Lower Manhattan, and its long shadow moved, as the sun traveled over the sky, like a huge clock hand across grimy tenements, from the Aquarium to Manhattan Bridge. When the sun was gone, the torch of Hadrian’s Mausoleum flared up in its stead, and made glowing red smears on the glass of windows for miles around, on the top stories of buildings high enough to reflect it. The Frink National Bank Building displayed the entire history of Roman art in well-chosen specimens; for a long time it had been considered the best building of the city, because no other structure could boast a single Classical item which it did not possess. It offered so many columns, pediments, friezes, tripods, gladiators, urns and volutes that it looked as if it had not been built of white marble, but squeezed out of a pastry tube. It was, however, built of white marble. No one knew that but the owners who had paid for it. It was now of a streaked, blotched, leprous color, neither brown nor green but the worst tones of both, the color of slow rot, the color of smoke, gas fumes and acids eating into a delicate stone intended for clean air and open country. The Frink National Bank Building, however, was a great success. It had been so great a success that it was the last structure Guy Francon ever designed; its prestige spared him the bother from then on.
    Three blocks east of the Frink National Bank stood the Dana Building. It was some stories lower and without any prestige whatever. Its lines were hard and simple, revealing, emphasizing the harmony of the steel skeleton within, as a body reveals the perfection of its bones. It had no other ornament to offer. It displayed nothing but the precision of its sharp angles, the modeling of its planes, the long streaks of its windows like streams of ice running down from the roof to the pavements. New Yorkers seldom looked at the Dana Building. Sometimes, a rare country visitor would come upon it unexpectedly in the moonlight and stop and wonder from what dream that vision had come. But such visitors were rare. The tenants of the Dana Building said that they would not exchange it for any structure on earth; they appreciated the light, the air, the beautiful logic of the plan in their halls and offices. But the tenants of the Dana Building were not numerous; no prominent man wished his business to be
    located in a building that looked “like a warehouse.”
The Dana Building had been designed by Henry Cameron.
    In the eighteen-eighties, the architects of New York fought one another for second place in their profession. No one aspired to the first. The first was held by Henry Cameron. Henry Cameron was hard to get in those days. He had a waiting list two years in advance; he designed personally every structure that left his office. He chose what he wished to build. When he built, a client kept his mouth shut. He demanded of all people the one thing he had never granted anybody: obedience. He went through the years of his fame like a projectile flying to a goal no one could guess. People called him crazy. But they took what he gave them, whether they understood it or not, because it was a building “by Henry Cameron.”
    At first, his buildings were merely a little different, not enough to frighten anyone. He made startling experiments, once in a while, but people expected it and one did not argue with Henry Cameron. Something was growing in him with each new building, struggling, taking shape, rising dangerously to an explosion. The explosion came with the birth of the skyscraper. When structures began to rise not in tier on ponderous tier of masonry, but as arrows of steel shooting upward without weight or limit, Henry Cameron was among the first to understand this new miracle and to give it form. He was among the first and the few who accepted the truth that a tall building must look tall. While architects cursed, wondering how to make a twenty-story building look like an old brick mansion, while they used every horizontal device available in order to cheat it of its height, shrink it down to tradition, hide the shame of its steel, make it small, safe and ancient–Henry Cameron designed skyscrapers in straight, vertical lines, flaunting their steel and height. While architects drew friezes and pediments, Henry Cameron decided that the skyscraper must not copy the Greeks. Henry Cameron decided that no building must copy any other.
    He was thirty-nine years old then, short, stocky, unkempt; he worked like a dog, missed his sleep and meals, drank seldom but then brutally, called his clients unprintable names, laughed at hatred and fanned it deliberately, behaved like a feudal lord and a longshoreman, and lived in a passionate tension that stung men in any room he entered, a fire neither they nor he could endure much longer. It was the year 1892.
    The Columbian Exposition of Chicago opened in the year 1893.
    The Rome of two thousand years ago rose on the shores of Lake Michigan, a Rome improved by pieces of France, Spain, Athens and every style that followed it. It was a “Dream City” of columns, triumphal arches, blue lagoons, crystal fountains and popcorn. Its architects competed on who could steal best, from the oldest source and from the most sources at once. It spread before the eyes of a new country every structural crime ever committed in all the old ones. It was white as a plague, and it spread as such.
    People came, looked, were astounded, and carried away with them, to the cities of America, the seeds of what they had seen. The seeds sprouted into weeds; into shingled post offices with Doric porticos, brick mansions with iron pediments, lofts made of twelve Parthenons piled on top of one another. The weeds grew and choked everything else.
    Henry Cameron had refused to work for the Columbian Exposition, and had called it names that were unprintable, but repeatable, though not in mixed company. They were repeated. It was repeated also that he had thrown an inkstand at the face of a distinguished banker who had asked him to design a railroad station in the shape of the temple of Diana at Ephesus. The banker never came back. There were others who never came back.
    Just as he reached the goal of long, struggling years, just as he gave shape to the truth he had sought–the last barrier fell closed before him. A young country had watched him on his way, had wondered, had begun to accept the new grandeur of his work. A country flung two thousand years back in an orgy of Classicism could find no place for him and no use.
    It was not necessary to design buildings any longer, only to photograph them; the architect with the best library was the best architect Imitators copied imitations. To sanction it there was Culture; there were twenty centuries unrolling in moldering ruins; there was the great Exposition; there was every European post card in every family album.
    Henry Cameron had nothing to offer against this; nothing but a faith he held merely because it was his own. He had nobody to quote and nothing of importance to say. He said only that the form of a building must follow its function; that the structure of a building is the key to its beauty; that new methods of construction demand new forms; that he wished to build as he wished and for that reason only. But people could not listen to him when they were discussing Vitruvius, Michelangelo and Sir Christopher Wren.
    Men hate passion, any great passion. Henry Cameron made a mistake: he loved his work. That was why he fought. That was why he lost.
    People said he never knew that he had lost. If he did, he never let them see it. As his clients became rarer, his manner to them grew more overbearing. The less the prestige of his name, the more arrogant the sound of his voice pronouncing it. He had had an astute business manager, a mild, self-effacing little man of iron who, in the days of his glory, faced quietly the storms of Cameron’s temper and brought him clients; Cameron insulted the clients, but the little man made them accept it and come back. The little man died.
    Cameron had never known how to face people. They did not matter to him, as his own life did not matter, as nothing mattered but buildings. He had never learned to give explanations, only orders. He had never been liked. He had been feared. No one feared him any longer.
    He was allowed to live. He lived to loathe the streets of the city he had dreamed of rebuilding. He lived to sit at the desk in his empty office, motionless, idle, waiting. He lived to read in a well-meaning newspaper account a reference to “the late Henry Cameron.” He lived to begin drinking, quietly, steadily, terribly, for days and nights at a time; and to hear those who had driven him to it say, when his name was mentioned for a commission: “Cameron? I should say not. He drinks like a fish. That’s why he never gets any work.” He lived to move from the offices that occupied three floors of a famous building to one floor on a less expensive street, then to a suite farther downtown, then to three rooms facing an air shaft, near the Battery. He chose these rooms because, by pressing his face to the window of his office, he could see, over a brick wall, the top of the Dana Building.
    Howard Roark looked at the Dana Building beyond the windows, stopping at each landing, as he mounted the six flights of stairs to Henry Cameron’s office; the elevator was out of order. The stairs had been painted a dirty file-green a long time ago; a little of the paint remained to grate under shoe soles in crumbling patches. Roark went up swiftly, as if he had an appointment, a folder of his drawings under his arm, his eyes on the Dana Building. He collided once with a man descending the stairs; this had happened to him often in the last two days; he had walked through the streets of the city, his head thrown back, noticing nothing but the buildings of New York.
    In the dark cubbyhole of Cameron’s anteroom stood a desk with a telephone and a typewriter. A gray-haired skeleton of a man sat at the desk, in his shirt sleeves, with a pair of limp suspenders over his shoulders. He was typing specifications intently, with two fingers and incredible speed. The light from a feeble bulb made a pool of yellow on his back, where the damp shirt stuck to his shoulder blades.
    The man raised his head slowly, when Roark entered. He looked at Roark, said nothing and waited, his old eyes weary, unquestioning, incurious.
    “I should like to see Mr. Cameron,” said Roark.
”Yeah?” said the man, without challenge, offense or meaning. “About what?” “About a job.”
”What job?”
”Drafting.”
    The man sat looking at him blankly. It was a request that had not confronted him for a long time. He rose at last, without a word, shuffled to a door behind him and went in.
    He left the door half open. Roark heard him drawling:
    “Mr. Cameron, there’s a fellow outside says he’s looking for a job here.”
    Then a voice answered, a strong, clear voice that held no tones of age:
    “Why, the damn fool! Throw him out…Wait! Send him in!”
    The old man returned, held the door open and jerked his head at it silently. Roark went in. The door closed behind him.
    Henry Cameron sat at his desk at the end of a long, bare room. He sat bent forward, his forearms on the desk, his two hands closed before him. His hair and his beard were coal black, with coarse threads of white. The muscles of his short, thick neck bulged like ropes. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled above the elbows; the bare arms were hard, heavy and brown. The flesh of his broad face was rigid, as if it had aged by compression. The eyes were dark, young, living.
    Roark stood on the threshold and they looked at each other across the long room.
    The light from the air shaft was gray, and the dust on the drafting table, on the few green files, looked like fuzzy crystals deposited by the light. But on the wall, between the windows, Roark saw a picture. It was the only picture in the room. It was the drawing of a skyscraper that had never been erected.
    Roark’s eyes moved first and they moved to the drawing. He walked across the office, stopped before it and stood looking at it. Cameron’s eyes followed him, a heavy glance, like a long, thin needle held fast at one end, describing a slow circle, its point piercing Roark’s body, keeping it pinned firmly. Cameron looked at the orange hair, at the hand hanging by his side, its palm to the drawing, the fingers bent slightly, forgotten not in a gesture but in the overture to a gesture of asking or seizing something.
    “Well?” said Cameron at last. “Did you come to see me or did you come to look at pictures?” Roark turned to him.
”Both,” said Roark.
    He walked to the desk. People had always lost their sense of existence in Roark’s presence; but Cameron felt suddenly that he had never been as real as in the awareness of the eyes now looking at him.
    “What do you want?” snapped Cameron. “I should like to work for you,” said Roark quietly. The voice said: “I should like to work for you.” The tone of the voice said: “I’m going to work for you.”
    “Are you?” said Cameron, not realizing that he answered the unpronounced sentence. “What’s the matter? None of the bigger and better fellows will have you?”
    “I have not applied to anyone else.”
    “Why not? Do you think this is the easiest place to begin? Think anybody can walk in here without trouble? Do you know who I am?”
    “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
”Who sent you?”
”No one.”
”Why the hell should you pick me?”
    “I think you know that.”
    “What infernal impudence made you presume that I’d want you? Have you decided that I’m so hard up that I’d throw the gates open for any punk who’d do me the honor? ‘Old Cameron,’ you’ve said to yourself, ‘is a has-been, a drunken…” come on, you’ve said it!…’a drunken failure who can’t be particular!’ Is that it?…Come on, answer me! Answer me, damn you! What are you staring at? Is that it? Go on! Deny it!”
    “It’s not necessary.”
”Where have you worked before?”
”I’m just beginning.”
”What have you done?”
”I’ve had three years at Stanton.”
”Oh? The gentleman was too lazy to finish?” “I have been expelled.”
    “Great!” Cameron slapped the desk with his fist and laughed. “Splendid! You’re not good enough for the lice nest at Stanton, but you’ll work for Henry Cameron! You’ve decided this is the place for refuse! What did they kick you out for? Drink? Women? What?”
    “These,” said Roark, and extended his drawings. Cameron looked at the first one, then at the next, then at every one of them to the bottom. Roark heard the paper rustling as Cameron slipped one sheet behind another. Then Cameron raised his head. “Sit down.”
    Roark obeyed. Cameron stared at him, his thick fingers drumming against the pile of drawings.
    “So you think they’re good?’ said Cameron. “Well, they’re awful. It’s unspeakable. It’s a crime. Look,” he shoved a drawing at Roark’s face, “look at that. What in Christ’s name was your idea? What possessed you to indent that plan here? Did you just want to make it pretty, because you had to patch something together? Who do you think you are? Guy Francon, God help you?…Look at this building, you fool! You get an idea like this and you don’t know what to do with it! You stumble on a magnificent thing and you have to ruin it! Do you know how much you’ve got to learn?”
    “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
    “And look at that one! I wish I’d done that at your age! But why did you have to botch it? Do you know what I’d do with that? Look, to hell with your stairways and to hell with your furnace room! When you lay the foundations…”
    He spoke furiously for a long time. He cursed. He did not find one sketch to satisfy him. But Roark noticed that he spoke as of buildings that were in construction.
    He broke off abruptly, pushed the drawings aside, and put his fist over them. He asked: “When did you decide to become an architect?”
”When I was ten years old.”
”Men don’t know what they want so early in life, if ever. You’re lying.”
    “Am I?”
    “Don’t stare at me like that! Can’t you look at something else? Why did you decide to be an architect?”
    “I didn’t know it then. But it’s because I’ve never believed in God.” “Come on, talk sense.”
    “Because I love this earth. That’s all I love. I don’t like the shape of things on this earth. I want to change them.”
    “For whom?”
”For myself.”
”How old are you?”
”Twenty-two.”
”When did you hear all that?”
”I didn’t.”
”Men don’t talk like that at twenty-two. You’re abnormal.” “Probably.”
”I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
”I didn’t either.”
”Got any family?”
”No.”
”Worked through school?”
”Yes.”
”At what?”
”In the building trades.”
”How much money have you got left?”
”Seventeen dollars and thirty cents.”
”When did you come to New York?”
”Yesterday.”
Cameron looked at the white pile under his fist.
”God damn you,” said Cameron softly.
    “God damn you!” roared Cameron suddenly, leaning forward. “I didn’t ask you to come here! I don’t need any draftsmen! There’s nothing here to draft! I don’t have enough work to keep myself and my men out of the Bowery Mission! I don’t want any fool visionaries starving around here! I don’t want the responsibility. I didn’t ask for it. I never thought I’d see it again. I’m through with it. I was through with that many years ago. I’m perfectly happy with the drooling dolts I’ve got here, who never had anything and never will have and it makes no difference what becomes of them. That’s all I want Why did you have to come here? You’re setting out to ruin yourself, you know that, don’t you? And I’ll help you to do it. I don’t want to see you. I don’t like you. I don’t like your face. You look like an insufferable egotist. You’re impertinent. You’re too sure of yourself. Twenty years ago I’d have punched your face with the greatest of pleasure. You’re coming to work here tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp.”
    “Yes,” said Roark, rising.
    “Fifteen dollars a week. That’s all I can pay you.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re a damn fool. You should have gone to someone else. I’ll kill you if you go to anyone else. What’s your name?”
    “Howard Roark.”
”If you’re late, I’ll fire you.”
”Yes.”
Roark extended his hand for the drawings.
”Leave these here!” bellowed Cameron. “Now get out!”
    4.
    “TOOHEY,” said Guy Francon, “Ellsworth Toohey. Pretty decent of him, don’t you think? Read it, Peter.”
    Francon leaned jovially across his desk and handed to Keating the August issue of New Frontiers. New Frontiers had a white cover with a black emblem that combined a palette, a lyre, a hammer, a screw driver and a rising sun; it had a circulation of thirty thousand and a following that described itself as the intellectual vanguard of the country; no one had ever risen to challenge the description. Keating read from an article entitled “Marble and Mortar,” by Ellsworth M. Toohey:
    “…And now we come to another notable achievement of the metropolitan skyline. We call the attention of the discriminating to the new Melton Building by Francon & Heyer. It stands in white serenity as an eloquent witness to the triumph of Classical purity and common sense. The discipline of an immortal tradition has served here as a cohesive factor in evolving a structure whose beauty can reach, simply and lucidly, the heart of every man in the street. There is no freak exhibitionism here, no perverted striving for novelty, no orgy of unbridled egotism. Guy Francon, its designer, has known how to subordinate himself to the mandatory canons which generations of craftsmen behind him have proved inviolate, and at the same time how to display his own creative originality, not in spite of, but precisely because of the Classical dogma he has accepted with the humility of a true artist. It may be worth mentioning, in passing, that dogmatic discipline is the only thing which makes true originality possible….
    “More important, however, is the symbolic significance of a building such as this rising in our imperial city. As one stands before its southern facade, one is stricken with the realization that the stringcourses, repeated with deliberate and gracious monotony from the third to the eighteenth story, these long, straight, horizontal lines are the moderating, leveling principle, the lines of equality. They seem to bring the towering structure down to the humble level of the observer. They are the lines of the earth, of the people, of the great masses. They seem to tell us that none may rise too high above the restraint of the common human level, that all is held and shall be checked, even as this proud edifice, by the stringcourses of men’s brotherhood….”
    There was more. Keating read it all, then raised his head. “Gee!” he said, awed. Francon smiled happily.
    “Pretty good, eh? And from Toohey, no less. Not many people might have heard the name, but they will, mark my word, they will. I know the signs….So he doesn’t think I’m so bad? And he’s got a tongue like an icepick, when he feels like using it. You should see what he says about others, more often than not. You know Durkin’s latest mousetrap? Well, I was at a party where Toohey said–” Francon chuckled–“he said: ‘If Mr. Durkin suffers under the delusion
    that he is an architect, someone should mention to him the broad opportunities offered by the shortage of skilled plumbers.’ That’s what he said, imagine, in public!”
    “I wonder,” said Keating wistfully, “what he’ll say about me, when the times comes.”
    “What on earth does he mean by the symbolic significance stuff and the stringcourses of men’s brotherhood?…Oh, well, if that’s what he praises us for, we should worry!”
    “It’s the critic’s job to interpret the artist, Mr. Francon, even to the artist himself. Mr. Toohey has merely stated the hidden significance that was subconsciously in your own mind.”
    “Oh,” said Francon vaguely. “Oh, do you think so?” he added brightly. “Quite possible….Yes, quite possible….You’re a smart boy, Peter.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Francon.” Keating made a movement to rise.
”Wait. Don’t go. One more cigarette and then we’ll both return to the drudgery.”
    Francon was smiling over the article, reading it again. Keating had never seen him so pleased; no drawing in the office, no work accomplished had ever made him as happy as these words from another man on a printed page to be read by other eyes.
    Keating sat easily in a comfortable chair. His month with the firm had been well spent. He had said nothing and done nothing, but the impression had spread through the office that Guy Francon liked to see this particular boy sent to him whenever anyone had to be sent. Hardly a day passed without the pleasant interlude of sitting across the desk from Guy Francon, in a respectful, growing intimacy, listening to Francon’s sighs about the necessity of being surrounded by men who understood him.
    Keating had learned all he could team about Guy Francon, from his fellow draftsmen. He had teamed that Guy Francon ate moderately and exquisitely, and prided himself on the title of gourmet; that he had graduated with distinction from the École des Beaux-Arts; that he had married a great deal of money and that the marriage had not been a happy one; that he matched meticulously his socks with his handkerchiefs, but never with his neckties; that he had a great preference for designing buildings of gray granite; that he owned a quarry of gray granite in Connecticut, which did a thriving business; that he maintained a magnificent bachelor apartment done in plum-colored Louis XV; that his wife, of a distinguished old name, had died, leaving her fortune to their only daughter, that the daughter, now nineteen, was away at college.
    These last facts interested Keating a great deal. He mentioned to Francon, tentatively in passing, the subject of his daughter. “Oh, yes…” Francon said thinly. “Yes, indeed…” Keating abandoned all further research into the matter, for the time being; Francon’s face had declared mat the thought of his daughter was painfully annoying to him, for some reason which Keating could not discover.
    Keating had met Lucius N. Heyer, Francon’s partner, and had seen him come to the office twice in three weeks, but had been unable to learn what service Heyer rendered to the firm. Heyer did not have haemophilia, but looked as though he should have it He was a withered aristocrat, with a long, thin neck, pate, bulging eyes and a manner of frightened sweetness toward everyone. He was the relic of an ancient family, and it was suspected mat Francon had taken him into partnership for the sake of his social connections. People felt sorry for poor dear Lucius, admired him for the effort of undertaking a professional career, and thought it would be nice to let him build their homes. Francon built them and required no further service from Lucius. This satisfied everybody.
    The men in the drafting rooms loved Peter Keating. He made them feel as if he had been there for a long time; he had always known how to become part of any place he entered; he came soft and bright as a sponge to be filled, unresisting, with the air and the mood of the place. His warm smile, his gay voice, the easy shrug of his shoulders seemed to say that nothing weighed too much within his soul and so he was not one to blame, to demand, to accuse anything.
    As he sat now, watching Francon read the article, Francon raised his head to glance at him. Francon saw two eyes looking at him with immense approval–and two bright little points of contempt in the corners of Keating’s mouth, like two musical notes of laughter visible the second before they were to be heard. Francon felt a great wave of comfort. The comfort came from the contempt. The approval, together with that wise half-smile, granted him a grandeur he did not have to earn; a blind admiration would have been precarious; a deserved admiration would have been a responsibility; an undeserved admiration was precious.
    “When you go, Peter, give this to Miss Jeffers to put in my scrapbook.”
    On his way down the stairs, Keating flung the magazine high in the air and caught it smartly, his lips pursed to whistle without sound.
    In the drafting room he found Tim Davis, his best friend, slouched despondently over a drawing. Tim Davis was the tall, blond boy at the next table, whom Keating had noticed long ago, because he had known, with no tangible evidence, but with certainty, as Keating always knew such things, that this was the favored draftsman of the office. Keating managed to be assigned, as frequently as possible, to do parts of the projects on which Davis worked. Soon they were going out to lunch together, and to a quiet little speak-easy after the day’s work, and Keating was listening with breathless attention to Davis’ talk about his love for one Elaine Duffy, not a word of which Keating ever remembered afterward.
    He found Davis now in black gloom, his mouth chewing furiously a cigarette and a pencil at once. Keating did not have to question him. He merely bent his friendly face over Davis’ shoulder. Davis spit out the cigarette and exploded. He had just been told that he would have to work overtime tonight, for the third time this week.
    “Got to stay late, God knows how late! Gotta finish this damn tripe tonight!” He slammed the sheets spread before him. “Look at it! Hours and hours and hours to finish it! What am I going to do?”
    “Well, it’s because you’re the best man here, Tim, and they need you.”
    “To hell with that! I’ve got a date with Elaine tonight! How’m I going to break it? Third time!
She won’t believe me! She told me so last time! That’s the end! I’m going up to Guy the Mighty and tell him where he can put his plans and his job! I’m through!”
    “Wait,” said Keating, and leaned closer to him. “Wait! There’s another way. I’ll finish them for you.”
    “Huh?”
    “I’ll stay. I’ll do them. Don’t be afraid. No one’ll tell the difference.”
    “Pete! Would you?”
    “Sure. I’ve nothing to do tonight. You just stay till they all go home, then skip.”
    “Oh, gee, Pete!” Davis sighed, tempted. “But look, if they find out, they’ll can me. You’re too new for this kind of job.”
    “They won’t find out.”
    “I can’t lose my job, Pete. You know I can’t. Elaine and I are going to be married soon. If anything happens…”
    “Nothing will happen.”
    Shortly after six, Davis departed furtively from the empty drafting room, leaving Keating at his table.
    Bending under a solitary green lamp. Keating glanced at the desolate expanse of three long rooms, oddly silent after the day’s rush, and he felt that he owned them, that he would own
    them, as surely as the pencil moved in his hand.
    It was half past nine when he finished the plans, stacked them neatly on Davis’ table, and left the office. He walked down the street, glowing with a comfortable, undignified feeling, as though after a good meal. Then the realization of his loneliness struck him suddenly. He had to share this with someone tonight. He had no one. For the first time he wished his mother were in New York. But she had remained in Stanton, awaiting the day when he would be able to send for her. He had nowhere to go tonight, save to the respectable little boardinghouse on West Twenty-Eighth Street, where he could climb three flights of stairs to his clean, airless little room. He had met people in New York, many people, many girls, with one of whom he remembered spending a pleasant night, though he could not remember her last name; but he wished to see none of them. And then he thought of Catherine Halsey.
    He had sent her a wire on the night of his graduation and forgotten her ever since. Now he wanted to see her; the desire was intense and immediate with the first sound of her name in his memory. He leaped into a bus for the long ride to Greenwich Village, climbed to the deserted top and, sitting alone on the front bench, cursed the traffic lights whenever they turned to red. It had always been like this where Catherine was concerned; and he wondered dimly what was the matter with him.
    He had met her a year ago in Boston, where she had lived with her widowed mother. He had found Catherine homely and dull, on that first meeting, with nothing to her credit but her lovely smile, not a sufficient reason ever to see her again. He had telephoned her the next evening. Of the countless girls he had known in his student years she was the only one with whom he had never progressed beyond a few kisses. He could have any girl he met and he knew it; he knew that he could have Catherine; he wanted her; she loved him and had admitted it simply, openly, without fear or shyness, asking nothing of him, expecting nothing; somehow, he had never taken advantage of it. He had felt proud of the girls whom he escorted in those days, the most beautiful girls, the most popular, the best dressed, and he had delighted in the envy of his schoolmates. He had been ashamed of Catherine’s thoughtless sloppiness and of the fact that no other boy would look at her twice. But he had never been as happy as when he took her to fraternity dances. He had had many violent loves, when he swore he could not live without this girl or that; he forgot Catherine for weeks at a time and she never reminded him. He had always come back to her, suddenly, inexplicably, as he did tonight.
    Her mother, a gentle little schoolteacher, had died last winter. Catherine had gone to live with an uncle in New York. Keating had answered some of her letters immediately, others–months later. She had always replied at once, and never written during his long silences, waiting patiently. He had felt, when he thought of her, that nothing would ever replace her. Then, in New York, within reach of a bus or a telephone, he had forgotten her again for a month.
    He never thought, as he hurried to her now, that he should have announced his visit. He never wondered whether he would find her at home. He had always come back like this and she had always been there. She was there again tonight.
    She opened the door for him, on the top floor of a shabby, pretentious brownstone house. “Hello, Peter,” she said, as if she had seen him yesterday.
    She stood before him, too small, too thin for her clothes. The short black skirt flared out from the slim band of her waist; the boyish shirt collar hung loosely, pulled to one side, revealing the knob of a thin collarbone; the sleeves were too long over the fragile hands. She looked at him, her head bent to one side; her chestnut hair was gathered carelessly at the back of her neck, but it looked as though it were bobbed, standing, light and fuzzy, as a shapeless halo about her face. Her eyes were gray, wide and nearsighted; her mouth smiled slowly, delicately, enchantingly, her lips glistening. “Hello, Katie,” he said.
    He felt at peace. He felt he had nothing to fear, in this house or anywhere outside. He had prepared himself to explain how busy he’d been in New York; but explanations seemed irrelevant now.
    “Give me your hat,” she said, “be careful of that chair, it’s not very steady, we have better ones in the living room, come in.” The living room, he noticed, was modest but somehow distinguished, and in surprisingly good taste. He noticed the books; cheap shelves rising to the
    ceiling, loaded with precious volumes; the volumes stacked carelessly, actually being used. He noticed, over a neat, shabby desk, a Rembrandt etching, stained and yellow, found, perhaps, in some junk shop by the eyes of a connoisseur who had never parted with it, though its price would have obviously been of help to him. He wondered what business her uncle could be in; he had never asked.
    He stood looking vaguely at the room, feeling her presence behind him, enjoying that sense of certainty which he found so rarely. Then he turned and took her in his arms and kissed her; her lips met his softly, eagerly; but she was neither frightened nor excited, too happy to accept this in any way save by taking it for granted.
    “God, I’ve missed you!” he said, and knew that he had, every day since he’d seen her last and most of all, perhaps, on the days when he had not thought of her.
    “You haven’t changed much,” she said. “You look a little thinner. It’s becoming. You’ll be very attractive when you’re fifty, Peter.”
    “That’s not very complimentary–by implication.”
”Why? Oh, you mean I think you’re not attractive now? Oh, but you are.” “You shouldn’t say that right out to me like that.”
    “Why not? You know you are. But I’ve been thinking of what you’ll look like at fifty. You’ll have gray temples and you’ll wear a gray suit–I saw one in a window last week and I thought that would be the one–and you’ll be a very great architect.”
    “You really think so?”
    “Why, yes.” She was not flattering him. She did not seem to realize that it could be flattery. She was merely stating a fact, too certain to need emphasis.
    He waited for the inevitable questions. But instead, they were talking suddenly of their old Stanton days together, and he was laughing, holding her across his knees, her thin shoulders leaning against the circle of his arm, her eyes soft, contented. He was speaking of their old bathing suits, of the runs in her stockings, of their favorite ice-cream parlor in Stanton, where they had spent so many summer evenings together–and he was thinking dimly that it made no sense at all; he had more pertinent things to tell and to ask her; people did not talk like that when they hadn’t seen each other for months. But it seemed quite normal to her; she did not appear to know that they had been parted.
    He was first to ask finally:
”Did you get my wire?”
”Oh, yes. Thanks.”
”Don’t you want to know how I’m getting along in the city?” “Sure. How are you getting along in the city?”
    “Look here, you’re not terribly interested.”
”Oh, but I am! I want to know everything about you.” “Why don’t you ask?”
”You’ll tell me when you want to.”
”It doesn’t matter much to you, does it?”
”W hat?”
    “What I’ve been doing.”
    “Oh…Yes, it does, Peter. No, not too much.”
    “That’s sweet of you!”
    “But, you see, it’s not what you do that matters really. It’s only you.”
    “Me what?”
    “Just you here. Or you in the city. Or you somewhere in the world. I don’t know. Just that.”
    “You know, you’re a fool, Katie. Your technique is something awful.”
    “My what?”
    “Your technique. You can’t tell a man so shamelessly, like that, that you’re practically crazy about him.”
    “But I am.”
    “But you can’t say so. Men won’t care for you.”
    “But I don’t want men to care for me.”
    “You want me to, don’t you?”
    “But you do, don’t you?”
    “I do,” he said, his arms tightening about her. “Damnably. I’m a bigger fool than you are.”
    “Well, then it’s perfectly all right,” she said, her fingers in his hair, “isn’t it?”
    “It’s always been perfectly all right, that’s the strangest part about it….But look, I want to tell you about what’s happened to me, because it’s important.”
    “I’m really very interested, Peter.”
    “Well, you know I’m working for Francon & Heyer and…Oh, hell, you don’t even know what that means!”
    “Yes, I do. I’ve looked them up in Who’s Who in Architecture. It said some very nice things about them. And I asked Uncle. He said they were tops in the business.”
    “You bet they are. Francon–he’s the greatest designer in New York, in the whole country, in the world maybe. He’s put up seventeen skyscrapers, eight cathedrals, six railroad terminals and God knows what else….Of course, you know, he’s an old fool and a pompous fraud who oils his way into everything and…” He stopped, his mouth open, staring at her. He had not intended to say that. He had never allowed himself to think that before.
    She was looking at him serenely. “Yes?” she asked. “And…?”
    “Well…and…” he stammered, and he knew that he could not speak differently, not to her, “and that’s what I really think of him. And I have no respect for him at all. And I’m delighted to be working for him. See?”
    “Sure,” she said quietly. “You’re ambitious, Peter.”
”Don’t you despise me for it?”
”No. That’s what you wanted.”
”Sure, that’s what I wanted. Well, actually, it’s not as bad as that. It’s a tremendous firm, the
    best in the city. I’m really doing good work, and Francon is very pleased with me. I’m getting ahead. I think I can have any job I want in the place eventually….Why, only tonight I took over a man’s work and he doesn’t know that he’ll be useless soon, because…Katie! What am I saying?”
    “It’s all right, dear. I understand.”
”If you did, you’d call me the names I deserve and make me stop it.”
”No, Peter. I don’t want to change you. I love you, Peter.”
”God help you!”
”I know that.”
”You know that? And you say it like this? Like you’d say, ‘Hello, it’s a beautiful evening’?” “Well, why not? Why worry about it? I love you.”
”No, don’t worry about it! Don’t ever worry about it!…Katie….I’ll never love anyone else….” “I know that too.”
    He held her close, anxiously, afraid that her weightless little body would vanish. He did not know why her presence made him confess things unconfessed in his own mind. He did not know why the victory he came here to share had faded. But it did not matter. He had a peculiar sense of freedom–her presence always lifted from him a pressure he could not define–he was alone–he was himself. All that mattered to him now was the feeling of her coarse cotton blouse against his wrist.
    Then he was asking her about her own life in New York and she was speaking happily about her uncle.
    “He’s wonderful, Peter. He’s really wonderful. He’s quite poor, but he took me in and he was so gracious about it he gave up his study to make a room for me and now he has to work here, in the living room. You must meet him, Peter. He’s away now, on a lecture tour, but you must meet him when he comes back.”
    “Sure, I’d love to.”
    “You know, I wanted to go to work, and be on my own, but he wouldn’t let me. ‘My dear child,’ he said, ‘not at seventeen. You don’t want me to be ashamed of myself, do you? I don’t believe in child labor.’ That was kind of a funny idea, don’t you think? He has so many funny ideas–I don’t understand them all, but they say he’s a brilliant man. So he made it look as if I were doing him a favor by letting him keep me, and I think that was really very decent of him.”
    “What do you do with yourself all day long?”
    “Nothing much of anything now. I read books. On architecture. Uncle has tons of books on architecture. But when he’s here I type his lectures for him. I really don’t think he likes me to do it, he prefers the typist he had, but I love it and he lets me. And he pays me her salary. I didn’t want to take it, but he made me.”
    “What does he do for a living?”
    “Oh, so many things, I don’t know, I can’t keep track of them. He teaches art history, for one, he’s a kind of professor.”
    “And when are you going to college, by the way?”
    “Oh…Well…well, you see, I don’t think Uncle approves of the idea. I told him how I’d always planned to go and that I’d work my own way through, but he seems to think it’s not for me. He doesn’t say much, only: ‘God made the elephant for toil and the mosquito for flitting about, and
    it’s not advisable, as a rule, to experiment with the laws of nature, however, if you want to try it, my dear child…’ But he’s not objecting really, it’s up to me, only…”
    “Well, don’t let him stop you.”
    “Oh, he wouldn’t want to stop me. Only, I was thinking, I was never any great shakes in high school, and, darling, I’m really quite utterly lousy at mathematics, and so I wonder…but then, there’s no hurry, I’ve got plenty of time to decide.”
    “Listen, Katie, I don’t like that. You’ve always planned on college. If that uncle of yours…”
    “You shouldn’t say it like this. You don’t know him. He’s the most amazing man. I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He’s so kind, so understanding. And he’s such fun, always joking, he’s so clever at it, nothing that you thought was serious ever seems to be when he’s around, and yet he’s a very serious man. You know, he spends hours talking to me, he’s never too tired and he’s not bored with my stupidity, he tells me all about strikes, and conditions in the slums, and the poor people in the sweatshops, always about others, never about himself. A friend of his told me that Uncle could be a very rich man if he tried, he’s so clever, but he won’t, he just isn’t interested in money.”
    “That’s not human.”
    “Wait till you see him. Oh, he wants to meet you, too. I’ve told him about you. He calls you ‘the T-square Romeo.’”
    “Oh, he does, does he?”
    “But you don’t understand. He means it kindly. It’s the way he says things. You’ll have a lot in common. Maybe he could help you. He knows something about architecture, too. You’ll love Uncle Ellsworth.”
    “Who?” said Keating.
    “My uncle.”
    “Say,” Keating asked, his voice a little husky, “what’s your
    uncle’s name?”
    “Ellsworth Toohey. Why?” His hands fell limply. He sat staring at her. “What’s the matter, Peter?”
    He swallowed. She saw the jerking motion of his throat. Then he said, his voice hard:
    “Listen, Katie, I don’t want to meet your uncle.”
    “But why?”
    “I don’t want to meet him. Not through you….You see, Katie, you don’t know me. I’m the kind that uses people. I don’t want to use you. Ever. Don’t let me. Not you.”
    “Use me how? What’s the matter? Why?”
    “It’s just this: I’d give my eyeteeth to meet Ellsworth Toohey, that’s all.” He laughed harshly. “So he knows something about architecture, does he? You little fool! He’s the most important man in architecture. Not yet, maybe, but that’s what he’ll be in a couple of years–ask Francon, that old weasel knows. He’s on his way to becoming the Napoleon of all architectural critics, your Uncle Ellsworth is, just watch him. In the first place, there aren’t many to bother writing about our profession, so he’s the smart boy who’s going to comer the market. You should see the big shots in our office lapping up every comma he puts out in print! So you think maybe he could help me? Well, he could make me, and he will, and I’m going to meet him some day, when I’m ready for him, as I met Francon, but not here, not through you. Understand? Not from you!”
    “But, Peter, why not?”
    “Because I don’t want it that way! Because it’s filthy and I hate it, all of it, ray work and my profession, and what I’m doing and what I’m going to do! It’s something I want to keep you out of. You’re all I really have. Just keep out of it, Katie!”
    “Out of what?” “I don’t know!”
    She rose and stood in the circle of his arms, his face hidden against her hip; she stroked his hair, looking down at him.
    “All right, Peter. I think I know. You don’t have to meet him until you want to. Just tell me when you want it. You can use me if you have to. It’s all right. It won’t change anything.”
    When he raised his head, she was laughing softly.
    “You’ve worked too hard, Peter. You’re a little unstrung. Suppose I make you some tea?”
    “Oh, I’d forgotten all about it, but I’ve had no dinner today. Had no time.”
    “Well, of all things! Well, how perfectly disgusting! Come on to the kitchen, this minute, I’ll see what I can fix up for you!”
    He left her two hours later, and he walked away feeling light, clean, happy, his fears forgotten, Toohey and Francon forgotten. He thought only that he had promised to come again tomorrow and that it was an unbearably long time to wait. She stood at the door, after he had gone, her hand on the knob he had touched, and she thought that he might come tomorrow–or three months later.

    “When you finish tonight,” said Henry Cameron, “I want to see you in my office.”
    “Yes,” said Roark.
    Cameron veered sharply on his heels and walked out of the drafting room. It had been the longest sentence he had addressed to Roark in a month.
    Roark had come to this room every morning, had done his task, and had heard no word of comment. Cameron would enter the drafting room and stand behind Roark for a long time, looking over his shoulder. It was as if his eyes concentrated deliberately on trying to throw the steady hand off its course on the paper. The two other draftsmen botched their work from the mere thought of such an apparition standing behind them. Roark did not seem to notice it. He went on, his hand unhurried, he took his time about discarding a blunted pencil and picking out another. “Uh-huh,” Cameron would grunt suddenly. Roark would turn his head then, politely attentive. “What is it?” he would ask. Cameron would turn away without a word, his narrowed eyes underscoring contemptuously the fact that he considered an answer unnecessary, and would leave the drafting room. Roark would go on with his drawing.
    “Looks bad,” Loomis, the young draftsman, confided to Simpson, his ancient colleague. “The old man doesn’t like this guy. Can’t say that I blame him, either. Here’s one that won’t last long.”
    Simpson was old and helpless; he had survived from Cameron’s three-floor office, had stuck and had never understood it Loomis was young, with the face of a drugstore-corner lout; he was here because he had been fired from too many other places.
    Both men disliked Roark. He was usually disliked, from the first sight of his face, anywhere he went His face was closed like the door of a safety vault; things locked in safety vaults are valuable; men did not care to feel that. He was a cold, disquieting presence in the room; his presence had a strange quality: it made itself felt and yet it made them feel that he was not
    there; or perhaps that he was and they weren’t.
    After work he walked the long distance to his home, a tenement near the East River. He had chosen that tenement because he had been able to get, for two-fifty a week, its entire top floor, a huge room that had been used for storage: it had no ceiling and the roof leaked between its naked beams. But it had a long row of windows, along two of its walls, some panes filled with glass, others with cardboard, and the windows opened high over the river on one side and the city on the other.
    A week ago Cameron had come into the drafting room and had thrown down on Roark’s table a violent sketch of a country residence. “See if you can make a house out of this!” he had snapped and gone without further explanation. He had not approached Roark’s table during the days that followed. Roark had finished the drawings last night and left them on Cameron’s desk. This morning, Cameron had come in, thrown some sketches of steel joints to Roark, ordered him to appear in his office later and had not entered the drafting room again for the rest of the day. The others were gone. Roark pulled an old piece of oilcloth over his table and went to Cameron’s office. His drawings of the country house were spread on the desk. The light of the lamp fell on Cameron’s cheek, on his beard, the white threads glistening, on his fist, on a corner of the drawing, its black lines bright and hard as if embossed on the paper. “You’re fired,” said Cameron.
    Roark stood, halfway across the long room, his weight on one leg, his arms hanging by his sides, one shoulder raised. “Am I?” he asked quietly, without moving. “Come here,” said Cameron. “Sit down.” Roark obeyed.
    “You’re too good,” said Cameron. “You’re too good for what you want to do with yourself. It’s no use, Roark. Better now than later.”
    “What do you mean?’
    “It’s no use wasting what you’ve got on an ideal that you’ll never reach, that they’ll never let you reach. It’s no use, taking that marvelous thing you have and making a torture rack for yourself out of it. Sell it, Roark. Sell it now. It won’t be the same, but you’ve got enough in you. You’ve got what they’ll pay you for, and pay plenty, if you use it their way. Accept them, Roark. Compromise. Compromise now, because you’ll have to later, anyway, only then you’ll have gone through things you’ll wish you hadn’t. You don’t know. I do. Save yourself from that. Leave me. Go to someone else.”
    “Did you do that?”
    “You presumptuous bastard! How good do you think I said you were? Did I tell you to compare yourself to…” He stopped because he saw that Roark was smiling.
    He looked at Roark, and suddenly smiled in answer, and it was the most painful thing that Roark had ever seen.
    “No,” said Cameron softly, “that won’t work, huh? No, it won’t…Well, you’re right. You’re as good as you think you are. But I want to speak to you. I don’t know exactly how to go about it. I’ve lost the habit of speaking to men like you. Lost it? Maybe I’ve never had it. Maybe that’s what frightens me now. Will you try to understand?”
    “I understand. I think you’re wasting your time.”
    “Don’t be rude. Because I can’t be rude to you now. I want you to listen. Will you listen and not answer me?”
    “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend it as rudeness.”
    “You see, of all men, I’m the last one to whom you should have come. I’ll be committing a crime if I keep you here. Somebody should have warned you against me. I won’t help you at all. I won’t discourage you. I won’t teach you any common sense. Instead, I’ll push you on. I’ll drive you the way you’re going now. I’ll beat you into remaining what you are, and I’ll make you worse….Don’t you see? In another month I won’t be able to let you go. I’m not sure I can now.
    So don’t argue with me and go. Get out while you can.”
”But can I? Don’t you think it’s too late for both of us? It was too late for me twelve years ago.”
    “Try it, Roark. Try to be reasonable for once. There’s plenty of big fellows who’ll take you, expulsion or no expulsion, if I say so. They may laugh at me in their luncheon speeches, but they steal from me when it suits them, and they know that I know a good draftsman when I see one. I’ll give you a letter to Guy Francon. He worked for me once, long ago. I think I fired him, but that wouldn’t matter. Go to him. You won’t like it at first, but you’ll get used to it. And you’ll thank me for it many years from now.”
    “Why are you saying all this to me? That’s not what you want to say. That’s not what you did.”
    “That’s why I’m saying it! Because that’s not what I did!…Look, Roark, there’s one thing about you, the thing I’m afraid of. It’s not just the kind of work you do; I wouldn’t care, if you were an exhibitionist who’s being different as a stunt, as a lark, just to attract attention to himself. It’s a smart racket, to oppose the crowd and amuse it and collect admission to the side show. If you did that, I wouldn’t worry. But it’s not that. You love your work. God help you, you love it! And that’s the curse. That’s the brand on your forehead for all of them to see. You love it, and they know it, and they know they have you. Do you ever look at the people in the street? Aren’t you afraid of them? I am. They move past you and they wear hats and they carry bundles. But that’s not the substance of them. The substance of them is hatred for any man who loves his work. That’s the only kind they fear. I don’t know why. You’re opening yourself up, Roark, for each and every one of them.”
    “But I never notice the people in the streets.”
”Do you notice what they’ve done to me?”
”I notice only that you weren’t afraid of them. Why do you ask me to be?”
    “That’s just why I’m asking it!” He leaned forward, his fists closing on the desk before him. “Roark, do you want me to say it? You’re cruel, aren’t you? All right, I’ll say it: do you want to end up like this? Do you want to be what I am?” Roark got up and stood against the edge of light on the desk. “If,” said Roark, “at the end of my life, I’ll be what you are today here, in this office, I shall consider it an honor that I could not have deserved.”
    “Sit down!” roared Cameron. “I don’t like demonstrations!” Roark looked down at himself, at the desk, astonished to find himself standing. He said: “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I got up.”
    “Well, sit down. Listen. I understand. And it’s very nice of you. But you don’t know. I thought a few days here would be enough to take the hero worship out of you. I see it wasn’t. Here you are, saying to yourself how grand old Cameron is, a noble fighter, a martyr to a lost cause, and you’d just love to die on the barricades with me and to eat in dime lunch-wagons with me for the rest of your life. I know, it looks pure and beautiful to you now, at your great old age of twenty-two. But do you know what it means? Thirty years of a lost cause, that sounds beautiful, doesn’t it? But do you know how many days there are in thirty years? Do you know what happens in those days? Roark! Do you know what happens?”
    “You don’t want to speak of that.”
    “No! I don’t want to speak of that! But I’m going to. I want you to hear. I want you to know what’s in store for you. There will be days when you’ll look at your hands and you’ll want to take something and smash every bone in them, because they’ll be taunting you with what they could do, if you found a chance for them to do it, and you can’t find that chance, and you can’t bear your living body because it has failed those hands somewhere. There will be days when a bus driver will snap at you as you enter a bus, and he’ll be only asking for a dime, but that won’t be what you’ll hear; you’ll hear that you’re nothing, that he’s laughing at you, that it’s written on your forehead, that thing they hate you for. There will be days when you’ll stand in the corner of a hall and listen to a creature on a platform talking about buildings, about that work which you love, and the things he’ll say will make you wait for somebody to rise and crack him open between two thumbnails; and then you’ll hear the people applauding him, and you’ll want to scream, because you won’t know whether they’re real or you are, whether you’re
    in a room full of gored skulls, or whether someone has just emptied your own head, and you’ll say nothing, because the sounds you could make–they’re not a language in that room any longer; but if you’d want to speak, you won’t anyway, because you’ll be brushed aside, you who have nothing to tell them about buildings! Is that what you want?”
    Roark sat still, the shadows sharp on his face, a black wedge on a sunken cheek, a long triangle of black cutting across his chin, his eyes on Cameron.
    “Not enough?” asked Cameron. “All right. Then, one day, you’ll see on a piece of paper before you a building that will make you want to kneel; you won’t believe that you’ve done it, but you will have done it; then you’ll think that the earth is beautiful and the air smells of spring and you love your fellow men, because there is no evil in the world. And you’ll set out from your house with this drawing, to have it erected, because you won’t have any doubt that it will be erected by the first man to see it. But you won’t get very far from your house. Because you’ll be stopped at the door by the man who’s come to turn off the gas. You hadn’t had much food, because you saved money to finish your drawing, but still you had to cook something and you hadn’t paid for it….All right, that’s nothing, you can laugh at that. But finally you’ll get into a man’s office with your drawing, and you’ll curse yourself for taking so much space of his air with your body, and you’ll try to squeeze yourself out of his sight, so that he won’t see you, but only hear your voice begging him, pleading, your voice licking his knees; you’ll loathe yourself for it, but you won’t care, if only he’d let you put up that building, you won’t care, you’ll want to rip your insides open to show him, because if he saw what’s there he’d have to let you put it up. But he’ll say that he’s very sorry, only the commission has just been given to Guy Francon. And you’ll go home, and do you know what you’ll do there? You’ll cry. You’ll cry like a woman, like a drunkard, like an animal. That’s your future, Howard Roark. Now, do you want it?”
    “Yes,” said Roark.
    Cameron’s eyes dropped; then his head moved down a little, then a little farther; his head went on dropping slowly, in long, single jerks, then stopped; he sat still, his shoulders hunched, his arms huddled together in his lap.
    “Howard,” whispered Cameron, “I’ve never told it to anyone….”
    “Thank you….” said Roark.
    After a long time, Cameron raised his head.
    “Go home now,” said Cameron, his voice flat. “You’ve worked too much lately. And you have a hard day ahead.” He
    pointed to the drawings of the country house. “This is all very well, and I wanted to see what you’d do, but it’s not good enough to build. You’ll have to do it over. I’ll show you what I want tomorrow.”
    5.
    A YEAR with the firm of Francon & Heyer had given Keating the whispered title of crown prince without portfolio. Still only a draftsman, he was Francon’s reigning favorite. Francon took him out to lunch–an unprecedented honor for an employee. Francon called him to be present at interviews with clients. The clients seemed to like seeing so decorative a young man in an architect’s office.
    Lucius N. Heyer had the annoying habit of asking Francon suddenly: “When did you get the new man?” and pointing to an employee who had been there for three years. But Heyer surprised everybody by remembering Keating’s name and by greeting him, whenever they met, with a smile of positive recognition. Keating had had a long conversation with him, one dreary November afternoon, on the subject of old porcelain. It was Heyer’s hobby; he owned a famous collection, passionately gathered. Keating displayed an earnest knowledge of the subject, though he had never heard of old porcelain till the night before, which he had spent at the public library. Heyer was delighted; nobody in the office cared about his hobby, few ever
    noticed his presence. Heyer remarked to his partner: “You’re certainly good at picking your men, Guy. There’s one boy I wish we wouldn’t lose, what’s his name?–Keating.”
    “Yes, indeed,” Francon answered, smiling, “yes, indeed.”
    In the drafting room, Keating concentrated on Tim Davis. Work and drawings were only unavoidable details on the surface of his days; Tim Davis was the substance and the shape of the first step in his career.
    Davis let him do most of his own work; only night work, at first, then parts of his daily assignments as well; secretly, at first, then openly. Davis had not wanted it to be known. Keating made it known, with an air of naive confidence which implied that he was only a tool, no more than Tim’s pencil or T-square, that his help enhanced Tim’s importance rather than diminished it and, therefore, he did not wish to conceal it.
    At first, Davis relayed instructions to Keating; then the chief draftsman took the arrangement for granted and began coming to Keating with orders intended for Davis. Keating was always there, smiling, saying: “I’ll do it; don’t bother Tim with those little things, I’ll take care of it.” Davis relaxed and let himself be carried along; he smoked a great deal, he lolled about, his legs twisted loosely over the rungs of a stool, his eyes closed, dreaming of Elaine; he uttered once in a while: “Is the stuff ready, Pete?”
    Davis had married Elaine that spring. He was frequently late for work. He had whispered to Keating: “You’re in with the old man, Pete, slip a good word for me, once in a while, will you?– so they’ll overlook a few things. God, do I hate to have to be working right now!” Keating would say to Francon: “I’m sorry, Mr. Francon, that the Murray job sub-basement plans were so late, but Tim Davis had a quarrel with his wife last night, and you know how newlyweds are, you don’t want to be too hard on them,” or “It’s Tim Davis again, Mr. Francon, do forgive him, he can’t help it, he hasn’t got his mind on his work at all!”
    When Francon glanced at the list of his employees’ salaries, he noticed that his most expensive draftsman was the man least needed in the office.
    When Tim Davis lost his job, no one in the drafting room was surprised but Tim Davis. He could not understand it. He set his lips defiantly in bitterness against a world he would hate forever. He felt he had no friend on earth save Peter Keating.
    Keating consoled him, cursed Francon, cursed the injustice of humanity, spent six dollars in a speak-easy, entertaining the secretary of an obscure architect of his acquaintance and arranged a new job for Tim Davis.
    Whenever he thought of Davis afterward, Keating felt a warm pleasure; he had influenced the course of a human being, had thrown him off one path and pushed him into another; a human being–it was not Tim Davis to him any longer, it was a living frame and a mind, a conscious mind–why had he always feared that mysterious entity of consciousness within others?–and he had twisted that frame and that mind to his own will. By a unanimous decision of Francon, Heyer and the chief draftsman, Tim’s table, position and salary were given to Peter Keating. But this was only part of his satisfaction; there was another sense of it, warmer and less real– and more dangerous. He said brightly and often: ‘Tim Davis? Oh yes, I got him his present job.”
    He wrote to his mother about it. She said to her friends: “Petey is such an unselfish boy.”
    He wrote to her dutifully each week; his letters were short and respectful; hers, long, detailed and full of advice which he seldom finished reading.
    He saw Catherine Halsey occasionally. He had not gone to her on that following evening, as he had promised. He had awakened in the morning and remembered the things he had said to her, and hated her for his having said them. But he had gone to her again, a week later; she had not reproached him and they had not mentioned her uncle. He saw her after that every month or two; he was happy when he saw her, but he never spoke to her of his career.
    He tried to speak of it to Howard Roark; the attempt failed. He called on Roark twice; he
    climbed, indignantly, the five flights of stairs to Roark’s room. He greeted Roark eagerly; he waited for reassurance, not knowing what sort of reassurance he needed nor why it could come only from Roark. He spoke of his job and he questioned Roark, with sincere concern, about Cameron’s office. Roark listened to him, answered all his questions willingly, but Keating felt that he was knocking against a sheet of iron in Roark’s unmoving eyes, and that they were not speaking about the same things at all. Before the visit was over, Keating was taking notice of Roark’s frayed cuffs, of his shoes, of the patch on the knee of his trousers, and he felt satisfied. He went away chuckling, but he went away miserably uneasy, and wondered why, and swore never to see Roark again, and wondered why he knew that he would have to see him.

    “Well,” said Keating, “I couldn’t quite work it to ask her to lunch, but she’s coming to Mawson’s exhibition with me day after tomorrow. Now what?”
    He sat on the floor, his head resting against the edge of a couch, his bare feet stretched out, a pair of Guy Francon’s chartreuse pyjamas floating loosely about his limbs.
    Through the open door of the bathroom he saw Francon standing at the washstand, his stomach pressed to its shining edge, brushing his teeth.
    “That’s splendid,” said Francon, munching through a thick foam of toothpaste. “That’ll do just as well. Don’t you see?”
    “No.”
    “Lord, Pete, I explained it to you yesterday before we started. Mrs. Dunlop’s husband’s planning to build a home for her.”
    “Oh, yeah,” said Keating weakly, brushing the matted black curls off his face. “Oh, yeah…I remember now…Jesus, Guy, I got a head on me!…”
    He remembered vaguely the party to which Francon had taken him the night before, he remembered the caviar in a hollow iceberg, the black net evening gown and the pretty face of Mrs. Dunlop, but he could not remember how he had come to end up in Francon’s apartment. He shrugged; he had attended many parties with Francon in the past year and had often been brought here like this.
    “It’s not a very large house,” Francon was saying, holding the toothbrush in his mouth; it made a lump on his cheek and its green handle stuck out. “Fifty thousand or so, I understand. They’re small fry anyway. But Mrs. Dunlop’s brother-in-law is Quimby–you know, the big real estate fellow. Won’t hurt to get a little wedge into that family, won’t hurt at all. You’re to see where that commission ends up, Pete. Can I count on you, Pete?”
    “Sure,” said Keating, his head drooping. “You can always count on me, Guy….”
    He sat still, watching his bare toes and thinking of Stengel, Francon’s designer. He did not want to think, but his mind leaped to Stengel automatically, as it always did, because Stengel represented his next step.
    Stengel was impregnable to friendship. For two years, Keating’s attempts had broken against the ice of Stengel’s glasses. What Stengel thought of him was whispered in the drafting rooms, but few dared to repeat it save in quotes; Stengel said it aloud, even though he knew that the corrections his sketches bore, when they returned to him from Francon’s office, were made by Keating’s hand. But Stengel had a vulnerable point: he had been planning for some time to leave Francon and open an office of his own. He had selected a partner, a young architect of no talent but of great inherited wealth. Stengel was waiting only for a chance. Keating had thought about this a great deal He could think of nothing else. He thought of it again, sitting there on the floor of Francon’s bedroom.
    Two days later, when he escorted Mrs. Dunlop through the gallery exhibiting the paintings of one Frederic Mawson, his course of action was set. He piloted her through the sparse crowd, his fingers closing over her elbow once in a while, letting her catch his eyes directed at her
    young face more often than at the paintings.
    “Yes,” he said as she stared obediently at a landscape featuring an auto dump and tried to compose her face into the look of admiration expected of her; “magnificent work. Note the colors, Mrs. Dunlop….They say this fellow Mawson had a terribly hard time. It’s an old story– trying to get recognition. Old and heartbreaking. It’s the same in all the arts. My own profession included.”
    “Oh, indeed?” said Mrs. Dunlop, who quite seemed to prefer architecture at the moment.
    “Now this,” said Keating, stopping before the depiction of an old hag picking at her bare toes on a street curb, “this is art as a social document. It takes a person of courage to appreciate this.”
    “It’s simply wonderful,” said Mrs. Dunlop.
    “Ah, yes, courage. It’s a rare quality….They say Mawson was starving in a garret when Mrs. Stuyvesant discovered him. It’s glorious to be able to help young talent on its way.”
    “It must be wonderful,” agreed Mrs. Dunlop.
    “If I were rich,” said Keating wistfully, “I’d make it my hobby: to arrange an exhibition for a new artist, to finance the concert of a new pianist, to have a house built by a new architect….”
    “Do you know, Mr. Keating?–my husband and I are planning to build a little home on Long Island.”
    “Oh, are you? How very charming of you, Mrs. Dunlop, to confess such a thing to me. You’re so young, if you’ll forgive my saying this. Don’t you know that you run the danger of my becoming a nuisance and trying to interest you in my firm? Or are you safe and have chosen an architect already?”
    “No, I’m not safe at all,” said Mrs. Dunlop prettily, “and I wouldn’t mind the danger really. I’ve thought a great deal about the firm of Francon & Heyer in these last few days. And I’ve heard they are so terribly good.”
    “Why, thank you, Mrs. Dunlop.” “Mr. Francon is a great architect.” “Oh, yes.”
”What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing. Nothing really.”
”No, what’s the matter?”
”Do you really want me to tell you?” “Why, certainly.”
    “Well, you see, Guy Francon–it’s only a name. He would have nothing to do with your house. It’s one of those professional secrets that I shouldn’t divulge, but I don’t know what it is about you that makes me want to be honest. All the best buildings in our office are designed by Mr. Stengel.”
    “W ho?”
    “Claude Stengel. You’ve never heard the name, but you will, when someone has the courage to discover him. You see, he does all the work, he’s the real genius behind the scenes, but Francon puts his signature on it and gets all the credit. That’s the way it’s done everywhere.”
    “But why does Mr. Stengel stand for it?”
    “What can he do? No one will give him a start. You know how most people are, they stick to the beaten path, they pay three times the price for the same thing, just to have the trademark. Courage, Mrs. Dunlop, they lack courage. Stengel is a great artist, but there are so few discerning people to see it. He’s ready to go on his own, if only he could find some outstanding person like Mrs. Stuyvesant to give him a chance.”
    “Really?” said Mrs. Dunlop. “How very interesting! Tell me more about it.”
    He told her a great deal more about it. By the time they had finished the inspection of the works of Frederic Mawson, Mrs. Dunlop was shaking Keating’s hand and saying:
    “It’s so kind, so very unusually kind of you. Are you sure that it won’t embarrass you with your office if you arrange for me to meet Mr. Stengel? I didn’t quite dare to suggest it and it was so kind of you not to be angry at me. It’s so unselfish of you and more than anyone else would have done in your position.”
    When Keating approached Stengel with the suggestion of a proposed luncheon, the man listened to him without a word. Then he jerked his head and snapped:
    “What’s in it for you?”
Before Keating could answer, Stengel threw his head back suddenly. “Oh,” said Stengel. “Oh, I see.”
Then he leaned forward, his mouth drawn thin in contempt:
”Okay. I’ll go to that lunch.”
    When Stengel left the firm of Francon & Heyer to open his own office and proceed with the construction of the Dunlop house, his first commission, Guy Francon smashed a ruler against the edge of his desk and roared to Keating:
    “The bastard! The abysmal bastard! After all I’ve done for him.”
”What did you expect?” said Keating, sprawled in a low armchair before him. “Such is life.”
    “But what beats me is how did that little skunk ever hear of it? To snatch it right from under our nose!”
    “Well, I’ve never trusted him anyway.” Keating shrugged. “Human nature…”
    The bitterness in his voice was sincere. He had received no gratitude from Stengel. Stengel’s parting remark to him had been only: “You’re a worse bastard than I thought you were. Good luck. You’ll be a great architect some day.”
    Thus Keating achieved the position of chief designer for Francon & Heyer.
    Francon celebrated the occasion with a modest little orgy at one of the quieter and costlier restaurants. “In a coupla years,” he kept repeating, “in a coupla years you’ll see things happenin’. Pete….You’re a good boy and I like you and I’ll do things for you….Haven’t I done things for you?…You’re going places, Pete…in a coupla years….”
    “Your tie’s crooked, Guy,” said Keating dryly, “and you’re spilling brandy all over your vest….”
    Facing his first task of designing, Keating thought of Tim Davis, of Stengel, of many others who had wanted it, had struggled for it, had tried, had been beaten–by him. It was a triumphant feeling. It was a tangible affirmation of his greatness. Then he found himself suddenly in his glass-enclosed office, looking down at a blank sheet of paper–alone. Something rolled in his throat down to his stomach, cold and empty, his old feeling of the dropping hole. He leaned against the table, closing his eyes. It had never been quite real to
    him before that this was the thing actually expected of him–to fill a sheet of paper, to create something on a sheet of paper.
    It was only a small residence. But instead of seeing it rise before him, he saw it sinking; he saw its shape as a pit in the ground; and as a pit within him; as emptiness, with only Davis and Stengel rattling uselessly within it. Francon had said to him about the building: “It must have dignity, you know, dignity…nothing freaky…a structure of elegance…and stay within the budget,” which was Francon’s conception of giving his designer ideas and letting him work them out. Through a cold stupor, Keating thought of the clients laughing in his face; he heard the thin, omnipotent voice of Ellsworth Toohey calling his attention to the opportunities open to him in the field of plumbing. He hated every piece of stone on the face of the earth. He hated himself for having chosen to be an architect.
    When he began to draw, he tried not to think of the job he was doing; he thought only that Francon had done it, and Stengel, even Heyer, and all the others, and that he could do it, if they could.
    He spent many days on his preliminary sketches. He spent long hours in the library of Francon & Heyer, selecting from Classic photographs the appearance of his house. He felt the tension melting in his mind. It was right and it was good, that house growing under his hand, because men were still worshipping the masters who had done it before him. He did not have to wonder, to fear or to take chances; it had been done for him.
    When the drawings were ready, he stood looking at them uncertainly. Were he to be told that this was the best or the ugliest house in the world, he would agree with either. He was not sure. He had to be sure. He thought of Stanton and of what he had relied upon when working on his assignments there. He telephoned Cameron’s office and asked for Howard Roark.
    He came to Roark’s room, that night, and spread before him the plans, the elevations, the perspective of his first building. Roark stood over it, his arms spread wide, his hands holding the edge of the table, and he said nothing for a long time.
    Keating waited anxiously; he felt anger growing with his anxiety–because he could see no reason for being so anxious. When he couldn’t stand it, he spoke:
    “You know, Howard, everybody says Stengel’s the best designer in town, and I don’t think he was really ready to quit, but I made him and I took his place. I had to do some pretty fine thinking to work that, I…”
    He stopped. It did not sound bright and proud, as it would have sounded anywhere else. It sounded like begging.
    Roark turned and looked at him. Roark’s eyes were not contemptuous; only a little wider than usual, attentive and puzzled. He said nothing and turned back to the drawings.
    Keating felt naked. Davis, Stengel, Francon meant nothing here. People were his protection against people. Roark had no sense of people. Others gave Keating a feeling of his own value. Roark gave him nothing. He thought that he should seize his drawings and run. The danger was not Roark. The danger was that he, Keating, remained. Roark turned to him.
    “Do you enjoy doing this sort of thing, Peter?” he asked. “Oh, I know,” said Keating, his voice shrill, “I know you don’t approve of it, but this is business, I just want to know what you think of this practically, not philosophically, not…”
    “No, I’m not going to preach to you. I was only wondering.”
    “If you could help me, Howard, if you could just help me with it a little. It’s my first house, and it means so much to me at the office, and I’m not sure. What do you think? Will you help me, Howard?”
    “All right.”
Roark threw aside the sketch of the graceful facade with the fluted pilasters, the broken
    pediments, the Roman fasces over the windows and the two eagles of Empire by the entrance. He picked up the plans. He took a sheet of tracing paper, threw it over the plan and began to draw. Keating stood watching the pencil in Roark’s hand. He saw his imposing entrance foyer disappearing, his twisted corridors, his lightless corners; he saw an immense living room growing in the space he had thought too limited; a wall of giant windows facing the garden, a spacious kitchen. He watched for a long time. “And the facade?” he asked, when Roark threw the pencil down. “I can’t help you with that. If you must have it Classic, have it good Classic at least. You don’t need three pilasters where one will do. And take those ducks off the door, it’s too much.”
    Keating smiled at him gratefully, when he was leaving, his drawings under his arm; he descended the stairs, hurt and angry; he worked for three days making new plans from Roark’s sketches, and a new, simpler elevation; and he presented his house to Francon with a proud gesture that looked like a flourish. “Well,” said Francon, studying it, “well, I declare!…What an imagination you have, Peter…I wonder…It’s a bit daring, but I wonder…” He coughed and added: “It’s just what I had in mind.”
    “Of course,” said Keating. “I studied your buildings, and I tried to think of what you’d do, and if it’s good, it’s because I think I know how to catch your ideas.”
    Francon smiled. And Keating thought suddenly that Francon did not really believe it and knew that Keating did not believe it, and yet they were both contented, bound tighter together by a common method and a common guilt.
#
    The letter on Cameron’s desk informed him regretfully that after earnest consideration, the board of directors of the Security Trust Company had not been able to accept his plans for the building to house the new Astoria branch of the Company and that the commission had been awarded to the firm of Gould & Pettingill. A check was attached to the letter, in payment for his preliminary drawings, as agreed; the amount was not enough to cover the expense of making those drawings.
    The letter lay spread out on the desk. Cameron sat before it, drawn back, not touching the desk, his hands gathered in his lap, the back of one in the palm of the other, the fingers tight. It was only a small piece of paper, but he sat huddled and still, because it seemed to be a supernatural thing, like radium, sending forth rays that would hurt him if he moved and exposed his skin to them.
    For three months, he had awaited the commission of the Security Trust Company. One after another, the chances that had loomed before him at rare intervals, in the last two years, had vanished, looming in vague promises, vanishing in firm refusals. One of his draftsmen had had to be discharged long ago. The landlord had asked questions, politely at first, then dryly, then rudely and openly. But no one in the office had minded that nor the usual arrears in salaries: there had been the commission of the Security Trust Company. The vice-president, who had asked Cameron to submit drawings, had said: “I know, some of the directors won’t see it as I do. But go ahead, Mr. Cameron. Take the chance with me and I’ll fight for you.”
    Cameron had taken the chance. He and Roark had worked savagely–to have the plans ready on time, before time, before Gould & Pettingill could submit theirs. Pettingill was a cousin of the Bank president’s wife and a famous authority on the ruins of Pompeii; the Bank president was an ardent admirer of Julius Caesar and had once, while in Rome, spent an hour and a quarter in reverent inspection of the Coliseum.
    Cameron and Roark and a pot of black coffee had lived in the office from dawn till frozen dawn for many days, and Cameron had thought involuntarily of the electric bill, but made himself forget it. The lights still burned in the drafting room in the early hours when he sent Roark out for sandwiches, and Roark found gray morning in the streets while it was still night in the office, in the windows facing a high brick wall. On the last day, it was Roark who had ordered Cameron home after midnight, because Cameron’s hands were jerking and his knees kept seeking the tall drafting stool for support, leaning against it with a slow, cautious, sickening precision. Roark had taken him down to a taxi and in the light of a street lamp Cameron had seen Roark’s face, drawn, the eyes kept wide artificially, the lips dry. The next morning Cameron had entered the drafting room, and found the coffee pot on the floor, on its
    side over a black puddle, and Roark’s hand in the puddle, palm up, fingers half closed, Roark’s body stretched out on the floor, his head thrown back, fast asleep. On the table, Cameron had found the plans, finished….
    He sat looking at the letter on his desk. The degradation was that he could not think of those nights behind him, he could not think of the building that should have risen in Astoria and of the building that would now take its place; it was that he thought only of the bill unpaid to the electric company….
    In these last two years Cameron had disappeared from his office for weeks at a time, and Roark had not found him at home, and had known what was happening, but could only wait, hoping for Cameron’s safe return. Then, Cameron had lost even the shame of his agony, and had come to his office reeling, recognizing no one, openly drunk and flaunting it before the walls of the only place on earth he had respected.
    Roark learned to face his own landlord with the quiet statement that he could not pay him for another week; the landlord was afraid of him and did not insist. Peter Keating heard of it somehow, as he always heard everything he wanted to know. He came to Roark’s unheated room, one evening, and sat down, keeping his overcoat on. He produced a wallet, pulled out five ten-dollar bills, and handed them to Roark. “You need it, Howard. I know you need it. Don’t start protesting now. You can pay me back any time.” Roark looked at him, astonished, took the money, saying: “Yes, I need it. Thank you, Peter.” Then Keating said: “What in hell are you doing, wasting yourself on old Cameron? What do you want to live like this for? Chuck it, Howard, and come with us. All I have to do is say so. Francon’ll be delighted. We’ll start you at sixty a week.” Roark took the money out of his pocket and handed it back to him. “Oh, for God’s sake, Howard! I…I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    “I didn’t either.”
”But please, Howard, keep it anyway.” “Good night, Peter.”
    Roark was thinking of that when Cameron entered the drafting room, the letter from the Security Trust Company in his hand. He gave the letter to Roark, said nothing, turned and walked back to his office. Roark read the letter and followed him. Whenever they lost another commission Roark knew that Cameron wanted to see him in the office, but not to speak of it; just to see him there, to talk of other things, to lean upon the reassurance of his presence.
    On Cameron’s desk Roark saw a copy of the New York Banner.
    It was the leading newspaper of the great Wynand chain. It was a paper he would have expected to find in a kitchen, in a barbershop, in a third-rate drawing room, in the subway; anywhere but in Cameron’s office. Cameron saw him looking at it and grinned.
    “Picked it up this morning, on my way here. Funny, isn’t it? I didn’t know we’d…get that letter today. And yet it seems appropriate together–this paper and that letter. Don’t know what made me buy it. A sense of symbolism, I suppose. Look at it, Howard. It’s interesting.”
    Roark glanced through the paper. The front page carried the picture of an unwed mother with thick glistening lips, who had shot her lover; the picture headed the first installment of her autobiography and a detailed account of her trial. The other pages ran a crusade against utility companies; a daily horoscope; extracts from church sermons; recipes for young brides; pictures of girls with beautiful legs; advice on how to hold a husband; a baby contest; a poem proclaiming that to wash dishes was nobler than to write a symphony; an article proving that a woman who had borne a child was automatically a saint.
    “That’s our answer, Howard. That’s the answer given to you and to me. This paper. That it exists and that it’s liked. Can you fight that? Have you any words to be heard and understood by that? They shouldn’t have sent us the letter. They should have sent a copy of Wynand’s Banner. It would be simpler and clearer. Do you know that in a few years that incredible bastard, Gail Wynand, will rule the world? It will be a beautiful world. And perhaps he’s right.”
    Cameron held the paper outstretched, weighing it on the palm of his hand.
    “To give them what they want, Howard, and to let them worship you for it, for licking their feet– or…or what? What’s the use?…Only it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, not even that it doesn’t matter to me any more….” Then he looked at Roark. He added:
    “If only I could hold on until I’ve started you on your own, Howard….” “Don’t speak of that.”
    “I want to speak of that…. It’s funny, Howard, next spring it will be three years that you’ve been here. Seems so much longer, doesn’t it? Well, have I taught you anything? I’ll tell you: I’ve taught you a great deal and nothing. No one can teach you anything, not at the core, at the source of it. What you’re doing–it’s yours, not mine, I can only teach you to do it better. I can give you the means, but the aim–the aim’s your own. You won’t be a little disciple putting up anemic little things in early Jacobean or late Cameron. What you’ll be…if only I could live to see it!”
    “You’ll live to see it. And you know it now.” Cameron stood looking at the bare walls of his office, at the white piles of bills on his desk, at the sooty rain trickling slowly down the windowpanes.
    “I have no answer to give them, Howard. I’m leaving you to face them. You’ll answer them. All of them, the Wynand papers and what makes the Wynand papers possible and what lies behind that. It’s a strange mission to give you. I don’t know what our answer is to be. I know only that there is an answer and that you’re holding it, that you’re the answer, Howard, and some day you’ll find the words for it.”
    6.
SERMONS IN STONE by Ellsworth M. Toohey was published in January of the year 1925.
    It had a fastidious jacket of midnight blue with plain silver letters and a silver pyramid in one corner. It was subtitled “Architecture for Everybody” and its success was sensational. It presented the entire history of architecture, from mud hut to skyscraper, in the terms of the man in the street, but it made these terms appear scientific. Its author stated in his preface that it was an attempt “to bring architecture where it belongs–to the people.” He stated further that he wished to see the average man “think and speak of architecture as he speaks of baseball.” He did not bore his readers with the technicalities of the Five Orders, the post and lintel, the flying buttress or reinforced concrete. He filled his pages with homey accounts of the daily life of the Egyptian housekeeper, the Roman shoe-cobbler, the mistress of Louis XIV, what they ate, how they washed, where they shopped and what effect their buildings had upon their existence. But he gave his readers the impression that they were learning all they had to know about the Five Orders and the reinforced concrete. He gave his readers the impression that there were no problems, no achievements, no reaches of thought beyond the common daily routine of people nameless in the past as they were in the present; that science had no goal and no expression beyond its influence on this routine; that merely by living through their own obscure days his readers were representing and achieving all the highest objectives of any civilization. His scientific precision was impeccable and his erudition astounding; no one could refute him on the cooking utensils of Babylon or the doormats of Byzantium. He wrote with the flash and the color of a first-hand observer. He did not plod laboriously through the centuries; he danced, said the critics, down the road of the ages, as a jester, a friend and a prophet.
    He said that architecture was truly the greatest of the arts, because it was anonymous, as all greatness. He said that the world had many famous buildings, but few renowned builders, which was as it should be, since no one man had ever created anything of importance in architecture, or elsewhere, for that matter. The few whose names had lived were really impostors, expropriating the glory of the people as others expropriated its wealth. “When we gaze at the magnificence of an ancient monument and ascribe its achievement to one man, we are guilty of spiritual embezzlement. We forget the army of craftsmen, unknown and
    unsung, who preceded him in the darkness of the ages, who toiled humbly–all heroism is humble–each contributing his small share to the common treasure of his time. A great building is not the private invention of some genius or other. It is merely a condensation of the spirit of a people.”
    He explained that the decadence of architecture had come when private property replaced the communal spirit of the Middle Ages, and that the selfishness of individual owners–who built for no purpose save to satisfy their own bad taste, “all claim to an individual taste is bad taste”–had ruined the planned effect of cities. He demonstrated that there was no such thing as free will, since men’s creative impulses were determined, as all else, by the economic structure of the epoch in which they lived. He expressed admiration for all the great historical styles, but admonished against their wanton mixture. He dismissed modern architecture, stating that: “So far, it has represented nothing but the whim of isolated individuals, has borne no relation to any great, spontaneous mass movement, and as such is of no consequence.” He predicted a better world to come, where all men would be brothers and their buildings would become harmonious and all alike, in the great tradition of Greece, “the Mother of Democracy.” When he wrote this, he managed to convey–with no tangible break in the detached calm of his style–that the words now seen in ordered print had been blurred in manuscript by a hand unsteady with emotion. He called upon architects to abandon their selfish quest for individual glory and dedicate themselves to the embodiment of the mood of their people. “Architects are servants, not leaders. They are not to assert their little egos, but to express the soul of their country and the rhythm of their time. They are not to follow the delusions of their personal fancy, but to seek the common denominator, which will bring their work close to the heart of the masses. Architects–ah, my friends, theirs is not to reason why. Theirs is not to command, but to be commanded.”
    The advertisements for Sermons in Stone carried quotations from critics: “Magnificent!” “A stupendous achievement!”
”Unequaled in all art history!”
”Your chance to get acquainted with a charming man and a profound thinker.” “Mandatory reading for anyone aspiring to the title of intellectual.”
    There seemed to be a great many aspiring to that title. Readers acquired erudition without study, authority without cost, judgment without effort. It was pleasant to look at buildings and criticize them with a professional manner and with the memory of page 439; to hold artistic discussions and exchange the same sentences from the same paragraphs. In distinguished drawing rooms one could soon hear it said: “Architecture? Oh, yes, Ellsworth Toohey.”
    According to his principles, Ellsworth M. Toohey listed no architect by name in the text of his book–“the myth-building, hero-worshipping method of historical research has always been obnoxious to me.” The names appeared only in footnotes. Several of these referred to Guy Francon, “who has a tendency to the overornate, but must be commended for his loyalty to the strict tradition of Classicism.” One note referred to Henry Cameron, “prominent once as one of the fathers of the so-called modern school of architecture and relegated since to a well- deserved oblivion. Vox populi vox dei.”
    In February of 1925 Henry Cameron retired from practice.
    For a year, he had known that the day would come. He had not spoken of it to Roark, but they both knew and went on, expecting nothing save to go on as long as it was still possible. A few commissions had dribbled into their office in the past year, country cottages, garages, remodeling of old buildings. They took anything. But the drops stopped. The pipes were dry. The water had been turned off by a society to whom Cameron had never paid his bill.
    Simpson and the old man in the reception room had been dismissed long ago. Only Roark remained, to sit still through the winter evenings and look at Cameron’s body slumped over his desk, arms flung out, head on arms, a bottle glistening under the lamp.
    Then, one day in February, when Cameron had touched no alcohol for weeks, he reached for
    a book on a shelf and collapsed at Roark’s feet, suddenly, simply, finally. Roark took him home and the doctor stated that an attempt to leave his bed would be all the death sentence Cameron needed. Cameron knew it. He lay still on his pillow, his hands dropped obediently one at each side of his body, his eyes unblinking and empty. Then he said:
    “You’ll close the office for me, Howard, will you?” “Yes,” said Roark.
    Cameron closed his eyes, and would say nothing else, and Roark sat all night by his bed, not knowing whether the old man slept or not.
    A sister of Cameron’s appeared from somewhere in New Jersey. She was a meek little old lady with white hair, trembling hands and a face one could never remember, quiet, resigned and gently hopeless. She had a meager little income and she assumed the responsibility of taking her brother to her home in New Jersey; she had never been married and had no one else in the world; she was neither glad nor sorry of the burden; she had lost all capacity for emotion many years ago.
    On the day of his departure Cameron handed to Roark a letter he had written in the night, written painfully, an old drawing board on his knees, a pillow propping his back. The letter was addressed to a prominent architect; it was Roark’s introduction to a job. Roark read it and, looking at Cameron, not at his own hands, tore the letter across, folded the pieces and tore it again. “No,” said Roark. “You’re not going to ask them for anything. Don’t worry about me.”
    Cameron nodded and kept silent for a long time. Then he said:
    “You’ll close up the office, Howard. You’ll let them keep the furniture for their rent. But you’ll take the drawing that’s on the wall in my room there and you’ll ship it to me. Only that. You’ll burn everything else. All the papers, the files, the drawings, the contracts, everything.”
    “Yes,” said Roark.
    Miss Cameron came with the orderlies and the stretcher, and they rode in an ambulance to the ferry. At the entrance to the ferry, Cameron said to Roark:
    “You’re going back now.” He added: “You’ll come to see me, Howard….Not too often…”
    Roark turned and walked away, while they were carrying Cameron to the pier. It was a gray morning and there was the cold, rotting smell of the sea in the air. A gull dipped low over the street, gray like a floating piece of newspaper, against a corner of damp, streaked stone.
    That evening, Roark went to Cameron’s closed office. He did not turn on the lights. He made a fire in the Franklin heater in Cameron’s room, and emptied drawer after drawer into the fire, not looking down at them. The papers rustled dryly in the silence, a thin odor of mold rose through the dark room, and the fire hissed, crackling, leaping in bright streaks. At times a white flake with charred edges would flutter out of the flames. He pushed it back with the end of a steel ruler.
    There were drawings of Cameron’s famous buildings and of buildings unbuilt; there were blueprints with the thin white lines that were girders still standing somewhere; there were contracts with famous signatures; and at times, from out of the red glow, there flashed a sum of seven figures written on yellowed paper, flashed and went down, in a thin burst of sparks.
    From among the letters in an old folder, a newspaper clipping fluttered to the floor. Roark picked it up. It was dry, brittle and yellow, and it broke at the folds, in his fingers. It was an interview given by Henry Cameron, dated May 7, 1892. It said: “Architecture is not a business, not a career, but a crusade and a consecration to a joy that justifies the existence of the earth.” He dropped the clipping into the fire and reached for another folder.
    He gathered every stub of pencil from Cameron’s desk and threw them in also.
He stood over the heater. He did not move, he did not look down; he felt the movement of the
    glow, a faint shudder at the edge of his vision. He looked at the drawing of the skyscraper that had never been built, hanging on the wall before him.
#
    It was Peter Keating’s third year with the firm of Francon & Heyer. He carried his head high, his body erect with studied uprightness; he looked like the picture of a successful young man in advertisements for high-priced razors or medium-priced cars.
    He dressed well and watched people noticing it. He had an apartment off Park Avenue, modest but fashionable, and he bought three valuable etchings as well as a first edition of a classic he had never read nor opened since. Occasionally, he escorted clients to the Metropolitan Opera. He appeared, once, at a fancy-dress Arts Ball and created a sensation by his costume of a medieval stonecutter, scarlet velvet and tights; he was mentioned in a society-page account of the event–the first mention of his name in print–and he saved the clipping.
    He had forgotten his first building, and the fear and doubt of its birth. He had learned that it was so simple. His clients would accept anything, so long as he gave them an imposing facade, a majestic entrance and a regal drawing room, with which to astound their guests. It worked out to everyone’s satisfaction: Keating did not care so long as his clients were impressed, the clients did not care so long as their guests were impressed, and the guests did not care anyway.
    Mrs. Keating rented her house in Stanton and came to live with him in New York. He did not want her; he could not refuse–because she was his mother and he was not expected to refuse. He met her with some eagerness; he could at least impress her by his rise in the world. She was not impressed; she inspected his rooms, his clothes, his bank books and said only: “It’ll do, Petey–for the time being.”
    She made one visit to his office and departed within a half-hour. That evening he had to sit still, squeezing and cracking his knuckles, for an hour and a half, while she gave him advice. “That fellow Whithers had a much more expensive suit than yours, Petey. That won’t do. You’ve got to watch your prestige before those boys. The little one who brought in those blueprints–I didn’t like the way he spoke to you….Oh, nothing, nothing, only I’d keep my eye on him….The one with the long nose is no friend of yours….Never mind, I just know….Watch out for the one they called Bennett. I’d get rid of him if I were you. He’s ambitious. I know the signs….”
    Then she asked:
    “Guy Francon…has he any children?”
    “One daughter.”
    “Oh…” said Mrs. Keating. “What is she like?”
    “I’ve never met her.”
    “Really, Peter,” she said, “it’s downright rude to Mr. Francon if you’ve made no effort to meet his family.”
    “She’s been away at college, Mother. I’ll meet her some day. It’s getting late, Mother, and I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow….”
    But he thought of it that night and the following day. He had thought of it before and often. He knew that Francon’s daughter had graduated from college long ago and was now working on the Banner, where she wrote a small column on home decoration. He had been able to learn nothing else about her. No one in the office seemed to know her. Francon never spoke of her.
    On that following day, at luncheon, Keating decided to face the subject. “I hear such nice things about your daughter,” he said to
    Francon. “Where did you hear nice things about her?” Francon asked ominously. “Oh, well, you know how it is, one hears things. And she writes brilliantly.”
”Yes, she writes brilliantly.” Francon’s mouth snapped shut.
”Really, Guy, I’d love to meet her.”
    Francon looked at him and sighed wearily.
    “You know she’s not living with me,” said Francon. “She has an apartment of her own–I’m not sure that I even remember the address….Oh, I suppose you’ll meet her some day. You won’t like her, Peter.”
    “Now, why do you say that?”
    “It’s one of those things, Peter. As a father I’m afraid I’m a total failure….Say, Peter, what did Mrs. Mannering say about that new stairway arrangement?”
    Keating felt angry, disappointed–and relieved. He looked at Francon’s squat figure and wondered what appearance his daughter must have inherited to earn her father’s so obvious disfavor. Rich and ugly as sin–like most of them, he decided. He thought that this need not stop him–some day. He was glad only that the day was postponed. He thought, with new eagerness, that he would go to see Catherine tonight.
    Mrs. Keating had met Catherine in Stanton. She had hoped that Peter would forget. Now she knew that he had not forgotten, even though he seldom spoke of Catherine and never brought her to his home. Mrs. Keating did not mention Catherine by name. But she chatted about penniless girls who hooked brilliant young men, about promising boys whose careers had been wrecked by marriage to the wrong woman; and she read to him every newspaper account of a celebrity divorcing his plebeian wife who could not live up to his eminent position.
    Keating thought, as he walked toward Catherine’s house that night, of the few times he had seen her; they had been such unimportant occasions, but they were the only days he remembered of his whole life in New York.
    He found, in the middle of her uncle’s living room, when she let him in, a mess of letters spread all over the carpet, a portable typewriter, newspapers, scissors, boxes and a pot of glue.
    “Oh dear!” said Catherine, flopping limply down on her knees in the midst of the litter. “Oh dear!”
    She looked up at him, smiling disarmingly, her hands raised and spread over the crinkling white piles. She was almost twenty now and looked no older than she had looked at seventeen.
    “Sit down, Peter. I thought I’d be through before you came, but I guess I’m not. It’s Uncle’s fan mail and his press clippings. I’ve got to sort it out, and answer it and file it and write notes of thanks and…Oh, you should see some of the things people write to him! It’s wonderful. Don’t stand there. Sit down, will you? I’ll be through in a minute.”
    “You’re through right now,” he said, picking her up in his arms, carrying her to a chair.
    He held her and kissed her and she laughed happily, her head buried on his shoulder. He said:
    “Katie, you’re an impossible little fool and your hair smells so nice!” She said: “Don’t move, Peter. I’m comfortable.”
    “Katie, I want to tell you, I had a wonderful time today. They opened the Bordman Building officially this afternoon. You know, down on Broadway, twenty-two floors and a Gothic spire.
    Francon had indigestion, so I went there as his representative. I designed that building anyway and…Oh, well, you know nothing about it.”
    “But I do, Peter. I’ve seen all your buildings. I have pictures of them. I cut them out of the papers. And I’m making a scrap-book, just like Uncle’s. Oh, Peter, it’s so wonderful!”
    “W hat?”
    “Uncle’s scrapbooks, and his letters…all this…” She stretched her hands out over the papers on the floor, as if she wanted to embrace them. “Think of it, all these letters coming from all over the country, perfect strangers and yet he means so much to them. And here I am, helping him, me, just nobody, and look what a responsibility I have! It’s so touching and so big, what do they matter–all the little things that can happen to us?–when this concerns a whole nation!”
    “Yeah? Did he tell you that?”
    “He told me nothing at all. But you can’t live with him for years without getting some of that…that wonderful selflessness of his.” He wanted to be angry, but he saw her twinkling smile, her new kind of fire, and he had to smile in answer.
    “I’ll say this, Katie: it’s becoming to you, becoming as hell. You know, you could look stunning if you learned something about clothes. One of these days, I’ll take you bodily and drag you down to a good dressmaker. I want you to meet Guy Francon some day. You’ll like him.”
    “Oh? I thought you said once that I wouldn’t.”
    “Did I say that? Well, I didn’t really know him. He’s a grand fellow. I want you to meet them all. You’d be…hey, where are you going?” She had noticed the watch on his wrist and was edging away from him.
    “I…It’s almost nine o’clock, Peter, and I’ve got to have this finished before Uncle Ellsworth gets home. He’ll be back by eleven, he’s making a speech at a labor meeting tonight. I can work while we’re talking, do you mind?”
    “I certainly do! To hell with your dear uncle’s fans! Let him untangle it all himself. You stay just where you are.”
    She sighed, but put her head on his shoulder obediently. “You mustn’t talk like that about Uncle Ellsworth. You don’t understand him at all. Have you read his book?”
    “Yes! I’ve read his book and it’s grand, it’s stupendous, but I’ve heard nothing but talk of his damn book everywhere I go, so do you mind if we change the subject?”
    “You still don’t want to meet Uncle Ellsworth?”
”Why? What makes you say that? I’d love to meet him.”
”Oh…”
”What’s the matter?”
”You said once that you didn’t want to meet him through me.”
”Did I? How do you always remember all the nonsense I happen to say?” “Peter, I don’t want you to meet Uncle Ellsworth.”
”Why not?”
”I don’t know. It’s kind of silly of me. But now I just don’t
want you to. I don’t know why.”
    “Well, forget it then. I’ll meet him when the time comes. Katie, listen, yesterday I was standing at the window in my room, and I thought of you, and I wanted so much to have you with me, I almost called you, only it was too late. I get so terribly lonely for you like that, I…”
    She listened, her arms about his neck. And then he saw her looking suddenly past him, her mouth opened in consternation; she jumped up, dashed across the room, and crawled on her hands and knees to reach a lavender envelope lying under a desk.
    “Now what on earth?” he demanded angrily.
    “It’s a very important letter,” she said, still kneeling, the envelope held tightly in her little fist, “it’s a very important letter and there it was, practically in the wastebasket, I might have swept it out without noticing. It’s from a poor widow who has five children and her eldest son wants to be an architect and Uncle Ellsworth is going to arrange a scholarship for him.”
    “Well,” said Keating, rising, “I’ve had just about enough of this. Let’s get out of here, Katie. Let’s go for a walk. It’s beautiful out tonight. You don’t seem to belong to yourself in here.”
    “Oh, fine! Let’s go for a walk.”
    Outside, there was a mist of snow, a dry, fine, weightless snow that hung still in the air, filling the narrow tanks of streets. They walked together, Catherine’s arm pressed to his, their feet leaving long brown smears on the white sidewalks.
    They sat down on a bench in Washington Square. The snow enclosed the Square, cutting them off from the houses, from the city beyond. Through the shadow of the arch, little dots of light rolled past them, steel-white, green and smeared red.
    She sat huddled close to him. He looked at the city. He had always been afraid of it and he was afraid of it now; but he had two fragile protections: the snow and the girl beside him. “Katie,” he whispered, “Katie…”
    “I love you, Peter….”
    “Katie,” he said, without hesitation, without emphasis, because the certainty of his words allowed no excitement, “we’re engaged, aren’t we?”
    He saw her chin move faintly as it dropped and rose to form one word. “Yes,” she said calmly, so solemnly that the word sounded indifferent.
    She had never allowed herself to question the future, for a question would have been an admission of doubt. But she knew, when she pronounced the “yes,” that she had waited for this and that she would shatter it if she were too happy.
    “In a year or two,” he said holding her hand tightly, “we’ll be married. Just as soon as I’m on my feet and set with the firm for good. I have mother to take care of, but in another year it will be all right.” He tried to speak as coldly, as practically as he could, not to spoil the wonder of what he felt. “I’ll wait, Peter,” she whispered. “We don’t have to hurry.”
    “We won’t tell anyone, Katie….It’s our secret, just ours until…” And suddenly a thought came to him, and he realized, aghast, that he could not prove it had never occurred to him before; yet he knew, in complete honesty, even though it did astonish him, that he had never thought of this before. He pushed her aside. He said angrily: “Katie! You won’t think that it’s because of that great, damnable uncle of yours?”
    She laughed; the sound was light and unconcerned, and he knew that he was vindicated. “Lord, no, Peter! He won’t like it, of course, but what do we care?”
”He won’t like it? Why?”
    “Oh, I don’t think he approves of marriage. Not that he preaches anything immoral, but he’s always told me marriage is old-fashioned, an economic device to perpetuate the institution of private property, or something like that or anyway that he doesn’t like it.”
    “Well, that’s wonderful! We’ll show him.”
    In all sincerity, he was glad of it. It removed, not from his mind which he knew to be innocent, but from all other minds where it could occur, the suspicion that there had been in his feeling for her any hint of such considerations as applied to…to Francon’s daughter, for instance. He thought it was strange that this should seem so important; that he should wish so desperately to keep his feeling for her free from ties to all other people.
    He let his head fall back, he felt the bite of snowflakes on his lips. Then he turned and kissed her. The touch of her mouth was soft and cold with the snow.
    Her hat had slipped to one side, her lips were half open, her eyes round, helpless, her lashes glistening. He held her hand, palm up, and looked at it: she wore a black woolen glove and her fingers were spread out clumsily like a child’s; he saw beads of melted snow in the fuzz of the glove; they sparkled radiantly once in the light of a car flashing past.
    7.
    THE BULLETIN of the Architects’ Guild of America carried, in its Miscellaneous Department, a short item announcing Henry Cameron’s retirement. Six lines summarized his achievements in architecture and misspelled the names of his two best buildings.
    Peter Keating walked into Francon’s office and interrupted Francon’s well-bred bargaining with an antique dealer over a snuffbox that had belonged to Madame Pompadour. Francon was precipitated into paying nine dollars and twenty-five cents more than he had intended to pay. He turned to Keating testily, after the dealer had left, and asked:
    “Well, what is it, Peter, what is it?”
    Keating threw the bulletin down on Francon’s desk, his thumbnail underscoring the paragraph about Cameron.
    “I’ve got to have that man,” said Keating.
    “What man?”
    “Howard Roark.”
    “Who the hell,” asked Francon, “is Howard Roark?”
    “I’ve told you about him. Cameron’s designer.”
    “Oh…oh, yes, I believe you did. Well, go and get him.”
    “Do you give me a free hand on how I hire him?”
    “What the hell? What is there about hiring another draftsman? Incidentally, did you have to interrupt me for that?”
    “He might be difficult. And I want to get him before he decides on anyone else.”
    “Really? He’s going to be difficult about it, is he? Do you intend to beg him to come here after Cameron’s? Which is not great recommendation for a young man anyway.”
    “Come on, Guy. Isn’t it?”
    “Oh well…well, speaking structurally, not esthetically, Cameron does give them a thorough grounding and…Of course, Cameron was pretty important in his day. As a matter of fact, I was one of his best draftsmen myself once, long ago. There’s something to be said for old Cameron when you need that sort of thing. Go ahead. Get your Roark if you think you need him.”
    “It’s not that I really need him. But he’s an old friend of mine, and out of a job, and I thought it would be a nice thing to do for him.”
    “Well, do anything you wish. Only don’t bother me about it….Say, Peter, don’t you think this is as lovely a snuffbox as you’ve ever seen?”
    That evening, Keating climbed, unannounced, to Roark’s room and knocked, nervously, and entered cheerfully. He found Roark sitting on the window sill, smoking.
    “Just passing by,” said Keating, “with an evening to kill and happened to think that that’s where you live, Howard, and thought I’d drop in to say hello, haven’t seen you for such a long time.”
    “I know what you want,” said Roark. “All right. How much?” “What do you mean, Howard?”
”You know what I mean.”
    “Sixty-five a week,” Keating blurted out. This was not the elaborate approach he had prepared, but he had not expected to find that no approach would be necessary. “Sixty-five to start with. If you think it’s not enough, I could maybe…”
    “Sixty-five will do.”
”You…you’ll come with us, Howard?” “When do you want me to start?” “Why…as soon as you can! Monday?” “ALL right.”
”Thanks, Howard!”
    “On one condition,” said Roark. “I’m not going to do any designing. Not any. No details. No Louis XV skyscrapers. Just keep me off esthetics if you want to keep me at all. Put me in the engineering department. Send me on inspections, out in the field. Now, do you still want me?”
    “Certainly. Anything you say. You’ll like the place, just wait and see. You’ll like Francon. He’s one of Cameron’s men himself.”
    “He shouldn’t boast about it.” “W ell…”
    “No. Don’t worry. I won’t say it to his face. I won’t say anything to anyone. Is that what you wanted to know?”
    “Why, no, I wasn’t worried, I wasn’t even thinking of that.”
”Then it’s settled. Good night. See you Monday.”
”Well, yes…but I’m in no special hurry, really I came to see you and…” “What’s the matter, Peter? Something bothering you?”
    “No…I…”
    “You want to know why I’m doing it?” Roark smiled, without resentment or interest. “Is that it? I’ll tell you, if you want to know. I don’t give a damn where I work next. There’s no architect in town that I’d want to work for. But I have to work somewhere, so it might as well be your Francon–if I can get what I want from you. I’m selling myself, and I’ll play the game that way– for the time being.”
    “Really, Howard, you don’t have to look at it like that. There’s no limit to how far you can go with us, once you get used to it. You’ll see, for a change, what a real office looks like. After Cameron’s dump…”
    “We’ll shut up about that, Peter, and we’ll do it damn fast.”
    “I didn’t mean to criticize or…I didn’t mean anything.” He did not know what to say nor what he should feel. It was a victory, but it seemed hollow. Still, it was a victory and he felt that he wanted to feel affection for Roark.
    “Howard, let’s go out and have a drink, just sort of to celebrate the occasion.” “Sorry, Peter. That’s not part of the job.”
    Keating had come here prepared to exercise caution and tact to the limit of his ability; he had achieved a purpose he had not expected to achieve; he knew he should take no chances, say nothing else and leave. But something inexplicable, beyond all practical considerations, was pushing him on. He said unheedingly:
    “Can’t you be human for once in your life?” “W hat?”
”Human! Simple. Natural.”
”But I am.”
    “Can’t you ever relax?”
    Roark smiled, because he was sitting on the window sill, leaning sloppily against the wall, his long legs hanging loosely, the cigarette held without pressure between limp fingers.
    “That’s not what I mean!” said Keating. “Why can’t you go out for a drink with me?” “What for?”
    “Do you always have to have a purpose? Do you always have to be so damn serious? Can’t you ever do things without reason, just like everybody else? You’re so serious, so old. Everything’s important with you, everything’s great, significant in some way, every minute, even when you keep still. Can’t you ever be comfortable–and unimportant?”
    “No.”
    “Don’t you get tired of the heroic?”
    “What’s heroic about me?”
    “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. It’s not what you do. It’s what you make people feel around you.”
    “W hat?”
    “The un-normal. The strain. When I’m with you–it’s always like a choice. Between you–and the rest of the world. I don’t want that kind of a choice. I don’t want to be an outsider. I want to belong. There’s so much in the world that’s simple and pleasant. It’s not all fighting and
    renunciation. It is–with you.” “What have I ever renounced?”
    “Oh, you’ll never renounce anything! You’d walk over corpses for what you want. But it’s what you’ve renounced by never wanting it.”
    “That’s because you can’t want both.” “Both what?”
    “Look, Peter. I’ve never told you any of those things about me. What makes you see them? I’ve never asked you to make a choice between me and anything else. What makes you feel that there is a choice involved? What makes you uncomfortable when you feel that–since you’re so sure I’m wrong?”
    “I…I don’t know.” He added: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then he asked suddenly:
    “Howard, why do you hate me?”
    “I don’t hate you.”
    “Well, that’s it! Why don’t you hate me at least?”
    “Why should I?”
    “Just to give me something. I know you can’t like me. You can’t like anybody. So it would be kinder to acknowledge people’s existence by hating them.”
    “I’m not kind, Peter.”
And as Keating found nothing to say, Roark added:
    “Go home, Peter. You got what you wanted. Let it go at that. See you Monday.” #
    Roark stood at a table in the drafting room of Francon & Heyer, a pencil in his hand, a strand of orange hair hanging down over his face, the prescribed pearl-gray smock like a prison uniform on his body.
    He had learned to accept his new job. The lines he drew were to be the clean lines of steel beams, and he tried not to think of what these beams would carry. It was difficult, at times. Between him and the plan of the building on which he was working stood the plan of that building as it should have been. He saw what he could make of it, how to change the lines he drew, where to lead them in order to achieve a thing of splendor. He had to choke the knowledge. He had to kill the vision. He had to obey and draw the lines as instructed. It hurt him so much that he shrugged at himself in cold anger. He thought: difficult?–well, learn it.
    But the pain remained–and a helpless wonder. The thing he saw was so much more real than the reality of paper, office and commission. He could not understand what made others blind to it, and what made their indifference possible. He looked at the paper before him. He wondered why ineptitude should exist and have its say. He had never known that. And the reality which permitted it could never become quite real to him.
    But he knew that this would not last–he had to wait–it was his only assignment, to wait–what he felt didn’t matter–it had to be done–he had to wait.
    “Mr. Roark, are you ready with the steel cage for the Gothic lantern for the American Radio Corporation Building?”
    He had no friends in the drafting room. He was there like a piece of furniture, as useful, as impersonal and as silent. Only the chief of the engineering department, to which Roark was
    assigned, had said to Keating after the first two weeks: “You’ve got more sense than I gave you credit for, Keating. Thanks.”
    “For what?” asked Keating. “For nothing that was intentional, I’m sure,” said the chief.
    Once in a while, Keating stopped by Roark’s table to say softly: “Will you drop in at my office when you’re through tonight, Howard? Nothing important.”
    When Roark came, Keating began by saying: “Well, how do you like it here, Howard? If there’s anything you want, just say so and I’ll…” Roark interrupted to ask: “Where is it, this time?” Keating produced sketches from a drawer and said: “I know it’s perfectly right, just as it is, but what do you think of it, generally speaking?” Roark looked at the sketches, and even though he wanted to throw them at Keating’s face and resign, one thought stopped him: the thought that it was a building and that he had to save it, as others could not pass a drowning man without leaping in to the rescue.
    Then he worked for hours, sometimes all night, while Keating sat and watched. He forgot Keating’s presence. He saw only a building and his chance to shape it. He knew that the shape would be changed, torn, distorted. Still, some order and reason would remain in its plan. It would be a better building than it would have been if he refused.
    Sometimes, looking at the sketch of a structure simpler, cleaner, more honest than the others, Roark would say: “That’s not so bad, Peter. You’re improving.” And Keating would feel an odd little jolt inside, something quiet, private and precious, such as he never felt from the compliments of Guy Francon, of his clients, of all others. Then he would forget it and feel much more substantially pleased when a wealthy lady murmured over a teacup: “You’re the coming architect of America, Mr. Keating,” though she had never seen his buildings.
    He found compensations for his submission to Roark. He would enter the drafting room in the morning, throw a tracing boy’s assignment down on Roark’s table and say: “Howard, do this up for me, will you?–and make it fast.” In the middle of the day, he would send a boy to Roark’s table to say loudly: “Mr. Keating wishes to see you in his office at once.” He would come out of the office and walk in Roark’s direction and say to the room at large: “Where the hell are those Twelfth Street plumbing specifications? Oh, Howard, will you look through the files and dig them up for me?”
    At first, he was afraid of Roark’s reaction. When he saw no reaction, only a silent obedience, he could restrain himself no longer. He felt a sensual pleasure in giving orders to Roark; and he felt also a fury of resentment at Roark’s passive compliance. He continued, knowing that he could continue only so long as Roark exhibited no anger, yet wishing desperately to break him down to an explosion. No explosion came.
    Roark liked the days when he was sent out to inspect buildings in construction. He walked through the steel hulks of buildings more naturally than on pavements. The workers observed with curiosity that he walked on narrow planks, on naked beams hanging over empty space, as easily as the best of them.
    It was a day in March, and the sky was a faint green with the first hint of spring. In Central Park, five hundred feet below, the earth caught the tone of the sky in a shade of brown that promised to become green, and the lakes lay like splinters of glass under the cobwebs of bare branches. Roark walked through the shell of what was to be a gigantic apartment hotel, and stopped before an electrician at work.
    The man was toiling assiduously, bending conduits around a beam. It was a task for hours of strain and patience, in a space overfilled against all calculations. Roark stood, his hands in his pockets, watching the man’s slow, painful progress.
    The man raised his head and turned to him abruptly. He had a big head and a face so ugly that it became fascinating; it was neither old nor flabby, but it was creased in deep gashes and the powerful jowls drooped like a bulldog’s; the eyes were startling–wide, round and china- blue.
    “Well?” the man asked angrily, “what’s the matter, Brick-top?”
    “You’re wasting your time,” said Roark. “Yeah?”
”Yeah.”
”You don’t say!”
    “It will take you hours to get your pipes around that beam.” “Know a better way to do it?”
”Sure.”
”Run along, punk. We don’t like college smarties around here.” “Cut a hole in that beam and put your pipes through.”
    “W hat?”
”Cut a hole through the beam.”
”The hell I will!”
”The hell you won’t.”
”It ain’t done that way.”
”I’ve done it.”
”You?”
”It’s done everywhere.”
”It ain’t gonna be done here. Not by me.”
”Then I’ll do it for you.”
The man roared. “That’s rich! When did office boys learn to do a man’s work?” “Give me your torch.”
”Look out, boy! It’ll burn your pretty pink toes!”
    Roark took the man’s gloves and goggles, took the acetylene torch, knelt, and sent a thin jet of blue fire at the center of the beam. The man stood watching him. Roark’s arm was steady, holding the tense, hissing streak of flame in leash, shuddering faintly with its violence, but holding it aimed straight. There was no strain, no effort in the easy posture of his body, only in his arm. And it seemed as if the blue tension eating slowly through metal came not from the flame but from the hand holding it.
    He finished, put the torch down, and rose.
”Jesus!” said the electrician. “Do you know how to handle a torch!”
    “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” He removed the gloves, the goggles, and handed them back. “Do it that way from now on. Tell the foreman I said so.”
    The electrician was staring reverently at the neat hole cut through the beam. He muttered: “Where did you learn to handle it like that, Red?”
    Roark’s slow, amused smile acknowledged this concession of victory. “Oh, I’ve been an
    electrician, and a plumber, and a rivet catcher, and many other things.” “And went to school besides?”
”Well, in a way.”
”Gonna be an architect?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, you’ll be the first one that knows something besides pretty pictures and tea parties. You should see the teacher’s pets they send us down from the office.”
    “If you’re apologizing, don’t. I don’t like them either. Go back to the pipes. So long.”
    “So long, Red.”
    The next time Roark appeared on that job, the blue-eyed electrician waved to him from afar, and called him over, and asked advice about his work which he did not need; he stated that his name was Mike and that he had missed Roark for several days. On the next visit the day shift was just leaving, and Mike waited outside for Roark to finish the inspection. “How about a glass of beer, Red?” he invited, when Roark came out. “Sure,” said Roark, “thanks.”
    They sat together at a table in the corner of a basement speakeasy, and they drank beer, and Mike related his favorite tale of how he had fallen five stories when a scaffolding gave way under him, how he had broken three ribs but lived to tell it, and Roark spoke of his days in the building trades. Mike did have a real name, which was Sean Xavier Donnigan, but everyone had forgotten it long ago; he owned a set of tools and an ancient Ford, and existed for the sole purpose of traveling around the country from one big construction job to another. People meant very little to Mike, but their performance a great deal. He worshipped expertness of any kind. He loved his work passionately and had no tolerance for anything save for other single- track devotions. He was a master in his own field and he felt no sympathy except for mastery. His view of the world was simple: there were the able and there were the incompetent; he was not concerned with the latter. He loved buildings. He despised, however, all architects.
    “There was one, Red,” he said earnestly, over his fifth beer, “one only and you’d be too young to know about him, but that was the only man that knew building. I worked for him when I was your age.”
    “Who was that?”
”Henry Cameron was his name. He’s dead, I guess, these many years.”
    Roark looked at him for a long time, then said: “He’s not dead, Mike,” and added: “I’ve worked for him.”
    “You did?”
    “For almost three years.”
    They looked at each other silently, and that was the final seal on their friendship.
    Weeks later, Mike stopped Roark, one day, at the building, his ugly face puzzled, and asked:
    “Say, Red, I heard the super tell a guy from the contractor’s that you’re stuck-up and stubborn and the lousiest bastard he’s ever been up against. What did you do to him?”
    “Nothing.”
”What the hell did he mean?”
”I don’t know,” said Roark. “Do you?”
    Mike looked at him, shrugged and grinned. “No,” said Mike.
    8.
    EARLY IN May, Peter Keating departed for Washington, to supervise the construction of a museum donated to the city by a great philanthropist easing his conscience. The museum building, Keating pointed out proudly, was to be decidedly different: it was not a reproduction of the Parthenon, but of the Maison Carrée at Nîmes.
    Keating had been away for some time when an office boy approached Roark’s table and informed him that Mr. Francon wished to see him in his office. When Roark entered the sanctuary, Francon smiled from behind the desk and said cheerfully: “Sit down, my friend. Sit down….” but something in Roark’s eyes, which he had never seen at close range before, made Francon’s voice shrink and stop, and he added dryly: “Sit down.” Roark obeyed. Francon studied him for a second, but could reach no conclusion beyond deciding that the man had a most unpleasant face, yet looked quite correctly attentive.
    “You’re the one who’s worked for Cameron, aren’t you?” Francon asked. “Yes,” said Roark.
    “Mr. Keating has been telling me very nice things about you,” Francon tried pleasantly and stopped. It was wasted courtesy; Roark just sat looking at him, waiting. “Listen…what’s your name?”
    “Roark.”
    “Listen, Roark. We have a client who is a little…odd, but he’s an important man, a very important man, and we have to satisfy him. He’s given us a commission for an eight-million- dollar office building, but the trouble is that he has very definite ideas on what he wants it to look like. He wants it–” Francon shrugged apologetically, disclaiming all blame for the preposterous suggestion–“he wants it to look like this.” He handed Roark a photograph. It was a photograph of the Dana Building.
    Roark sat quite still, the photograph hanging between his fingers. “Do you know that building?” asked Francon.
    “Yes.”
    “Well, that’s what he wants. And Mr. Keating’s away. I’ve had Bennett and Cooper and Williams make sketches, but he’s turned them down. So I thought I’d give you a chance.”
    Francon looked at him, impressed by the magnanimity of his own offer. There was no reaction. There was only a man who still looked as if he’d been struck on the head.
    “Of course,” said Francon, “it’s quite a jump for you, quite an assignment, but I thought I’d let you try. Don’t be afraid. Mr. Keating and I will go over it afterward. Just draw up the plans and a good sketch of it. You must have an idea of what the man wants. You know Cameron’s tricks. But of course, we can’t let a crude thing like this come out of our office. We must please him, but we must also preserve our reputation and not frighten all our other clients away. The point is to make it simple and in the general mood of this, but also artistic. You know, the more severe kind of Greek. You don’t have to use the Ionic order, use the Doric. Plain pediments and simple moldings, or something like that. Get the idea? Now take this along and show me what you can do. Bennett will give you all the particulars and…What’s the mat–”
    Francon’s voice cut itself off.
”Mr. Francon, please let me design it the way the Dana Building was designed.” “Huh?”
    “Let me do it. Not copy the Dana Building, but design it as Henry Cameron would have wanted it done, as I will.”
    “You mean modernistic?” “I…well, call it that.”
”Are you crazy?”
    “Mr. Francon, please listen to me.” Roark’s words were like the steps of a man walking a tightwire, slow, strained, groping for the only right spot, quivering over an abyss, but precise. “I don’t blame you for the things you’re doing. I’m Working for you, I’m taking your money, I have no right to express objections. But this time…this time the client is asking for it. You’re risking nothing. He wants it. Think of it, there’s a man, one man who sees and understands and wants it and has the power to build it. Are you going to fight a client for the first time in your life–and fight for what? To cheat him and to give him the same old trash, when you have so many others asking for it, and one, only one, who comes with a request like this?”
    “Aren’t you forgetting yourself?” asked Francon, coldly. “What difference would it make to you? Just let me do it my way and show it to him. Only show it to him. He’s already turned down three sketches, what if he turns down a fourth? But if he doesn’t…if he doesn’t…” Roark had never known how to entreat and he was not doing it well; his voice was hard, toneless, revealing the effort, so that the plea became an insult to the man who was making him plead. Keating would have given a great deal to see Roark in that moment. But Francon could not appreciate the triumph he was the first ever to achieve; he recognized only the insult.
    “Am I correct in gathering,” Francon asked, “that you are criticizing me and teaching me something about architecture?”
    “I’m begging you,” said Roark, closing his eyes. “If you weren’t a protégé of Mr. Keating’s, I wouldn’t bother to discuss the matter with you any further. But since you are quite obviously naive and inexperienced, I shall point out to you that I am not in the habit of asking for the esthetic opinions of my draftsmen. You will kindly take this photograph–and I do not wish any building as Cameron might have designed it, I wish the scheme of this adapted to our site– and you will follow my instructions as to the Classic treatment of the facade.”
    “I can’t do it,” said Roark, very quietly. “What? Are you speaking to me? Are you actually saying: ‘Sorry, I can’t do it’?”
    “I haven’t said ‘sorry,’ Mr. Francon.” “What did you say?”
”That I can’t do it.”
”Why?”
    “You don’t want to know why. Don’t ask me to do any designing. I’ll do any other kind of job you wish. But not that. And not to Cameron’s work.”
    “What do you mean, no designing? You expect to be an architect some day–or do you?” “Not like this.”
”Oh…I see…So you can’t do it? You mean you won’t?”
”If you prefer.”
    “Listen, you impertinent fool, this is incredible!” Roark got up. “May I go, Mr. Francon?”
    “In all my life,” roared Francon, “in all my experience, I’ve never seen anything like it! Are you here to tell me what you’ll do and what you won’t do? Are you here to give me lessons and
    criticize my taste and pass judgment?”
    “I’m not criticizing anything,” said Roark quietly. “I’m not passing judgment. There are some things that I can’t do. Let it go at that. May I leave now?”
    “You may leave this room and this firm now and from now on! You may go straight to the devil! Go and find yourself another employer! Try and find him! Go get your check and get out!”
    “Yes, Mr. Francon.”
    That evening Roark walked to the basement speak-easy where he could always find Mike after the day’s work. Mike was now employed on the construction of a factory by the same contractor who was awarded most of Francon’s biggest jobs. Mike had expected to see Roark on an inspection visit to the factory that afternoon, and greeted him angrily:
    “What’s the matter, Red? Lying down on the job?”
    When he heard the news, Mike sat still and looked like a bulldog baring its teeth. Then he swore savagely.
    “The bastards,” he gulped between stronger names, “the bastards…”
    “Keep still, Mike.”
    “Well…what now, Red?”
    “Someone else of the same kind, until the same thing happens again.” #
    When Keating returned from Washington he went straight up to Francon’s office. He had not stopped in the drafting room and had heard no news. Francon greeted him expansively:
    “Boy, it’s great to see you back! What’ll you have? A whisky-and-soda or a little brandy?”
    “No, thanks. Just give me a cigarette.”
    “Here….Boy, you look fine! Better than ever. How do you do it, you lucky bastard? I have so many things to tell you! How did it go down in Washington? Everything all right?” And before Keating could answer, Francon rushed on: “Something dreadful’s happened to me. Most disappointing. Do you remember Lili Landau? I thought I was all set with her, but last time I saw her, did I get the cold shoulder! Do you know who’s got her? You’ll be surprised. Gail Wynand, no less! The girl’s flying high. You should see her pictures and her legs all over his newspapers. Will it help her show or won’t it! What can I offer against that? And do you know what he’s done? Remember how she always said that nobody could give her what she wanted most–her childhood home, the dear little Austrian village where she was born? Well, Wynand bought it, long ago, the whole damn village, and had it shipped here–every bit of it!–and had it assembled again down on the Hudson, and there it stands now, cobbles, church, apple trees, pigsties and all! Then he springs it on Lili, two weeks ago. Wouldn’t you just know it? If the King of Babylon could get hanging gardens for his homesick lady, why not Gail Wynand? Lili’s all smiles and gratitude–but the poor girl was really miserable. She’d have much preferred a mink coat. She never wanted the damn village. And Wynand knew it, too. But there it stands, on the Hudson. Last week, he gave a party for her, right there, in that village–a costume party, with Mr. Wynand dressed as Cesare Borgia–wouldn’t he, though?–and what a party!–if you can believe what you hear, but you know how it is, you can never prove anything on Wynand. Then what does he do the next day but pose up there himself with little schoolchildren who’d never seen an Austrian village–the philanthropist!–and plasters the photos all over his papers with plenty of sob stuff about educational values, and gets mush notes from women’s clubs! I’d like to know what he’ll do with the village when he gets rid of Lili! He will, you know, they never last long with him. Do you think I’ll have a chance with her then?”
    “Sure,” said Keating. “Sure, you will. How’s everything here in the office?”
    “Oh, fine. Same as usual. Lucius had a cold and drank up all of my best Bas Armagnac. It’s bad for his heart, and a hundred dollars a case!…Besides, Lucius got himself caught in a nasty little mess. It’s that phobia of his, his damn porcelain. Seems he went and bought a teapot from a fence. He knew it was stolen goods, too. Took me quite a bit of bother to save us from a scandal….Oh, by the way, I fired that friend of yours, what’s his name?–Roark.”
    “Oh,” said Keating, and let a moment pass, then asked: “Why?”
”The insolent bastard! Where did you ever pick him up?” “What happened?”
    “I thought I’d be nice to him, give him a real break. I asked him to make a sketch for the Farrell Building–you know, the one Brent finally managed to design and we got Farrell to accept, you know, the simplified Doric–and your friend just up and refused to do it. It seems he has ideals or something. So I showed him the gate….What’s the matter? What are you smiling at?”
    “Nothing. I can just see it.”
”Now don’t you ask me to take him back!” “No, of course not.”
    For several days, Keating thought that he should call on Roark. He did not know what he would say, but felt dimly that he should say something. He kept postponing it. He was gaining assurance in his work. He felt that he did not need Roark, after all. The days went by, and he did not call on Roark, and he felt relief in being free to forget him.
    Beyond the windows of his room Roark saw the roofs, the water tanks, the chimneys, the cars speeding far below. There was a threat in the silence of his room, in the empty days, in his hands hanging idly by his sides. And he felt another threat rising from the city below, as if each window, each strip of pavement, had set itself closed grimly, in wordless resistance. It did not disturb him. He had known and accepted it long ago.
    He made a list of the architects whose work he resented least, in the order of their lesser evil, and he set out upon the search for a job, coldly, systematically, without anger or hope. He never knew whether these days hurt him; he knew only that it was a thing which had to be done.
    The architects he saw differed from one another. Some looked at him across the desk, kindly and vaguely, and their manner seemed to say that it was touching, his ambition to be an architect, touching and laudable and strange and attractively sad as all the delusions of youth. Some smiled at him with thin, drawn lips and seemed to enjoy his presence in the room, because it made them conscious of their own accomplishment. Some spoke coldly, as if his ambition were a personal insult. Some were brusque, and the sharpness of their voices seemed to say that they needed good draftsmen, they always needed good draftsmen, but this qualification could not possibly apply to him, and would he please refrain from being rude enough to force them to express it more plainly.
    It was not malice. It was not a judgment passed upon his merit. They did not think he was worthless. They simply did not care to find out whether he was good. Sometimes, he was asked to show his sketches; he extended them across a desk, feeling a contraction of shame in the muscles of his hand; it was like having the clothes torn off his body, and the shame was not, that his body was exposed, but that it was exposed to indifferent eyes. Once in a while he made a trip to New Jersey, to see Cameron. They sat together on the porch of a house on a hill, Cameron in a wheel chair, his hands on an old blanket spread over his knees. “How is it, Howard? Pretty hard?”
    “No.”
    “Want me to give you a letter to one of the bastards?” “No.”
    Then Cameron would not speak of it any more, he did not want to speak of it, he did not want the thought of Roark rejected by their city to become real. When Roark came to him, Cameron spoke of architecture with the simple confidence of a private possession. They sat together, looking at he city in the distance, on the edge of the sky, beyond the river. The sky was growing dark and luminous as blue-green glass; the buildings looked like clouds condensed on the glass, gray-blue clouds frozen for an instant in straight angles and vertical shafts, with the sunset caught in the spires….
    As the summer months passed, as his list was exhausted and he returned again to the places that had refused him once, Roark found that a few things were known about him and he heard the same words–spoken bluntly or timidly or angrily or apologetically–“You were kicked out of Stanton. You were kicked out of Francon’s office.” All the different voices saying it had one note in common: a note of relief in the certainty that the decision had been made for them.
    He sat on the window sill, in the evening, smoking, his hand spread on the pane, the city under his fingers, the glass cold against his skin.
    In September, he read an article entitled “Make Way For Tomorrow” by Gordon L. Prescott, A.G.A. in the Architectural Tribune. The article stated that the tragedy of the profession was the hardships placed in the way of its talented beginners; that great gifts had been lost in the struggle, unnoticed; that architecture was perishing from a lack of new blood and new thought, a lack of originality, vision and courage; that the author of the article made it his aim to search for promising beginners, to encourage them, develop them and give them the chance they deserved. Roark had never heard of Gordon L. Prescott, but there was a tone of honest conviction in the article. He allowed himself to start for Prescott’s office with the first hint of hope.
    The reception room of Gordon L. Prescott’s office was done in gray, black and scarlet; it was correct, restrained and daring all at once. A young and very pretty secretary informed Roark that one could not see Mr. Prescott without an appointment, but that she would be very glad to make an appointment for next Wednesday at two-fifteen. On Wednesday at two-fifteen, the secretary smiled at Roark and asked him please to be seated for just a moment. At four forty- five he was admitted into Gordon L. Prescott’s office. Gordon L. Prescott wore a brown checkered tweed jacket and a white turtle-neck sweater of angora wool. He was tall, athletic and thirty-five, but his face combined a crisp air of sophisticated wisdom with the soft skin, the button nose, the small, puffed mouth of a college hero. His face was sun-scorched, his blond hair clipped short, in a military Prussian haircut. He was frankly masculine, frankly unconcerned about elegance and frankly conscious of the effect.
    He listened to Roark silently, and his eyes were like a stop watch registering each separate second consumed by each separate word of Roark’s. He let the first sentence go by; on the second he interrupted to say curtly: “Let me see your drawings,” as if to make it clear that anything Roark might say was quite well known to him already.
    He held the drawings in his bronzed hands. Before he looked down at them, he said: “Ah, yes, so many young men come to me for advice, so many.” He glanced at the first sketch, but raised his head before he had seen it. “Of course, it’s the combination of the practical and the transcendental that is so hard for beginners to grasp.” He slipped the sketch to the bottom of the pile. “Architecture is primarily a utilitarian conception, and the problem is to elevate the principle of pragmatism into the realm of esthetic abstraction. All else is nonsense.” He glanced at two sketches and slipped them to the bottom. “I have no patience with visionaries who see a holy crusade in architecture for architecture’s sake. The great dynamic principle is the common principle of the human equation.” He glanced at a sketch and slipped it under. “The public taste and the public heart are the final criteria of the artist. The genius is the one who knows how to express the general. The exception is to tap the unexceptional.” He weighed the pile of sketches in his hand, noted that he had gone through half of them and dropped them down on the desk.
    “Ah, yes,” he said, “your work. Very interesting. But not practical. Not mature. Unfocused and
    undisciplined. Adolescent. Originality for originality’s sake. Not at all in the spirit of the present day. If you want an idea of the sort of thing for which there is a crying need–here–let me show you.” He took a sketch out of a drawer of the desk. “Here’s a young man who came to me totally unrecommended, a beginner who had never worked before. When you can produce stuff like this, you won’t find it necessary to look for a job. I saw this one sketch of his and I took him on at once, started him at twenty-five a week, too. There’s no question but that he is a potential genius.” He extended the sketch to Roark. The sketch represented a house in the shape of a grain silo incredibly merged with the simplified, emaciated shadow of the Parthenon.
    “That,” said Gordon L. Prescott, “is originality, the new in the eternal. Try toward something like this. I can’t really say that I predict a great deal for your future. We must be frank, I wouldn’t want to give you illusions based on my authority. You have a great deal to learn. I couldn’t venture a guess on what talent you might possess or develop later. But with hard work, perhaps…Architecture is a difficult profession, however, and the competition is stiff, you know, very stiff…And now, if you’ll excuse me, my secretary has an appointment waiting for me….”

    Roark walked home late on an evening in October. It had been another of the many days that stretched into months behind him, and he could not tell what had taken place in the hours of that day, whom he had seen, what form the words of refusal had taken. He concentrated fiercely on the few minutes at hand, when he was in an office, forgetting everything else; he forgot these minutes when he left the office; it had to be done, it had been done, it concerned him no longer. He was free once more on his way home.
    A long street stretched before him, its high banks, coming close together ahead, so narrow that he felt as if he could spread his arms, seize the spires and push them apart. He walked swiftly, the pavements as a springboard throwing his steps forward.
    He saw a lighted triangle of concrete suspended somewhere hundreds of feet above the ground. He could not see what stood below, supporting it; he was free to think of what he’d want to see there, what he would have made to be seen. Then he thought suddenly that now, in this moment, according to the city, according to everyone save that hard certainty within him, he would never build again, never–before he had begun. He shrugged. Those things happening to him, in those offices of strangers, were only a kind of sub-reality, unsubstantial incidents in the path of a substance they could not reach or touch.
    He turned into side streets leading to the East River. A lonely traffic light hung far ahead, a spot of red in a bleak darkness. The old houses crouched low to the ground, hunched under the weight of the sky. The street was empty and hollow, echoing to his footsteps. He went on, his collar raised, his hands in his pockets. His shadow rose from under his heels, when he passed a light, and brushed a wall in a long black arc, like the sweep of a windshield wiper.
    9.
    JOHN ERIK SNYTE looked through Roark’s sketches, flipped three of them aside, gathered the rest into an even pile, glanced again at the three, tossed them down one after another on top of the pile, with three sharp thuds, and said:
    “Remarkable. Radical, but remarkable. What are you doing tonight?” “Why?” asked Roark, stupefied.
    “Are you free? Mind starting in at once? Take your coat off, go to the drafting room, borrow tools from somebody and do me up a sketch for a department store we’re remodeling. Just a quick sketch, just a general idea, but I must have it tomorrow. Mind staying late tonight? The heat’s on and I’ll have Joe send you up some dinner. Want black coffee or Scotch or what? Just tell Joe. Can you stay?”
    “Yes,” said Roark, incredulously. “I can work all night.”
    “Fine! Splendid! that’s just what I’ve always needed–a Cameron man. I’ve got every other kind. Oh, yes, what did they pay you at Francon’s?”
    “Sixty-five.”
    “Well, I can’t splurge like Guy the Epicure. Fifty’s tops. Okay? Fine. Go right in. I’ll have Billings explain about the store to you. I want something modern. Understand? Modern, violent, crazy, to knock their eye out. Don’t restrain yourself. Go the limit. Pull any stunt you can think of, the goofier the better. Come on!”
    John Erik Snyte shot to his feet, flung a door open into a huge drafting room, flew in, skidded against a table, stopped, and said to a stout man with a grim moon-face: “Billings–Roark. He’s our modernist. Give him the Benton store. Get him some instruments. Leave him your keys and show him what to lock up tonight. Start him as of this morning. Fifty. What time was my appointment with Dolson Brothers? I’m late already. So long, I won’t be back tonight.”
    He skidded out, slamming the door. Billings evinced no surprise. He looked at Roark as if Roark had always been there. He spoke impassively, in a weary drawl. Within twenty minutes he left Roark at a drafting table with paper, pencils, instruments, a set of plans and photographs of the department store, a set of charts and a long list of instructions.
    Roark looked at the clean white sheet before him, his fist closed tightly about the thin stem of a pencil. He put the pencil down, and picked it up again, his thumb running softly up and down the smooth shaft; he saw that the pencil was trembling. He put it down quickly, and he felt anger at himself for the weakness of allowing this job to mean so much to him, for the sudden knowledge of what the months of idleness behind him had really meant. His fingertips were pressed to the paper, as if the paper held them, as a surface charged with electricity will hold the flesh of a man who has brushed against it, hold and hurt. He tore his fingers off the paper. Then he went to work….
    John Erik Snyte was fifty years old; he wore an expression of quizzical amusement, shrewd and unwholesome, as if he shared with each man he contemplated a lewd secret which he would not mention because it was so obvious to them both. He was a prominent architect; his expression did not change when he spoke of this fact. He considered Guy Francon an impractical idealist; he was not restrained by an Classic dogma; he was much more skillful and liberal: he built anything. He had no distaste for modern architecture and built cheerfully, when a rare client asked for it, bare boxes with flat roofs, which he called progressive; he built Roman mansions which he called fastidious; he built Gothic churches which he called spiritual. He saw no difference among any of them. He never became angry, except when somebody called him eclectic.
    He had a system of his own. He employed five designers of various types and he staged a contest among them on each commission he received. He chose the winning design and improved it with bits of the four others. “Six minds,” he said, “are better than one.”
    When Roark saw the final drawing of the Benton Department Store, he understood why Snyte had not been afraid to hire him. He recognized his own planes of space, his windows, his system of circulation; he saw, added to it, Corinthian capitals, Gothic vaulting, Colonial chandeliers and incredible moldings, vaguely Moorish. The drawing was done in water-color, with miraculous delicacy, mounted on cardboard, covered with a veil of tissue paper. The men in the drafting room were not allowed to look at it, except from a safe distance; all hands had to be washed, all cigarettes discarded. John Erik Snyte attached a great importance to the proper appearance of a drawing for submission to clients, and kept a young Chinese student of architecture employed solely upon the execution of these masterpieces.
    Roark knew what to expect of his job. He would never see his work erected, only pieces of it, which he preferred not to see; but he would be free to design as he wished and he would have the experience of solving actual problems. It was less than he wanted and more than he could expect. He accepted it at that. He met his fellow designers, the four other contestants, and learned that they were unofficially nicknamed in the drafting room as “Classic,”
    “Gothic,”
    “Renaissance” and “Miscellaneous.” He winced a little when he was addressed as “Hey, Modernistic.”
#
    The strike of the building-trades unions infuriated Guy Francon. The strike had started against the contractors who were erecting the Noyes-Belmont Hotel, and had spread to all the new structures of the city. It had been mentioned in the press that the architects of the Noyes- Belmont were the firm of Francon & Heyer.
    Most of the press helped the fight along, urging the contractors not to surrender. The loudest attacks against the strikers came from the powerful papers of the great Wynand chain.
    “We have always stood,” said the Wynand editorials, “for the rights of the common man against the yellow sharks of privilege, but we cannot give our support to the destruction of law and order.” It had never been discovered whether the Wynand papers led the public or the public led the Wynand papers; it was known only that the two kept remarkably in step. It was not known to anyone, however, save to Guy Francon and a very few others, that Gail Wynand owned the corporation which owned the corporation which owned the Noyes-Belmont Hotel.
    This added greatly to Francon’s discomfort. Gail Wynand’s real-estate operations were rumored to be vaster than his journalistic empire. It was the first chance Francon had ever had at a Wynand commission and he grasped it avidly, thinking of the possibilities which it could open. He and Keating had put their best efforts into designing the most ornate of all Rococo palaces for future patrons who could pay twenty-five dollars per day per room and who were fond of plaster flowers, marble cupids and open elevator cages of bronze lace. The strike had shattered the future possibilities; Francon could not be blamed for it, but one could never tell whom Gail Wynand would blame and for what reason. The unpredictable, unaccountable shifts of Wynand’s favor were famous, and it was well known that few architects he employed once were ever employed by him again.
    Francon’s sullen mood led him to the unprecedented breach of snapping over nothing in particular at the one person who had always been immune from it–Peter Keating. Keating shrugged, and turned his back to him in silent insolence. Then Keating wandered aimlessly through the halls, snarling at young draftsmen without provocation. He bumped into Lucius N. Heyer in a doorway and snapped: “Look where you’re going!” Heyer stared after him, bewildered, blinking.
    There was little to do in the office, nothing to say and everyone to avoid. Keating left early and walked home through a cold December twilight.
    At home, he cursed aloud the thick smell of paint from the overheated radiators. He cursed the chill, when his mother opened a window. He could find no reason for his restlessness, unless it was the sudden inactivity that left him alone. He could not bear to be left alone.
    He snatched up the telephone receiver and called Catherine Halsey. The sound of her clear voice was like a hand pressed soothingly against his hot forehead. He said: “Oh, nothing important, dear, I just wondered if you’d be home tonight. I thought I’d drop in after dinner.”
    “Of course, Peter. I’ll be home.”
”Swell. About eight-thirty?”
”Yes…Oh, Peter, have you heard about Uncle Ellsworth?”
    “Yes, God damn it, I’ve heard about your Uncle Ellsworth!…I’m sorry, Katie…Forgive me, darling, I didn’t mean to be rude, but I’ve been hearing about your uncle all day long. I know, it’s wonderful and all that, only look, we’re not going to talk about him again tonight!”
    “No, of course not. I’m sorry. I understand. I’ll be waiting for you.” “So long, Katie.”
    He had heard the latest story about Ellsworth Toohey, but he did not want to think of it because it brought him back to the annoying subject of the strike. Six months ago, on the wave of his success with Sermons in Stone, Ellsworth Toohey had been signed to write “One Small Voice,” a daily syndicated column for the Wynand papers. It appeared in the Banner and had started as a department of art criticism, but grown into an informal tribune from which Ellsworth M. Toohey pronounced verdicts on art, literature, New York restaurants, international crises and sociology–mainly sociology. It had been a great success. But the building strike had placed Ellsworth M. Toohey in a difficult position. He made no secret of his sympathy with the strikers, but he had said nothing in his column, for no one could say what he pleased on the papers owned by Gail Wynand save Gail Wynand. However, a mass meeting of strike sympathizers had been called for this evening. Many famous men were to speak, Ellsworth Toohey among them. At least, Toohey’s name had been announced.
    The event caused a great deal of curious speculation and bets were made on whether Toohey would dare to appear. “He will,” Keating had heard a draftsman insist vehemently, “he’ll sacrifice himself. He’s that kind. He’s the only honest man in print.”
    “He won’t,” another had said. “Do you realize what it means to pull a stunt like that on Wynand? Once Wynand gets it in for a man, he’ll break the guy for sure as hell’s fire. Nobody knows when he’ll do it or how he’ll do it, but he’ll do it, and nobody’ll prove a thing on him, and you’re done for once you get Wynand after you.” Keating did not care about the issue one way or another, and the whole matter annoyed him.
    He ate his dinner, that evening, in grim silence and when Mrs. Keating began, with an “Oh, by the way…” to lead the conversation in a direction he recognized, he snapped: “You’re not going to talk about Catherine. Keep still.” Mrs. Keating said nothing further and concentrated on forcing more food on his plate.
    He took a taxi to Greenwich Village. He hurried up the stairs. He jerked at the bell. He waited. There was no answer. He stood, leaning against the wall, ringing, for a long time. Catherine wouldn’t be out when she knew he was coming; she couldn’t be. He walked incredulously down the stairs, out to the street, and looked up at the windows of her apartment. The windows were dark.
    He stood, looking up at the windows as at a tremendous betrayal. Then came a sick feeling of loneliness, as if he were homeless in a great city; for the moment, he forgot his own address or its existence. Then he thought of the meeting, the great mass meeting where her uncle was publicly to make a martyr of himself tonight. That’s where she went, he thought, the damn little fool! He said aloud: “To hell with her!”…And he was walking rapidly in the direction of the meeting hall.
    There was one naked bulb of light over the square frame of the hall’s entrance, a small, blue- white lump glowing ominously, too cold and too bright. It leaped out of the dark street, lighting one thin trickle of rain from some ledge above, a glistening needle of glass, so thin and smooth that Keating thought crazily of stories where men had been killed by being pierced with an icicle. A few curious loafers stood indifferently in the rain around the entrance, and a few policemen. The door was open. The dim lobby was crowded with people who could not get into the packed hall, they were listening to a loud-speaker installed there for the occasion. At the door three vague shadows were handing out pamphlets to passers-by. One of the shadows was a consumptive, unshaved young man with a long, bare neck; the other was a trim youth with a fur collar on an expensive coat; the third was Catherine Halsey.
    She stood in the rain, slumped, her stomach jutting forward in weariness, her nose shiny, her eyes bright with excitement. Keating stopped, staring at her.
    Her hand shot toward him mechanically with a pamphlet, then she raised her eyes and saw him. She smiled without astonishment and said happily:
    “Why, Peter! How sweet of you to come here!”
”Katie…” He choked a little. “Katie, what the hell…”
”But I had to, Peter.” Her voice had no trace of apology. “You don’t understand, but I…”
    “Get out of the rain. Get inside.” “But I can’t! I have to…”
    “Get out of the rain at least, you fool!” He pushed her roughly through the door, into a corner of the lobby.
    “Peter darling, you’re not angry, are you? You see, it was like this: I didn’t think Uncle would let me come here tonight, but at the last minute he said I could if I wanted to, and that I could help with the pamphlets. I knew you’d understand, and I left you a note on the living room table, explaining, and…”
    “You left me a note? Inside?”
    “Yes…Oh…Oh, dear me, I never thought of that, you couldn’t get in of course, how silly of me, but I was in such a rush! No, you’re not going to be angry, you can’t! Don’t you see what this means to him? Don’t you know what he’s sacrificing by coming here? And I knew he would. I told them so, those people who said not a chance, it’ll be the end of him–and it might be, but he doesn’t care. That’s what he’s like. I’m frightened and I’m terribly happy, because what he’s done–it makes me believe in all human beings. But I’m frightened, because you see, Wynand will…”
    “Keep still! I know it all. I’m sick of it. I don’t want to hear about your uncle or Wynand or the damn strike. Let’s get out of here.”
    “Oh, no, Peter! We can’t! I want to hear him and…”
”Shut up over there!” someone hissed at them from the crowd.
    “We’re missing it all,” she whispered. “That’s Austen Heller speaking. Don’t you want to hear Austen Heller?”
    Keating looked up at the loud-speaker with a certain respect, which he felt for all famous names. He had not read much of Austen Heller, but he knew that Heller was the star columnist of the Chronicle, a brilliant, independent newspaper, arch-enemy of the Wynand publications; that Heller came from an old, distinguished family and had graduated from Oxford; that he had started as a literary critic and ended by becoming a quiet fiend devoted to the destruction of all forms of compulsion, private or public, in heaven or on earth; that he had been cursed by preachers, bankers, club-women and labor organizers; that he had better manners than the social elite whom he usually mocked, and a tougher constitution than the laborers whom he usually defended; that he could discuss the latest play on Broadway, medieval poetry or international finance; that he never donated to charity, but spent more of his own money than he could afford, on defending political prisoners anywhere.
    The voice coming from the loud-speaker was dry, precise, with the faint trace of a British accent.
    “…and we must consider,” Austen Heller was saying unemotionally, “that since– unfortunately–we are forced to live together, the most important thing for us to remember is that the only way in which we can have any law at all is to have as little of it as possible. I see no ethical standard to which to measure the whole unethical conception of a State, except in the amount of time, of thought, of money, of effort and of obedience, which a society extorts from its every member. Its value and its civilization are in inverse ratio to that extortion. There is no conceivable law by which a man can be forced to work on any terms except those he chooses to set. There is no conceivable law to prevent him from setting them–just as there is none to force his employer to accept them. The freedom to agree or disagree is the foundation of our kind of society–and the freedom to strike is a part of it. I am mentioning this as a reminder to a certain Petronius from Hell’s Kitchen, an exquisite bastard who has been rather noisy lately about telling us that this strike represents a destruction of law and order.”
    The loud-speaker coughed out a high, shrill sound of approval and a clatter of applause. There were gasps among the people in the lobby. Catherine grasped Keating’s arm. “Oh,
    Peter!” she whispered. “He means Wynand! Wynand was born in Hell’s Kitchen. He can afford to say that, but Wynand will take it out on Uncle Ellsworth!”
    Keating could not listen to the rest of Heller’s speech, because his head was swimming in so violent an ache that the sounds hurt his eyes and he had to keep his eyelids shut tightly. He leaned against the wall.
    He opened his eyes with a jerk, when he became aware of the peculiar silence around him. He had not noticed the end of Heller’s speech. He saw the people in the lobby standing in tense, solemn expectation, and the blank rasping of the loud-speaker pulled every glance into its dark funnel. Then a voice came through the silence, loudly and slowly:
    “Ladies and gentlemen, I have the great honor of presenting to you now Mr. Ellsworth Monkton Toohey!”
    Well, thought Keating, Bennett’s won his six bits down at the office. There were a few seconds of silence. Then the thing which happened hit Keating on the back of the head; it was not a sound nor a blow, it was something that ripped time apart, that cut the moment from the normal one preceding it. He knew only the shock, at first; a distinct, conscious second was gone before he realized what it was and that it was applause. It was such a crash of applause that he waited for the loud-speaker to explode; it went on and on and on, pressing against the walls of the lobby, and he thought he could feel the walls buckling out to the street.
    The people around him were cheering. Catherine stood, her lips parted, and he felt certain that she was not breathing at all.
    It was a long time before silence came suddenly, as abrupt and shocking as the roar; the loud- speaker died, choking on a high note. Those in the lobby stood still. Then came the voice.
    “My friends,” it said, simply and solemnly. “My brothers,” it added softly, involuntarily, both full of emotion and smiling apologetically at the emotion. “I am more touched by this reception than I should allow myself to be. I hope I shall be forgiven for a trace of the vain child which is in all of us. But I realize–and in that spirit I accept it–that this tribute was paid not to my person, but to a principle which chance has granted me to represent in all humility tonight.”
    It was not a voice, it was a miracle. It unrolled as a velvet banner. It spoke English words, but the resonant clarity of each syllable made it sound like a new language spoken for the first time. It was the voice of a giant.
    Keating stood, his mouth open. He did not hear what the voice was saying. He heard the beauty of the sounds without meaning. He felt no need to know the meaning; he could accept anything, he would be led blindly anywhere.
    “…and so, my friends,” the voice was saying, “the lesson to be learned from our tragic struggle is the lesson of unity. We shall unite or we shall be defeated. Our will–the will of the disinherited, the forgotten, the oppressed–shall weld us into a solid bulwark, with a common faith and a common goal. This is the time for every man to renounce the thoughts of his petty little problems, of gain, of comfort, of self-gratification. This is the time to merge his self in a great current, in the rising tide which is approaching to sweep us all, willing or unwilling, into the future. History, my friends, does not ask questions or acquiescence. It is irrevocable, as the voice of the masses that determine it. Let us listen to the call. Let us organize, my brothers. Let us organize. Let us organize. Let us organize.”
    Keating looked at Catherine. There was no Catherine; there was only a white face dissolving in the sounds of the loudspeaker. It was not that she heard her uncle; Keating could feel no jealousy of him; he wished he could. It was not affection. It was something cold and impersonal that left her empty, her will surrendered and no human will holding hers, but a nameless thing in which she was being swallowed.
    “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered. His voice was savage. He was afraid.
    She turned to him, as if she were emerging from unconsciousness. He knew that she was trying to recognize him and everything he implied. She whispered: “Yes. Let’s get out.” They
    walked through the streets, through the rain, without direction. It was cold, but they went on, to move, to feel the movement, to know the sensation of their own muscles moving.
    “We’re getting drenched,” Keating said at last, as bluntly and naturally as he could; their silence frightened him; it proved that they both knew the same thing and that the thing had been real. “Let’s find some place where we can have a drink.”
    “Yes,” said Catherine, “let’s. It’s so cold….Isn’t it stupid of me? Now I’ve missed Uncle’s speech and I wanted so much to hear it.” It was all right. She had mentioned it. She had mentioned it quite naturally, with a healthy amount of proper regret. The thing was gone. “But I wanted to be with you, Peter…I want to be with you always.” The thing gave a last jerk, not in the meaning of what she said, but in the reason that had prompted her to say it. Then it was gone, and Keating smiled; his fingers sought her bare wrist between her sleeve and glove, and her skin was warm against his….
    Many days later Keating heard the story that was being told all over town. It was said that on the day after the mass meeting Gail Wynand had given Ellsworth Toohey a raise in salary. Toohey had been furious and had tried to refuse it. “You cannot bribe me, Mr. Wynand,” he said. “I’m not bribing you,” Wynand had answered; “don’t flatter yourself.”

    When the strike was settled, interrupted construction went forward with a spurt throughout the city, and Keating found himself spending days and nights at work, with new commissions pouring into the office. Francon smiled happily at everybody and gave a small party for his staff, to erase the memory of anything he might have said. The palatial residence of Mr. and Mrs. Dale Ainsworth on Riverside Drive, a pet project of Keating’s, done in Late Renaissance and gray granite, was complete at last. Mr. and Mrs. Dale Ainsworth gave a formal reception as a housewarming, to which Guy Francon and Peter Keating were invited, but Lucius N. Heyer was ignored, quite accidentally, as always happened to him of late. Francon enjoyed the reception, because every square foot of granite in the house reminded him of the stupendous payment received by a certain granite quarry in Connecticut. Keating enjoyed the reception, because the stately Mrs. Ainsworth said to him with a disarming smile: “But I was certain that you were Mr. Francon’s partner! It’s Francon and Heyer, of course! How perfectly careless of me! All I can offer by way of excuse is that if you aren’t his partner, one would certainly say you were entitled to be!” Life in the office rolled on smoothly, in one of those periods when everything seemed to go well.
    Keating was astonished, therefore, one morning shortly after the Ainsworth reception, to see Francon arrive at the office with a countenance of nervous irritation. “Oh, nothing,” he waved his hand at Keating impatiently, “nothing at all.” In the drafting room Keating noticed three draftsmen, their heads close together, bent over a section of the New York Banner, reading with a guilty kind of avid interest; he heard an unpleasant chuckle from one of them. When they saw him the paper disappeared, too quickly. He had no time to inquire into this; a contractor’s job runner was waiting for him in his office, also a stack of mail and drawings to be approved.
    He had forgotten the incident three hours later in a rush of appointments. He felt light, clear- headed, exhilarated by his own energy. When he had to consult his library on a new drawing which he wished to compare with its best prototypes, he walked out of his office, whistling, swinging the drawing gaily.
    His motion had propelled him halfway across the reception room, when he stopped short; the drawing swung forward and flapped back against his knees. He forgot that it was quite improper for him to pause there like that in the circumstances.
    A young woman stood before the railing, speaking to the reception clerk. Her slender body seemed out of all scale in relation to a normal human body; its lines were so long, so fragile, so exaggerated that she looked like a stylized drawing of a woman and made the correct proportions of a normal being appear heavy and awkward beside her. She wore a plain gray suit; the contrast between its tailored severity and her appearance was deliberately exorbitant–and strangely elegant. She let the fingertips of one hand rest on the railing, a narrow hand ending the straight imperious line of her arm. She had gray eyes that were not ovals, but two long, rectangular cuts edged by parallel lines of lashes; she had an air of cold
    serenity and an exquisitely vicious mouth. Her face, her pale gold hair, her suit seemed to have no color, but only a hint, just on the verge of the reality of color, making the full reality seem vulgar. Keating stood still, because he understood for the first time what it was that artists spoke about when they spoke of beauty.
    “I’ll see him now, if I see him at all,” she was saying to the reception clerk. “He asked me to come and this is the only time I have.” It was not a command; she spoke as if it were not necessary for her voice to assume the tones of commanding.
    “Yes, but…” A light buzzed on the clerk’s switchboard; she plugged the connection through, hastily. “Yes, Mr. Francon…” She listened and nodded with relief. “Yes, Mr. Francon.” She turned to the visitor: “Will you go right in, please?”
    The young woman turned and looked at Keating as she passed him on her way to the stairs. Her eyes went past him without stopping. Something ebbed from his stunned admiration. He had had time to see her eyes; they seemed weary and a little contemptuous, but they left him with a sense of cold cruelty.
    He heard her walking up the stairs, and the feeling vanished, but the admiration remained. He approached the reception clerk eagerly.
    “Who was that?” he asked.
The clerk shrugged:
”That’s the boss’s little girl.”
”Why, the lucky stiff!” said Keating. “He’s been holding out on me.”
”You misunderstood me,” the clerk said coldly. “It’s his daughter. It’s Dominique Francon.” “Oh,” said Keating. “Oh, Lord!”
    “Yeah?” the girl looked at him sarcastically. “Have you read this morning’s Banner?” “No. Why?”
”Read it.”
Her switchboard buzzed and she turned away from him.
    He sent a boy for a copy of the Banner, and turned anxiously to the column, “Your House,” by Dominique Francon. He had heard that she’d been quite successful lately with descriptions of the homes of prominent New Yorkers. Her field was confined to home decoration, but she ventured occasionally into architectural criticism. Today her subject was the new residence of Mr. and Mrs. Dale Ainsworth on Riverside Drive. He read, among many other things, the following:
    “You enter a magnificent lobby of golden marble and you think that this is the City Hall or the Main Post Office, but it isn’t. It has, however, everything: the mezzanine with the colonnade and the stairway with a goitre and the cartouches in the form of looped leather belts. Only it’s not leather, it’s marble. The dining room has a splendid bronze gate, placed by mistake on the ceiling, in the shape of a trellis entwined with fresh bronze grapes. There are dead ducks and rabbits hanging on the wall panels, in bouquets of carrots, petunias and string beans. I do not think these would have been very attractive if real, but since they are bad plaster imitations, it is all right….The bedroom windows face a brick wall, not a very neat wall, but nobody needs to see the bedrooms….The front windows are large enough and admit plenty of light, as well as the feet of the marble cupids that roost on the outside. The cupids are well fed and present a pretty picture to the street, against the severe granite of the façade; they are quite commendable, unless you just can’t stand to look at dimpled soles every time you glance out to see whether it’s raining. If you get tired of it, you can always look out of the central windows of the third floor, and into the cast-iron rump of Mercury who sits on top of the pediment over the entrance. It’s a very beautiful entrance. Tomorrow, we shall visit the home of Mr. and Mrs.
    Smythe-Pickering.”
    Keating had designed the house. But he could not help chuckling through his fury when he thought of what Francon must have felt reading this, and of how Francon was going to face Mrs. Dale Ainsworth. Then he forgot the house and the article. He remembered only the girl who had written it.
    He picked three sketches at random from his table and started for Francon’s office to ask his approval of the sketches, which he did not need.
    On the stair landing outside Francon’s closed door he stopped. He heard Francon’s voice behind the door, loud, angry and helpless, the voice he always heard when Francon was beaten.
    “…to expect such an outrage! From my own daughter! I’m used to anything from you, but this beats it all. What am I going to do? How am I going to explain? Do you have any kind of a vague idea of my position?”
    Then Keating heard her laughing; it was a sound so gay and so cold that he knew it was best not to go in. He knew he did not want to go in, because he was afraid again, as he had been when he’d seen her eyes.
    He turned and descended the stairs. When he had reached the floor below, he was thinking that he would meet her, that he would meet her soon and that Francon would not be able to prevent it now. He thought of it eagerly, laughing in relief at the picture of Francon’s daughter as he had imagined her for years, revising his vision of his future; even though he felt dimly that it would be better if he never met her again.
    10.
    RALSTON HOLCOMBE had no visible neck, but his chin took care of that. His chin and jaws formed an unbroken arc, resting on his chest. His cheeks were pink, soft to the touch, with the irresilient softness of age, like the skin of a peach that has been scalded. His rich white hair rose over his forehead and fell to his shoulders in the sweep of a medieval mane. It left dandruff on the back of his collar.
    He walked through the streets of New York, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a dark business suit, a pale green satin shirt, a vest of white brocade, a huge black bow emerging from under his chin, and he carried a staff, not a cane, but a tall ebony staff surmounted by a bulb of solid gold. It was as if his huge body were resigned to the conventions of a prosaic civilization and to its drab garments, but the oval of his chest and stomach sallied forth, flying the colors of his inner soul.
    These things were permitted to him, because he was a genius. He was also president of the Architects’ Guild of America. Ralston Holcombe did not subscribe to the views of his colleagues in the organization. He was not a grubbing builder nor a businessman. He was, he stated firmly, a man of ideals.
    He denounced the deplorable state of American architecture and the unprincipled eclecticism of its practitioners. In any period of history, he declared, architects built in the spirit of their own time, and did not pick designs from the past; we could be true to history only in heeding her law, which demanded that we plant the roots of our art firmly in the reality of our own life. He decried the stupidity of erecting buildings that were Greek, Gothic or Romanesque; let us, he begged, be modern and build in the style that belongs to our days. He had found that style. It was Renaissance.
    He stated his reasons clearly. Inasmuch, he pointed out, as nothing of great historical importance had happened in the world since the Renaissance, we should consider ourselves still living in that period; and all the outward forms of our existence should remain faithful to the examples of the great masters of the sixteenth century.
    He had no patience with the few who spoke of a modern architecture in terms quite different from his own; he ignored them; he stated only that men who wanted to break with all of the past were lazy ignoramuses, and that one could not put originality above Beauty. His voice trembled reverently on that last word. He accepted nothing but stupendous commissions. He specialized in the eternal and the monumental. He built a great many memorials and capitols. He designed for International Expositions.
    He built like a composer improvising under the spur of a mystic guidance. He had sudden inspirations. He would add an enormous dome to the flat roof of a finished structure, or encrust a long vault with gold-leaf mosaic, or rip off a facade of limestone to replace it with marble. His clients turned pale, stuttered–and paid. His imperial personality carried him to victory in any encounter with a client’s thrift; behind him stood the stern, unspoken, overwhelming assertion that he was an Artist. His prestige was enormous.
    He came from a family listed in the Social Register. In his middle years he had married a young lady whose family had not made the Social Register, but made piles of money instead, in a chewing-gum empire left to an only daughter.
    Ralston Holcombe was now sixty-five, to which he added a few years, for the sake of his friends’ compliments on his wonderful physique; Mrs. Ralston Holcombe was forty-two, from which she deducted considerably.
    Mrs. Ralston Holcombe maintained a salon that met informally every Sunday afternoon. “Everybody who is anybody in architecture drops in on us,” she told her friends. “They’d better,” she added.
    On a Sunday afternoon in March, Keating drove to the Holcombe mansion–a reproduction of a Florentine palazzo–dutifully, but a little reluctantly. He had been a frequent guest at these celebrated gatherings and he was beginning to be bored, for he knew everybody he could expect to find there. He felt, however, that he had to attend this time, because the occasion was to be in honor of the completion of one more capitol by Ralston Holcombe in some state or another.
    A substantial crowd was lost in the marble ballroom of the Holcombes, scattered in forlorn islets through an expanse intended for court receptions. The guests stood about, self- consciously informal, working at being brilliant. Steps rang against the marble with the echoing sound of a crypt. The flames of tall candles clashed desolately with the gray of the light from the street; the light made the candles seem dimmer, the candles gave to the day outside a premonitory tinge of dusk. A scale model of the new state capitol stood displayed on a pedestal in the middle of the room, ablaze with tiny electric bulbs.
    Mrs. Ralston Holcombe presided over the tea table. Each guest accepted a fragile cup of transparent porcelain, took two delicate sips and vanished in the direction of the bar. Two stately butlers went about collecting the abandoned cups.
    Mrs. Ralston Holcombe, as an enthusiastic girl friend had described her, was “petite, but intellectual.” Her diminutive stature was her secret sorrow, but she had learned to find compensations. She could talk, and did, of wearing dresses size ten and of shopping in the junior departments. She wore high-school garments and short socks in summer, displaying spindly legs with hard blue veins. She adored celebrities. That was her mission in life. She hunted them grimly; she faced them with wide-eyed admiration and spoke of her own insignificance, of her humility before achievement; she shrugged, tight-lipped and rancorous, whenever one of them did not seem to take sufficient account of her own views on life after death, the theory of relativity, Aztec architecture, birth control and the movies. She had a great many poor friends and advertised the fact. If a friend happened to improve his financial position, she dropped him, feeling that he had committed an act of treason. She hated the wealthy in all sincerity: they shared her only badge of distinction. She considered architecture her private domain. She had been christened Constance and found it awfully clever to be known as “Kiki,” a nickname she had forced on her friends when she was well past thirty.
    Keating had never felt comfortable in Mrs. Holcombe’s presence, because she smiled at him too insistently and commented on his remarks by winking and saying: “Why, Peter, how naughty of you!” when no such intention had been in his mind at all. He bowed over her hand,
    however, this afternoon as usual, and she smiled from behind the silver teapot. She wore a regal gown of emerald velvet, and a magenta ribbon in her bobbed hair with a cute little bow in front. Her skin was tanned and dry, with enlarged pores showing on her nostrils. She handed a cup to Keating, a square-cut emerald glittering on her finger in the candlelight.
    Keating expressed his admiration for the capitol and escaped to examine the model. He stood before it for a correct number of minutes, scalding his lips with the hot liquid that smelled of cloves. Holcombe, who never looked in the direction of the model and never missed a guest stopping before it, slapped Keating’s shoulder and said something appropriate about young fellows learning the beauty of the style of the Renaissance. Then Keating wandered off, shook a few hands without enthusiasm, and glanced at his wrist watch, calculating the time when it would be permissible to leave. Then he stopped.
    Beyond a broad arch, in a small library, with three young men beside her, he saw Dominique Francon.
    She stood leaning against a column, a cocktail glass in her hand. She wore a suit of black velvet; the heavy cloth, which transmitted no light rays, held her anchored to reality by stopping the light that flowed too freely through the flesh of her hands, her neck, her face. A white spark of fire flashed like a cold metallic cross in the glass she held, as if it were a lens gathering the diffused radiance of her skin.
    Keating tore forward and found Francon in the crowd. “Well, Peter!” said Francon brightly. “Want me to get you a drink? Not so hot,” he added, lowering his voice, “but the Manhattans aren’t too bad.”
    “No,” said Keating, “thanks.”
”Entre nous,” said Francon, winking at the model of the capitol, “it’s a holy mess, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” said Keating. “Miserable proportions….That dome looks like Holcombe’s face imitating a sunrise on the roof….” They had stopped in full view of the library and Keating’s eyes were fixed on the girl in black, inviting Francon to notice it; he enjoyed having Francon in a trap.
    “And the plan! The plan! Do you see that on the second floor…oh,” said Francon, noticing.
    He looked at Keating, then at the library, then at Keating again.
    “Well,” said Francon at last, “don’t blame me afterward. You’ve asked for it. Come on.”
    They entered the library together. Keating stopped, correctly, but allowing his eyes an improper intensity, while Francon beamed with unconvincing cheeriness:
    “Dominique, my dear! May I present?–this is Peter Keating, my own right hand. Peter–my daughter.”
    “How do you do,” said Keating, his voice soft.
    Dominique bowed gravely.
    “I have waited to meet you for such a long time, Miss Francon.”
    “This will be interesting,” said Dominique. “You will want to be nice to me, of course, and yet that won’t be diplomatic.”
    “What do you mean, Miss Francon?”
”Father would prefer you to be horrible with me. Father and I don’t get along at all.” “Why, Miss Francon, I…”
    “I think it’s only fair to tell you this at the beginning. You may want to redraw some conclusions.” He was looking for Francon, but Francon had vanished. “No,” she said softly,
    “Father doesn’t do these things well at all. He’s too obvious. You asked him for the introduction, but he shouldn’t have let me notice that. However, it’s quite all right, since we both admit it. Sit down.”
    She slipped into a chair and he sat down obediently beside her. The young men whom he did not know stood about for a few minutes, trying to be included in the conversation by smiling blankly, then wandered off. Keating thought with relief that there was nothing frightening about her; there was only a disquieting contrast between her words and the candid innocence of the manner she used to utter them; he did not know which to trust.
    “I admit I asked for the introduction,” he said. “That’s obvious anyway, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t ask for it? But don’t you think that the conclusions I’ll draw may have nothing to do with your father?”
    “Don’t say that I’m beautiful and exquisite and like no one you’ve ever met before and that you’re very much afraid that you’re going to fall in love with me. You’ll say it eventually, but let’s postpone it. Apart from that, I think we’ll get along very nicely.”
    “But you’re trying to make it very difficult for me, aren’t you?” “Yes. Father should have warned you.”
”He did.”
    “You should have listened. Be very considerate of Father. I’ve met so many of his own right hands that I was beginning to be skeptical. But you’re the first one who’s lasted. And who looks like he’s going to last. I’ve heard a great deal about you. My congratulations.”
    “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for years. And I’ve been reading your column with so much…” He stopped. He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned that; and, above all, he shouldn’t have stopped.
    “So much…?” she asked gently.
”…so much pleasure,” he finished, hoping that she would let it go at that.
    “Oh, yes,” she said. “The Ainsworth house. You designed it. I’m sorry. You just happened to be the victim of one of my rare attacks of honesty. I don’t have them often. As you know, if you’re read my stuff yesterday.”
    “I’ve read it. And–well, I’ll follow your example and I’ll be perfectly frank. Don’t take it as a complaint–one must never complain against one’s critics. But really that capitol of Holcombe’s is much worse in all those very things that you blasted us for. Why did you give him such a glowing tribute yesterday? Or did you have to?”
    “Don’t flatter me. Of course I didn’t have to. Do you think anyone on the paper pays enough attention to a column on home decoration to care what I say in it? Besides, I’m not even supposed to write about capitols. Only I’m getting tired of home decorations.”
    “Then why did you praise Holcombe?”
    “Because that capitol of his is so awful that to pan it would have been an anticlimax. So I thought it would be amusing to praise it to the sky. It was.”
    “Is that the way you go about it?”
    “That’s the way I go about it. But no one reads my column, except housewives who can never afford to decorate their homes, so it doesn’t matter at all.”
    “But what do you really like in architecture?” “I don’t like anything in architecture.”
    “Well, you know of course that I won’t believe that. Why do you write if you have nothing you want to say?”
    “To have something to do. Something more disgusting than many other things I could do. And more amusing.”
    “Come on, that’s not a good reason.” “I never have any good reasons.” “But you must be enjoying your work.” “I am. Don’t you see that I am?”
    “You know, I’ve actually envied you. Working for a magnificent enterprise like the Wynand papers. The largest organization in the country, commanding the best writing talent and…”
    “Look,” she said, leaning toward him confidentially, “let me help you. If you had just met Father, and he were working for the Wynand papers, that would be exactly the right thing to say. But not with me. That’s what I’d expect you to say and I don’t like to hear what I expect. It would be much more interesting if you said that the Wynand papers are a contemptible dump heap of yellow journalism and all their writers put together aren’t worth two bits.”
    “Is that what you really think of them?”
”Not at all. But I don’t like people who try to say only what they think I think.”
    “Thanks. I’ll need your help. I’ve never met anyone…oh, no, of course, that’s what you didn’t want me to say. But I really meant it about your papers. I’ve always admired Gail Wynand. I’ve always wished I could meet him. What is he like?”
    “Just what Austen Heller called him–an exquisite bastard.” He winced. He remembered where he had heard Austen Heller say that. The memory of Catherine seemed heavy and vulgar in the presence of the thin white hand he saw hanging over the arm of the chair before him.
    “But, I mean,” he asked, “what’s he like in person?” “I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”
”You haven’t?”
”No.”
    “Oh, I’ve heard he’s so interesting!”
”Undoubtedly. When I’m in a mood for something decadent I’ll probably meet him.” “Do you know Toohey?”
    “Oh,” she said. He saw what he had seen in her eyes before, and he did not like the sweet gaiety of her voice. “Oh, Ellsworth Toohey. Of course I know him. He’s wonderful. He’s a man I always enjoy talking to. He’s such a perfect black-guard.”
    “Why, Miss Francon! You’re the first person who’s ever…”
    “I’m not trying to shock you. I meant all of it. I admire him. He’s so complete. You don’t meet perfection often in this world one way or the other, do you? And he’s just that. Sheer perfection in his own way. Everyone else is so unfinished, broken up into so many different pieces that don’t fit together. But not Toohey. He’s a monolith. Sometimes, when I feel bitter against the world, I find consolation in thinking that it’s all right, that I’ll be avenged, that the world will get what’s coming to it–because there’s Ellsworth Toohey.”
    “What do you want to be avenged for?” She looked at him, her eyelids lifted for a moment, so
    that her eyes did not seem rectangular, but soft and clear.
”That was very clever of you,” she said. “That was the first clever thing you’ve said.” “Why?”
    “Because you knew what to pick out of all the rubbish I uttered. So I’ll have to answer you. I’d like to be avenged for the fact that I have nothing to be avenged for. Now let’s go on about Ellsworth Toohey.”
    “Well, I’ve always heard, from everybody, that he’s a sort of saint, the one pure idealist, utterly incorruptible and…”
    “That’s quite true. A plain grafter would be much safer. But Toohey is like a testing stone for people. You can learn about them by the way they take him.”
    “Why? What do you actually mean?” She leaned back in her chair, and stretched her arms down to her knees, twisting her wrists, palms out, the fingers of her two hands entwined. She laughed easily.
    “Nothing that one should make a subject of discussion at a tea party. Kiki’s right. She hates the sight of me, but she’s got to invite me once in a while. And I can’t resist coming, because she’s so obvious about not wanting me. You know, I told Ralston tonight what I really thought of his capitol, but he wouldn’t believe me. He only beamed and said that I was a very nice little girl.”
    “Well, aren’t you?” “W hat?”
”A very nice little girl.”
    “No. Not today. I’ve made you thoroughly uncomfortable. So I’ll make up for it. I’ll tell you what I think of you, because you’ll be worrying about that. I think you’re smart and safe and obvious and quite ambitious and you’ll get away with it. And I like you. I’ll tell Father that I approve of his right hand very much, so you see you have nothing to fear from the boss’s daughter. Though it would be better if I didn’t say anything to Father, because my recommendation would work the other way with him.”
    “May I tell you only one thing that I think about you?” “Certainly. Any number of them.”
    “I think it would have been better if you hadn’t told me that you liked me. Then I would have had a better chance of its being true.”
    She laughed.
”If you understand that,” she said, “then we’ll get along beautifully. Then it might even be true.”
    Gordon L. Prescott appeared in the arch of the ballroom, glass in hand. He wore a gray suit and a turtle-neck sweater of silver wool. His boyish face looked freshly scrubbed, and he had his usual air of soap, tooth paste and the outdoors.
    “Dominique, darling!” he cried, waving his glass. “Hello, Keating,” he added curtly. “Dominique, where have you been hiding yourself? I heard you were here and I’ve had a hell of a time looking for you!”
    “Hello, Gordon,” she said. She said it quite correctly; there was nothing offensive in the quiet politeness of her voice; but following his high note of enthusiasm, her voice struck a tone that seemed flat and deadly in its indifference–as if the two sounds mingled into an audible counterpoint around the melodic thread of her contempt.
    Prescott had not heard. “Darling,” he said, “you look lovelier every time I see you. One wouldn’t think it were possible.”
    “Seventh time,” said Dominique.
    “W hat?”
    “Seventh time that you’ve said it when meeting me, Gordon. I’m counting them.”
    “You simply won’t be serious, Dominique. You’ll never be serious.”
    “Oh, yes, Gordon. I was just having a very serious conversation here with my friend Peter Keating.”
    A lady waved to Prescott and he accepted the opportunity, escaping, looking very foolish. And Keating delighted in the thought that she had dismissed another man for a conversation she wished to continue with her friend Peter Keating.
    But when he turned to her, she asked sweetly: “What was it we were talking about, Mr. Keating?” And then she was staring with too great an interest across the room, at the wizened figure of a little man coughing over a whisky glass. “Why,” said Keating, “we were…”
    “Oh, there’s Eugene Pettingill. My great favorite. I must say hello to Eugene.”
    And she was up, moving across the room, her body leaning back as she walked, moving toward the most unattractive septuagenarian present.
    Keating did not know whether he had been made to join the brotherhood of Gordon L. Prescott, or whether it had been only an accident.
    He returned to the ballroom reluctantly. He forced himself to join groups of guests and to talk. He watched Dominique Francon as she moved through the crowd, as she stopped in conversation with others. She never glanced at him again. He could not decide whether he had succeeded with her or failed miserably.
    He managed to be at the door when she was leaving. She stopped and smiled at him enchantingly.
    “No,” she said, before he could utter a word, “you can’t take me home. I have a car waiting. Thank you just the same.”
    She was gone and he stood at the door, helpless and thinking furiously that he believed he was blushing.
    He felt a soft hand on his shoulder and turned to find Francon beside him. “Going home, Peter? Let me give you a lift.”
”But I thought you had to be at the club by seven.”
    “Oh, that’s all right, I’ll be a little late, doesn’t matter, I’ll drive you home, no trouble at all.” There was a peculiar expression of purpose on Francon’s face, quite unusual for him and unbecoming.
    Keating followed him silently, amused, and said nothing when they were alone in the comfortable twilight of Francon’s car.
    “Well?” Francon asked ominously.
    Keating smiled. “You’re a pig, Guy. You don’t know how to appreciate what you’ve got. Why didn’t you tell me? She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Francon darkly. “Maybe that’s the trouble.” “What trouble? Where do you see any trouble?”
    “What do you really think of her, Peter? Forget the looks. You’ll see how quickly you’ll forget that. What do you think?”
    “Well, I think she has a great deal of character.” “Thanks for the understatement.”
    Francon was gloomily silent, and then he said with an awkward little note of something like hope in his voice:
    “You know, Peter, I was surprised. I watched you, and you had quite a long chat with her. That’s amazing. I fully expected her to chase you away with one nice, poisonous crack. Maybe you could get along with her, after all. I’ve concluded that you just can’t tell anything about her. Maybe…You know, Peter, what I wanted to tell you is this: Don’t pay any attention to what she said about my wanting you to be horrible with her.”
    The heavy earnestness of that sentence was such a hint that Keating’s lips moved to shape a soft whistle, but he caught himself in time. Francon added heavily: “I don’t want you to be horrible with her at all.”
    “You know, Guy,” said Keating, in a tone of patronizing reproach, “you shouldn’t have run away like that.”
    “I never know how to speak to her.” He sighed. “I’ve never learned to. I can’t understand what in blazes is the matter with her, but something is. She just won’t behave like a human being. You know, she’s been expelled from two finishing schools. How she ever got through college I can’t imagine, but I can tell you that I dreaded to open my mail for four solid years, waiting for word of the inevitable. Then I thought, well, once she’s on her own I’m through and I don’t have to worry about it, but she’s worse than ever.”
    “What do you find to worry about?”
    “I don’t. I try not to. I’m glad when I don’t have to think of her at all. I can’t help it, I just wasn’t cut out for a father. But sometimes I get to feel that it’s my responsibility after all, though God knows I don’t want it, but still there it is, I should do something about it, there’s no one else to assume it.”
    “You’ve let her frighten you, Guy, and really there’s nothing to be afraid of.” “You don’t think so?”
”No.”
    “Maybe you’re the man to handle her. I don’t regret your meeting her now, and you know that I didn’t want you to. Yes, I think you’re the one man who could handle her. You…you’re quite determined–aren’t you, Peter?–when you’re after something?”
    “Well,” said Keating, throwing one hand up in a careless gesture, “I’m not afraid very often.”
    Then he leaned back against the cushions, as if he were tired, as if he had heard nothing of importance, and he kept silent for the rest of the drive. Francon kept silent also.
#
    “Boys,” said John Erik Snyte, “don’t spare yourselves on this. It’s the most important thing we’ve had this year. Not much money, you understand, but the prestige, the connections! If we do land it, won’t some of those great architects turn green! You see, Austen Heller has told me frankly that we’re the third firm he’s approached. He would have none of what those big fellows tried to sell him. So it’s up to us, boys. You know, something different, unusual, but in good taste, and you know, different. Now do your best.”
    His five designers sat in a semicircle before him. “Gothic” looked bored and “Miscellaneous” looked discouraged in advance; “Renaissance” was following the course of a fly on the ceiling. Roark asked:
    “What did he actually say, Mr. Snyte?”
    Snyte shrugged and looked at Roark with amusement, as if he and Roark shared a shameful secret about the new client, not worth mentioning.
    “Nothing that makes great sense–quite between us, boys,” said Snyte. “He was somewhat inarticulate, considering his great command of the English language in print. He admitted he knew nothing about architecture. He didn’t say whether he wanted it modernistic or period or what. He said something to the effect that he wanted a house of his own, but he’s hesitated for a long time about building one because all houses look alike to him and they all look like hell and he doesn’t see how anyone can become enthusiastic about any house, and yet he has the idea that he wants a building he could love. ‘A building that would mean something’ is what he said, though he added that he ‘didn’t know what or how.’ There. That’s about all he said. Not much to go on, and I wouldn’t have undertaken to submit sketches if it weren’t Austen Heller. But I grant you that it doesn’t make sense….What’s the matter, Roark?”
    “Nothing,” said Roark.
This ended the first conference on the subject of a residence for Austen Heller.
    Later that day Snyte crowded his five designers into a train, and they went to Connecticut to see the site Heller had chosen. They stood on a lonely, rocky stretch of shore, three miles beyond an unfashionable little town; they munched sandwiches and peanuts, and they looked at a cliff rising in broken ledges from the ground to end in a straight, brutal, naked drop over the sea, a vertical shaft of rock forming a cross with the long, pale horizontal of the sea.
    “There,” said Snyte. “That’s it.” He twirled a pencil in his hand. “Damnable, eh?” He sighed. “I tried to suggest a more respectable location, but he didn’t take it so well so I had to shut up.” He twirled the pencil. “That’s where he wants the house, right on top of that rock.” He scratched the tip of his nose with the point of the pencil. “I tried to suggest setting it farther back from the shore and keeping the damn rock for a view, but that didn’t go so well either.” He bit the eraser between the tips of his teeth. “Just think of the blasting, the leveling one’s got to do on that top.” He cleaned his fingernail with the lead, leaving a black mark. “Well, that’s that….Observe the grade, and the quality of the stone. The approach will be difficult….I have all the surveys and the photographs in the office….Well…Who’s got a cigarette?…Well, I think that’s about all….I’ll help you with suggestions anytime….Well…What time is that damn train back?”
    Thus the five designers were started on their task. Four of them proceeded immediately at their drawing boards. Roark returned alone to the site, many times.
    Roark’s five months with Snyte stretched behind him like a blank. Had he wished to ask himself what he had felt, he would have found no answer, save in the fact that he remembered nothing of these months. He could remember each sketch he had made. He could, if he tried, remember what had happened to those sketches; he did not try.
    But he had not loved any of them as he loved the house of Austen Heller. He stayed in the drafting room through evening after evening, alone with a sheet of paper and the thought of a cliff over the sea. No one saw his sketches until they were finished.
    When they were finished, late one night, he sat at his table, with the sheets spread before him, sat for many hours, one hand propping his forehead, the other hanging by his side, blood gathering in the fingers, numbing them, while the street beyond the window became deep blue, then pale gray. He did not look at the sketches. He felt empty and very tired.
    The house on the sketches had been designed not by Roark, but by the cliff on which it stood. It was as if the cliff had grown and completed itself and proclaimed the purpose for which it had been waiting. The house was broken into many levels, following the ledges of the rock,
    rising as it rose, in gradual masses, in planes flowing together up into one consummate harmony. The walls, of the same granite as the rock, continued its vertical lines upward; the wide, projecting terraces of concrete, silver as the sea, followed the line of the waves, of the straight horizon.
    Roark was still sitting at his table when the men returned to begin their day in the drafting room. Then the sketches were sent to Snyte’s office.
    Two days later, the final version of the house to be submitted to Austen Heller, the version chosen and edited by John Erik Snyte, executed by the Chinese artist, lay swathed in tissue paper on a table. It was Roark’s house. His competitors had been eliminated. It was Roark’s house, but its walls were now of red brick, its windows were cut to conventional size and equipped with green shutters, two of its projecting wings were omitted, the great cantilevered terrace over the sea was replaced by a little wrought-iron balcony, and the house was provided with an entrance of Ionic columns supporting a broken pediment, and with a little spire supporting a weather vane.
    John Erik Snyte stood by the table, his two hands spread in the air over the sketch, without touching the virgin purity of its delicate colors.
    “That is what Mr. Heller had in mind, I’m sure,” he said. “Pretty good…Yes, pretty good…Roark, how many times do I have to ask you not to smoke around a final sketch? Stand away. You’ll get ashes on it.”
    Austen Heller was expected at twelve o’clock. But at half past eleven Mrs. Symington arrived unannounced and demanded to see Mr. Snyte immediately. Mrs. Symington was an imposing dowager who had just moved into her new residence designed by Mr. Snyte; besides, Snyte expected a commission for an apartment house from her brother. He could not refuse to see her and he bowed her into his office, where she proceeded to state without reticence of expression that the ceiling of her library had cracked and the bay windows of her drawing room were hidden under a perpetual veil of moisture which she could not combat. Snyte summoned his chief engineer and they launched together into detailed explanations, apologies and damnations of contractors. Mrs. Symington showed no sign of relenting when a signal buzzed on Snyte’s desk and the reception clerk’s voice announced Austen Heller.
    It would have been impossible to ask Mrs. Symington to leave or Austen Heller to wait. Snyte solved the problem by abandoning her to the soothing speech of his engineer and excusing himself for a moment. Then he emerged into the reception room, shook Heller’s hand and suggested: “Would you mind stepping into the drafting room, Mr. Heller? Better light in there, you know, and the sketch is all ready for you, and I didn’t want to take the chance of moving it.”
    Heller did not seem to mind. He followed Snyte obediently into the drafting room, a tall, broad- shouldered figure in English tweeds, with sandy hair and a square face drawn in countless creases around the ironical calm of the eyes.
    The sketch lay on the Chinese artist’s table, and the artist stepped aside diffidently, in silence. The next table was Roark’s. He stood with his back to Heller; he went on with his drawing, and did not turn. The employees had been trained not to intrude on the occasions when Snyte brought a client into the drafting room.
    Snyte’s fingertips lifted the tissue paper, as if raising the veil of a bride. Then he stepped back and watched Heller’s face. Heller bent down and stood hunched, drawn, intent, saying nothing for a long time.
    “Listen, Mr. Snyte,” he began at last. “Listen, I think…” and stopped.
Snyte waited patiently, pleased, sensing the approach of something he didn’t want to disturb.
    “This,” said Heller suddenly, loudly, slamming his fist down on the drawing, and Snyte winced, “this is the nearest anyone’s ever come to it!”
    “I knew you’d like it, Mr. Heller,” said Snyte.
    “I don’t,” said Heller. Snyte blinked and waited.
    “It’s so near somehow,” said Heller regretfully, “but it’s not right. I don’t know where, but it’s not. Do forgive me, if this sounds vague, but I like things at once or I don’t. I know that I wouldn’t be comfortable, for instance, with that entrance. It’s a lovely entrance, but you won’t even notice it because you’ve seen it so often.”
    “Ah, but allow me to point out a few considerations, Mr. Heller. One wants to be modern, of course, but one wants to preserve the appearance of a home. A combination of stateliness and coziness, you understand, a very austere house like this must have a few softening touches. It is strictly correct architecturally.”
    “No doubt,” said Heller. “I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve never been strictly correct in my life.” “Just let me explain this scheme and you’ll see that it’s…”
    “I know,” said Heller wearily. “I know. I’m sure you’re right. Only…” His voice had a sound of the eagerness he wished he could feel. “Only, if it had some unity, some…some central idea…which is there and isn’t…if it seemed to live…which it doesn’t…It lacks something and it has too much….If it were cleaner, more clear-cut…what’s the word I’ve heard used?–if it were integrated….”
    Roark turned. He was at the other side of the table. He seized the sketch, his hand flashed forward and a pencil ripped across the drawing, slashing raw black lines over the untouchable water-color. The lines blasted off the Ionic columns, the pediment, the entrance, the spire, the blinds, the bricks; they flung up two wings of stone; they rent the windows wide; they splintered the balcony and hurled a terrace over the sea.
    It was being done before the others had grasped the moment when it began. Then Snyte jumped forward, but Heller seized his wrist and stopped him. Roark’s hand went on razing walls, splitting, rebuilding in furious strokes.
    Roark threw his head up once, for a flash of a second, to look at Heller across the table. It was all the introduction they needed; it was like a handshake. Roark went on, and when he threw the pencil down, the house–as he had designed it–stood completed in an ordered pattern of black streaks. The performance had not lasted five minutes.
    Snyte made an attempt at a sound. As Heller said nothing, Snyte felt free to whirl on Roark and scream: “You’re fired, God damn you! Get out of here! You’re fired!”
    “We’re both fired,” said Austen Heller, winking to Roark. “Come on. Have you had any lunch? Let’s go some place. I want to talk to you.”
    Roark went to his locker to get his hat and coat. The drafting room witnessed a stupefying act and all work stopped to watch it: Austen Heller picked up the sketch, folded it over four times, cracking the sacred cardboard, and slipped it into his pocket.
    “But, Mr. Heller…” Snyte stammered, “let me explain…It’s perfectly all right if that’s what you want, we’ll do the sketch over…let me explain…”
    “Not now,” said Heller. “Not now.” He added at the door: “I’ll send you a check.”
    Then Heller was gone, and Roark with him; and the door, as Heller swung it shut behind them, sounded like the closing paragraph in one of Heller’s articles. Roark had not said a word.
    In the softly lighted booth of the most expensive restaurant that Roark had ever entered, across the crystal and silver glittering between them, Heller was saying:
    “…because that’s the house I want, because that’s the house I’ve always wanted. Can you build it for me, draw up the plans and supervise the construction?”
    “Yes,” said Roark.
    “How long will it take if we start at once?”
    “About eight months.”
    “I’ll have the house by late fall?”
    “Yes.”
    “Just like that sketch?”
    “Just like that.”
    “Look, I have no idea what kind of a contract one makes with an architect and you must know, so draw up one and let my lawyer okay it this afternoon, will you?”
    “Yes.”
    Heller studied the man who sat facing him. He saw the hand lying on the table before him. Heller’s awareness became focused on that hand. He saw the long fingers, the sharp joints, the prominent veins. He had the feeling that he was not hiring this man, but surrendering himself into his employment. “How old are you,” asked Heller, “whoever you are?”
    “Twenty-six. Do you want any references?”
    “Hell, no. I have them, here in my pocket. What’s your name?”
    “Howard Roark.”
    Heller produced a checkbook, spread it open on the table and reached for his fountain pen.
    “Look,” he said, writing, “I’ll give you five hundred dollars on account. Get yourself an office or whatever you have to get, and go ahead.”
    He tore off the check and handed it to Roark, between the tips of two straight fingers, leaning forward on his elbow, swinging his wrist in a sweeping curve. His eyes were narrowed, amused, watching Roark quizzically. But the gesture had the air of a salute.
    The check was made out to “Howard Roark, Architect.”
    11.
HOWARD ROARK opened his own office.
    It was one large room on the top of an old building, with a broad window high over the roofs. He could see the distant band of the Hudson at his window sill, with the small streaks of ships moving under his fingertips when he pressed them to the glass. He had a desk, two chairs, and a huge drafting table. The glass entrance door bore the words: “Howard Roark, Architect.” He stood in the hall for a long time, looking at the words. Then he went in, and slammed his door, he picked up a T-square from the table and flung it down again, as if throwing an anchor.
    John Erik Snyte had objected. When Roark came to the office for his drawing instruments Snyte emerged into the reception room, shook his hand warmly and said: “Well, Roark! Well, how are you? Come in, come right in, I want to speak to you!”
    And with Roark seated before his desk Snyte proceeded loudly:
”Look, fellow, I hope you’ve got sense enough not to hold it against me, anything that I
    might’ve said yesterday. You know how it is, I lost my head a little, and it wasn’t what you did, but that you had to go and do it on that sketch, that sketch…well, never mind. No hard feelings?”
    “No,” said Roark. “None at all.”
    “Of course, you’re not fired. You didn’t take me seriously, did you? You can go right back to work here this very minute.”
    “What for, Mr. Snyte?”
    “What do you mean, what for? Oh, you’re thinking of the Heller house? But you’re not taking Heller seriously, are you? You saw how he is, that madman can change his mind sixty times a minute. He won’t really give you that commission, you know, it isn’t as simple as that, it isn’t being done that way.”
    “We’ve signed the contract yesterday.”
    “Oh, you have? Well, that’s splendid! Well, look, Roark, I’ll tell you what we’ll do: you bring the commission back to us and I’ll let you put your name on it with mine–‘John Erik Snyte & Howard Roark.’ And we’ll split the fee. That’s in addition to your salary–and you’re getting a raise, incidentally. Then we’ll have the same arrangement on any other commission you bring in. And…Lord, man, what are you laughing at?”
    “Excuse me, Mr. Snyte. I’m sorry.”
    “I don’t believe you understand,” said Snyte, bewildered. “Don’t you see? It’s your insurance. You don’t want to break loose just yet. Commissions won’t fall into your lap like this. Then what will you do? This way, you’ll have a steady job and you’ll be building toward independent practice, if that’s what you’re after. In four or five years, you’ll be ready to take the leap. That’s the way everybody does it. You see?”
    “Yes.”
”Then you agree?” “No.”
    “But, good Lord, man, you’ve lost your mind! To set up alone now! Without experience, without connections, without…well, without anything at all! I never heard of such a thing. Ask anybody in the profession. See what they’ll tell you. It’s preposterous!”
    “Probably.”
”Listen. Roark, won’t you please listen?”
    “I’ll listen if you want me to, Mr. Snyte. But I think I should tell you now that nothing you can say will make any difference. If you don’t mind that, I don’t mind listening.”
    Snyte went on speaking for a long time and Roark listened, without objecting, explaining or answering.
    “Well, if that’s how you are, don’t expect me to take you back when you find yourself on the pavement.”
    “I don’t expect it, Mr. Snyte.”
    “Don’t expect anyone else in the profession to take you in, after they hear what you’ve done to me.”
    “I don’t expect that either.”
For a few days Snyte thought of suing Roark and Heller. But he decided against it, because
    there was no precedent to follow under the circumstances: because Heller had paid him for his efforts, and the house had been actually designed by Roark; and because no one ever sued Austen Heller. The first visitor to Roark’s office was Peter Keating. He walked in, without warning, one noon, walked straight across the room and sat down on Roark’s desk, smiling gaily, spreading his arms wide in a sweeping gesture: “Well, Howard!” he said. “Well, fancy that!” He had not seen Roark for a year. “Hello, Peter,” said Roark.
    “Your own office, your own name and everything! Already! Just imagine!” “Who told you, Peter?”
    “Oh, one hears things. You wouldn’t expect me not to keep track of your career, now would you? You know what I’ve always thought of you. And I don’t have to tell you that I congratulate you and wish you the very best.”
    “No, you don’t have to.”
    “Nice place you got here. Light and roomy. Not quite as imposing as it should be, perhaps, but what can one expect at the beginning? And then, the prospects are uncertain, aren’t they, Howard?”
    “Quite.”
    “It’s an awful chance that you’ve taken.”
    “Probably.”
    “Are you really going to go through with it? I mean, on your
    own?”
    “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
    “Well, it’s not too late, you know. I thought, when I heard the story, that you’d surely turn it over to Snyte and make a smart deal with him.”
    “I didn’t.”
”Aren’t you really going to?” “No.”
    Keating wondered why he should experience that sickening feeling of resentment; why he had come here hoping to find the story untrue, hoping to find Roark uncertain and willing to surrender. That feeling had haunted him ever since he’d heard the news about Roark; the sensation of something unpleasant that remained after he’d forgotten the cause. The feeling would come back to him, without reason, a blank wave of anger, and he would ask himself: now what the hell?–what was it I heard today? Then he would remember: Oh, yes, Roark– Roark’s opened his own office. He would ask himself impatiently: So what?–and know at the same time that the words were painful to face, and humiliating like an insult.
    “You know, Howard, I admire your courage. Really, you know, I’ve had much more experience and I’ve got more of a standing in the profession, don’t mind my saying it–I’m only speaking objectively–but I wouldn’t dare take such a step.”
    “No, you wouldn’t.”
    “So you’ve made the jump first. Well, well. Who would have thought it?…I wish you all the luck in the world.”
    “Thank you, Peter.”
”I know you’ll succeed. I’m sure of it.”
    “Are you?”
    “Of course! Of course, I am. Aren’t you?”
    “I haven’t thought of it.”
    “You haven’t thought of it?”
    “Not much.”
    “Then you’re not sure, Howard? You aren’t?”
    “Why do you ask that so eagerly?”
    “What? Why…no, not eagerly, but of course, I’m concerned, Howard, it’s bad psychology not to be certain now, in your position. So you have doubts?”
    “None at all.”
    “But you said…”
    “I’m quite sure of things, Peter.”
    “Have you thought about getting your registration?”
    “I’ve applied for it.”
    “You’ve got no college degree, you know. They’ll make it difficult for you at the examination.”
    “Probably.”
    “What are you going to do if you don’t get the license?”
    “I’ll get it.”
    “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you now at the A.G.A., if you don’t go high hat on me, because you’ll be a full-fledged member and I’m only a junior.”
    “I’m not joining the A.G.A.”
    “What do you mean, you’re not joining? You’re eligible now.”
    “Possibly.”
    “You’ll be invited to join.”
    “Tell them not to bother.”
    “What!”
    “You know, Peter, we had a conversation just like this seven years ago, when you tried to talk me into joining your fraternity at Stanton. Don’t start it again.”
    “You won’t join the A.G.A. when you have a chance to?” “I won’t join anything, Peter, at any time.”
”But don’t you realize how it helps?”
”In what?”
    “In being an architect.”
    “I don’t like to be helped in being an architect.” “You’re just making things harder for yourself.” “I am.”
”And it will be plenty hard, you know.”
    “I know.”
”You’ll make enemies of them if you refuse such an invitation.” “I’ll make enemies of them anyway.”
    The first person to whom Roark had told the news was Henry Cameron. Roark went to New Jersey the day after he signed the contract with Heller. It had rained and he found Cameron in the garden, shuffling slowly down the damp paths, leaning heavily on a cane. In the past winter, Cameron had improved enough to walk a few hours each day. He walked with effort, his body bent.
    He looked at the first shoots of green on the earth under his feet. He lifted his cane, once in a while, bracing his legs to stand firm for a moment; with the tip of the cane, he touched a folded green cup and watched it spill a glistening drop in the twilight. He saw Roark coming up the hill, and frowned. He had seen Roark only a week ago, and because these visits meant too much to both of them, neither wished the occasion to be too frequent.
    “Well?” Cameron asked gruffly. “What do you want here again?” “I have something to tell you.”
”It can wait.”
”I don’t think so.”
    “W ell?”
”I’m opening my own office. I’ve just signed for my first building.”
    Cameron rotated his cane, the tip pressed into the earth, the shaft describing a wide circle, his two hands bearing down on the handle, the palm of one on the back of the other. His head nodded slowly, in rhythm with the motion, for a long time, his eyes closed. Then he looked at Roark and said:
    “Well, don’t brag about it.”
    He added: “Help me to sit down.” It was the first time Cameron had ever pronounced this sentence; his sister and Roark had long since learned that the one outrage forbidden in his presence was any intention of helping him to move.
    Roark took his elbow and led him to a bench. Cameron asked harshly, staring ahead at the sunset:
    “What? For whom? How much?”
    He listened silently to Roark’s story. He looked for a long time at the sketch on cracked cardboard with the pencil lines over the watercolor. Then he asked many questions about the stone, the steel, the roads, the contractors, the costs. He offered no congratulations. He made no comment.
    Only when Roark was leaving, Cameron said suddenly:
”Howard, when you open your office, take snapshots of it–and show them to me.”
    Then he shook his head, looked away guiltily, and swore. “I’m being senile. Forget it.”
Roark said nothing.
    Three days later he came back. “You’re getting to be a nuisance,” said Cameron. Roark handed him an envelope, without a word. Cameron looked at the snapshots, at the one of the broad, bare office, of the wide window, of the entrance door. He dropped the others, and held the one of the entrance door for a long time.
    “Well,” he said at last, “I did live to see it.”
    He dropped the snapshot.
    “Not quite exactly,” he added. “Not in the way I had wanted to, but I did. It’s like the shadows some say we’ll see of the earth in that other world. Maybe that’s how I’ll see the rest of it. I’m learning.”
    He picked up the snapshot. “Howard,” he said. “Look at it.” He held it between them.
    “It doesn’t say much. Only ‘Howard Roark, Architect.’ But it’s like those mottoes men carved over the entrance of a castle and died for. It’s a challenge in the face of something so vast and so dark, that all the pain on earth–and do you know how much suffering there is on earth?–all the pain comes from that thing you are going to face. I don’t know what it is, I don’t know why it should be unleashed against you. I know only that it will be. And I know that if you carry these words through to the end, it will be a victory, Howard, not just for you, but for something that should win, that moves the world–and never wins acknowledgment. It will vindicate so many who have fallen before you, who have suffered as you will suffer. May God bless you–or whoever it is that is alone to see the best, the highest possible to human hearts. You’re on your way into hell, Howard.”
#
    Roark walked up the path to the top of the cliff where the steel hulk of the Heller house rose into a blue sky. The skeleton was up and the concrete was being poured; the great mats of the terraces hung over the silver sheet of water quivering far below; plumbers and electricians had started laying their conduits.
    He looked at the squares of sky delimited by the slender lines of girders and columns, the empty cubes of space he had torn out of the sky. His hands moved involuntarily, filling in the planes of walls to come, enfolding the future rooms. A stone clattered from under his feet and went bouncing down the hill, resonant drops of sound rolling in the sunny clarity of the summer air.
    He stood on the summit, his legs planted wide apart, leaning back against space. He looked at the materials before him, the knobs of rivets in steel, the sparks in blocks of stone, the weaving spirals in fresh, yellow planks.
    Then he saw a husky figure enmeshed in electric wires, a bulldog face spreading into a huge grin and china-blue eyes gloating in a kind of unholy triumph.
    “Mike!” he said incredulously.
    Mike had left for a big job in Philadelphia months ago, long before the appearance of Heller in Snyte’s office, and Mike had never heard the news–or so he supposed.
    “Hello, Red,” said Mike, much too casually, and added: “Hello, boss.”
    “Mike, how did you…?”
    “You’re a hell of an architect. Neglecting the job like that. It’s my third day here, waiting for you to show up.”
    “Mike, how did you get here? Why such a come-down?” He had never known Mike to bother with small private residences.
    “Don’t play the sap. You know how I got here. You didn’t think I’d miss it, your first house, did you? And you think it’s a come-down? Well, maybe it is. And maybe it’s the other way around.”
    Roark extended his hand and Mike’s grimy fingers closed about it ferociously, as if the smudges he left implanted in Roark’s skin said everything he wanted to say. And because he was afraid that he might say it, Mike growled:
    “Run along, boss, run along. Don’t clog up the works like that.”
    Roark walked through the house. There were moments when he could be precise, impersonal, and stop to give instructions as if this were not his house but only a mathematical problem; when he felt the existence of pipes and rivets, while his own person vanished.
    There were moments when something rose within him, not a thought nor a feeling, but a wave of some physical violence, and then he wanted to stop, to lean back, to feel the reality of his person heightened by the frame of steel that rose dimly about the bright, outstanding existence of his body as its center. He did not stop. He went on calmly. But his hands betrayed what he wanted to hide. His hands reached out, ran slowly down the beams and joints. The workers in the house had noticed it. They said: “That guy’s in love with the thing. He can’t keep his hands off.”
    The workers liked him. The contractor’s superintendents did not. He had had trouble in finding a contractor to erect the house. Several of the better firms had refused the commission. “We don’t do that kinda stuff.”
    “Nan, we won’t bother. Too complicated for a small job like that.”
    “Who the hell wants that kind of house? Most likely we’ll never collect from the crank afterwards. To hell with it.”
    “Never did anything like it. Wouldn’t know how to go about it. I’ll stick to construction that is construction.” One contractor had looked at the plans briefly and thrown them aside, declaring with finality: “It won’t stand.”
    “It will,” said Roark. The contractor drawled indifferently. “Yeah? And who are you to tell me, Mister?”
    He had found a small firm that needed the work and undertook it, charging more than the job warranted–on the ground of the chance they were taking with a queer experiment. The construction went on, and the foremen obeyed sullenly, in disapproving silence, as if they were waiting for their predictions to come true and would be glad when the house collapsed about their heads. Roark had bought an old Ford and drove down to the job more often than was necessary. It was difficult to sit at a desk in his office, to stand at a table, forcing himself to stay away from the construction site. At the site there were moments when he wished to forget his office and his drawing board, to seize the men’s tools and go to work on the actual erection of the house, as he had worked in his childhood, to build that house with his own hands.
    He walked through the structure, stepping lightly over piles of planks and coils of wire, he made notes, he gave brief orders in a harsh voice. He avoided looking in Mike’s direction. But Mike was watching him, following his progress through the house. Mike winked at him in understanding, whenever he passed by. Mike said once:
    “Control yourself, Red. You’re open like a book. God, it’s indecent to be so happy!”
    Roark stood on the cliff, by the structure, and looked at the countryside, at the long, gray ribbon of the road twisting past along the shore. An open car drove by, fleeing into the country. The car was overfilled with people bound for a picnic. There was a jumble of bright sweaters, and scarves fluttering in the wind; a jumble of voices shrieking without purpose over the roar of the motor, and overstressed hiccoughs of laughter; a girl sat sidewise, her legs flung over the side of the car; she wore a man’s straw hat slipping down to her nose and she yanked savagely at the strings of a ukulele, ejecting raucous sounds, yelling “Hey!” These people were enjoying a day of their existence; they were shrieking to the sky their release from the work and the burdens of the days behind them; they had worked and carried the burdens in order to reach a goal–and this was the goal.
    He looked at the car as it streaked past. He thought that there was a difference, some important difference, between the consciousness of this day in him and in them. He thought that he should try to grasp it. But he forgot. He was looking at a truck panting up the hill, loaded with a glittering mound of cut granite.
#
    Austen Heller came to look at the house frequently, and watched it grow, curious, still a little astonished. He studied Roark and the house with the same meticulous scrutiny; he felt as if he could not quite tell them apart.
    Heller, the fighter against compulsion, was baffled by Roark, a man so impervious to compulsion that he became a kind of compulsion himself, an ultimatum against things Heller could not define. Within a week, Heller knew that he had found the best friend he would ever have; and he knew that the friendship came from Roark’s fundamental indifference. In the deeper reality of Roark’s existence there was no consciousness of Heller, no need for Heller, no appeal, no demand. Heller felt a line drawn, which he could not touch; beyond that line, Roark asked nothing of him and granted him nothing. But when Roark looked at him with approval, when Roark smiled, when Roark praised one of his articles, Heller felt the strangely clean joy of a sanction that was neither a bribe nor alms.
    In the summer evenings they sat together on a ledge halfway up the hill, and talked while darkness mounted slowly up the beams of the house above them, the last sunrays retreating to the tips of the steel uprights.
    “What is it that I like so much about the house you’re building for me, Howard?” “A house can have integrity, just like a person,” said Roark, “and just as seldom.” “In what way?”
    “Well, look at it. Every piece of it is there because the house needs it–and for no other reason. You see it from here as it is inside. The rooms in which you’ll live made the shape. The relation of masses was determined by the distribution of space within. The ornament was determined by the method of construction, an emphasis of the principle that makes it stand. You can see each stress, each support that meets it. Your own eyes go through a structural process when you look at the house, you can follow each step, you see it rise, you know what made it and why it stands. But you’ve seen buildings with columns that support nothing, with purposeless cornices, with pilasters, moldings, false arches, false windows. You’ve seen buildings that look as if they contained a single large hall, they have solid columns and single, solid windows six floors high. But you enter and find six stories inside. Or buildings that contain a single hall, but with a facade cut up into floor lines, band courses, tiers of windows. Do you understand the difference? Your house is made by its own needs. Those others are made by the need to impress. The determining motive of your house is in the house. The determining motive of the others is in the audience.”
    “Do you know that that’s what I’ve felt in a way? I’ve felt that when I move into this house, I’ll have a new sort of existence, and even my simple daily routine will have a kind of honesty or dignity that I can’t quite define. Don’t be astonished if I tell you that I feel as if I’ll have to live up to that house.”
    “I intended that,” said Roark.
    “And, incidentally, thank you for all the thought you seem to have taken about my comfort. There are so many things I notice that had never occurred to me before, but you’ve planned them as if you knew all my needs. For instance, my study is the room I’ll need most and you’ve given it the dominant spot–and, incidentally, I see where you’ve made it the dominant mass from the outside, too. And then the way it connects with the library, and the living room well out of my way, and the guest rooms where I won’t hear too much of them–and all that. You were very considerate of me.”
    “You know,” said Roark. “I haven’t thought of you at all. I thought of the house.” He added: “Perhaps that’s why I knew how to be considerate of you.”
#
    The Heller house was completed in November of 1926.
    In January of 1927 the Architectural Tribune published a survey of the best American homes erected during the past year. It devoted twelve large, glossy pages to photographs of the twenty-four houses its editors had selected as the worthiest architectural achievements. The Heller house was not mentioned.
    The real-estate sections of the New York papers presented, each Sunday, brief accounts of the notable new residences in the vicinity. There was no account of the Heller house.
    The year book of the Architects’ Guild of America, which presented magnificent reproductions of what it chose as the best buildings of the country, under the title “Looking Forward,” gave no reference to the Heller house.
    There were many occasions when lecturers rose to platforms and addressed trim audiences on the subject of the progress of American architecture. No one spoke of the Heller house.
    In the club rooms of the A.G.A. some opinions were expressed.
    “It’s a disgrace to the country,” said Ralston Holcombe, “that a thing like that Heller house is allowed to be erected. It’s a blot on the profession. There ought to be a law.”
    “That’s what drives clients away,” said John Erik Snyte. “They see a house like that and they think all architects are crazy.”
    “I see no cause for indignation,” said Gordon L. Prescott. “I think it’s screamingly funny. It looks like a cross between a filling station and a comic-strip idea of a rocket ship to the moon.”
    “You watch it in a couple of years,” said Eugene Pettingill, “and see what happens. The thing’ll collapse like a house of cards.”
    “Why speak in terms of years?” said Guy Francon. “Those modernistic stunts never last more than a season. The owner will get good and sick of it and he’ll come running home to a good old early Colonial.”
    The Heller house acquired fame throughout the countryside surrounding it. People drove out of their way to park on the road before it, to stare, point and giggle. Gas-station attendants snickered when Heller’s car drove past. Heller’s cook had to endure the derisive glances of shopkeepers when she went on her errands. The Heller house was known in the neighborhood as “The Booby Hatch.”
    Peter Keating told his friends in the profession, with an indulgent smile: “Now, now, you shouldn’t say that about him. I’ve known Howard Roark for a long time, and he’s got quite a talent, quite. He’s even worked for me once. He’s just gone haywire on that house. He’ll learn. He has a future….Oh, you don’t think he has? You really don’t think he has?”
    Ellsworth M. Toohey, who let no stone spring from the ground of America without his comment, did not know that the Heller house had been erected, as far as his column was concerned. He did not consider it necessary to inform his readers about it, if only to damn it. He said nothing.
    12.
    A COLUMN entitled “Observations and Meditations” by Alvah Scarret appeared daily on the front page of the New York Banner. It was a trusted guide, a source of inspiration and a molder of public philosophy in small towns throughout the country. In this column there had appeared, years ago, the famous statement: “We’d all be a heap sight better off if we’d forget the highfalutin notions of our fancy civilization and mind more what the savages knew long before us: to honor our mother.” Alvah Scarret was a bachelor, had made two millions dollars, played golf expertly and was editor-in-chief of the Wynand papers.
    It was Alvah Scarret who conceived the idea of the campaign against living conditions in the slums and “Landlord Sharks,” which ran in the Banner for three weeks. This was material such as Alvah Scarret relished. It had human appeal and social implications. It lent itself to Sunday-supplement illustrations of girls leaping into rivers, their skirts flaring well above their knees. It boosted circulation. It embarrassed the sharks who owned a stretch of blocks by the East River, selected as the dire example of the campaign. The sharks had refused to sell these blocks to an obscure real-estate company; at the end of the campaign they surrendered and sold. No one could prove that the real-estate company was owned by a company owned by Gail Wynand.
    The Wynand papers could not be left without a campaign for long. They had just concluded one on the subject of modern aviation. They had run scientific accounts of the history of aviation in the Sunday Family Magazine supplement, with pictures ranging from Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings of flying machines to the latest bomber; with the added attraction of Icarus writhing in scarlet flames, his nude body blue-green, his wax wings yellow and the smoke purple; also of a leprous hag with flaming eyes and a crystal ball, who had predicted in the XIth century that man would fly; also of bats, vampires and werewolves.
    They had run a model plane construction contest; it was open to all boys under the age of ten who wished to send in three new subscriptions to the Banner. Gail Wynand, who was a licensed pilot, had made a solo flight from Los Angeles to New York, establishing a transcontinental speed record, in a small, specially built craft costing one hundred thousand dollars. He had made a slight miscalculation on reaching New York and had been forced to land in a rocky pasture; it had been a hair-raising landing, faultlessly executed; it had just so happened that a battery of photographers from the Banner were present in the neighborhood. Gail Wynand had stepped out of the plane. An ace pilot would have been shaken by the experience. Gail Wynand had stood before the cameras, an immaculate gardenia in the lapel of his flying jacket, his hand raised with a cigarette held between two fingers that did not tremble. When questioned about his first wish on returning to earth, he had expressed the desire to kiss the most attractive woman present, had chosen the dowdiest old hag from the crowd and bent to kiss her gravely on the forehead, explaining that she reminded him of his mother.
    Later, at the start of the slum campaign, Gail Wynand had said to Alvah Scarret; “Go ahead. Squeeze all you can out of the thing,” and had departed on his yacht for a world cruise, accompanied by an enchanting aviatrix of twenty-four to whom he had made a present of his transcontinental plane.
    Alvah Scarret went ahead. Among many other steps of his campaign he assigned Dominique Francon to investigate the condition of homes in the slums and to gather human material. Dominique Francon had just returned from a summer in Biarritz; she always took a whole summer’s vacation and Alvah Scarret granted it, because she was one of his favorite employees, because he was baffled by her and because he knew that she could quit her job whenever she pleased.
    Dominique Francon went to live for two weeks in the hall bedroom of an East-Side tenement. The room had a skylight, but no windows; there were five flights of stairs to climb and no running water. She cooked her own meals in the kitchen of a numerous family on the floor below; she visited neighbors, she sat on the landings of fire escapes in the evenings and went to dime movies with the girls of the neighborhood.
    She wore frayed skirts and blouses. The abnormal fragility of her normal appearance made her look exhausted with privation in these surroundings; the neighbors felt certain that she had TB. But she moved as she had moved in the drawing room of Kiki Holcombe–with the same cold poise and confidence. She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled potatoes, she bathed in a tin pan of cold water. She had never done these things before; she did them expertly. She had a capacity for action, a competence that clashed incongruously with her appearance. She did not mind this new background; she was indifferent to the slums as she had been indifferent to the drawing rooms.
    At the end of two weeks she returned to her penthouse apartment on the roof of a hotel over Central Park, and her articles on life in the slums appeared in the Banner. They were a merciless, brilliant account.
    She heard baffled questions at a dinner party. “My dear, you didn’t actually write those things?”
    “Dominique, you didn’t really live in that place?”
    “Oh, yes,” she answered. “The house you own on East Twelfth Street, Mrs. Palmer,” she said, her hand circling lazily from under the cuff of an emerald bracelet too broad and heavy for her thin wrist, “has a sewer that gets clogged every other day and runs over, all through the courtyard. It looks blue and purple in the sun, like a rainbow.”
    “The block you control for the Claridge estate, Mr. Brooks, has the most attractive stalactites growing on all the ceilings,” she said, her golden head leaning to her corsage of white gardenias with drops of water sparkling on the lusterless petals.
    She was asked to speak at a meeting of social workers. It was an important meeting, with a militant, radical mood, led by some of the most prominent women in the field. Alvah Scarret was pleased and gave her his blessing. “Go to it, kid,” he said, “lay it on thick. We want the social workers.” She stood in the speaker’s pulpit of an unaired hall and looked at a flat sheet of faces, faces lecherously eager with the sense of their own virtue. She spoke evenly, without inflection. She said, among many other things: “The family on the first floor rear do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school for lack of clothes. The father has a charge account at a corner speak-easy. He is in good health and has a good job….The couple on the second floor have just purchased a radio for sixty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents cash. In the fourth floor front, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children, supported by the local parish. There is a tenth one on its way…” When she finished there were a few claps of angry applause. She raised her hand and said: “You don’t have to applaud. I don’t expect it.” She asked politely: “Are there any questions?” There were no questions.
    When she returned home she found Alvah Scarret waiting for her. He looked incongruous in the drawing room of her penthouse, his huge bulk perched on the edge of a delicate chair, a hunched gargoyle against the glowing spread of the city beyond a solid wall of glass. The city was like a mural designed to illuminate and complete the room: the fragile lines of spires on a black sky continued the fragile lines of the furniture; the lights glittering in distant windows threw reflections on the bare, lustrous floor; the cold precision of the angular structures outside answered the cold, inflexible grace of every object within. Alvah Scarret broke the harmony. He looked like a kindly country doctor and like a cardsharp. His heavy face bore the benevolent, paternal smile that had always been his passkey and his trademark. He had the knack of making the kindliness of his smile add to, not detract from his solemn appearance of dignity; his long, thin, hooked nose did detract from the kindliness, but it added to the dignity; his stomach, cantilevered over his legs, did detract from the dignity, but it added to the kindliness. He rose, beamed and held Dominique’s hand. “Thought I’d drop in on my way home,” he said. “I’ve got something to tell you. How did it go, kid?”
    “As I expected it.”
    She tore her hat off and threw it down on the first chair in sight. Her hair slanted in a flat curve across her forehead and fell in a straight line to her shoulders; it looked smooth and tight, like a bathing cap of pale, polished metal. She walked to the window and stood looking out over the city. She asked without turning: “What did you want to tell me?”
    Alvah Scarret watched her pleasurably. He had long since given up any attempts beyond holding her hand when not necessary or patting her shoulder; he had stopped thinking of the subject, but he had a dim, half-conscious feeling which he summed up to himself in the words: You never can tell.
    “I’ve got good news for you, child,” he said. “I’ve been working out a little scheme, just a bit of reorganization, and I’ve figured where I’ll consolidate a few things together into a Women’s Welfare Department. You know, the schools, the home economics, the care of babies, the juvenile delinquents and all the rest of it–all to be under one head. And I see no better woman for the job than my little girl.”
    “Do you mean me?” she asked, without turning.
    “No one else but. Just as soon as Gail comes back, I’ll get his okay.”
    She turned and looked at him, her arms crossed, her hands holding her elbows. She said:
    “Thank you, Alvah. But I don’t want it.”
    “What do you mean, you don’t want it?”
    “I mean that I don’t want it.”
    “For heaven’s sake, do you realize what an advance that would be?”
    “Toward what?”
    “Your career.”
    “I never said I was planning a career.”
    “But you don’t want to be running a dinky back-page column forever!”
    “Not forever. Until I get bored with it.”
    “But think of what you could do in the real game! Think of what Gail could do for you once you come to his attention!”
    “I have no desire to come to his attention.”
    “But, Dominique, we need you. The women will be for you solid after tonight.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Why, I’ve ordered two columns held for a yarn on the meeting and your speech.”
    She reached for the telephone and handed the receiver to him. She said:
    “You’d better tell them to kill it.”
    “Why?”
    She searched through a litter of papers on a desk, found some typewritten sheets and handed them to him. “Here’s the speech I made tonight,” she said.
    He glanced through it. He said nothing, but clasped his forehead once. Then he seized the telephone and gave orders to run as brief an account of the meeting as possible, and not to mention the speaker by name.
    “All right,” said Dominique, when he dropped the receiver. “Am I fired?” He shook his head dolefully. “Do you want to be?”
    “Not necessarily.”
    “I’ll squash the business,” he muttered. “I’ll keep it from Gail.”
    “If you wish. I don’t really care one way or the other.”
    “Listen, Dominique–oh I know, I’m not to ask any questions–only why on earth are you always doing things like that?”
    “For no reason on earth.”
    “Look, you know, I’ve heard about that swank dinner where you made certain remarks on this same subject. And then you go and say things like these at a radical meeting.”
    “They’re true, though, both sides of it, aren’t they?”
”Oh, sure, but couldn’t you have reversed the occasions when you chose to express them?” “There wouldn’t have been any point in that.”
”Was there any in what you’ve done?”
”No. None at all. But it amused me.”
    “I can’t figure you out, Dominique. You’ve done it before. You go along so beautifully, you do brilliant work and just when you’re about to make a real step forward–you spoil it by pulling something like this. Why?”
    “Perhaps that is precisely why.”
    “Will you tell me–as a friend, because I like you and I’m interested in you–what are you really after?”
    “I should think that’s obvious. I’m after nothing at all.” He spread his hands open, shrugging helplessly. She smiled gaily.
    “What is there to look so mournful about? I like you, too, Alvah, and I’m interested in you. I even like to talk to you, which is better. Now sit still and relax and I’ll get you a drink. You need a drink, Alvah.”
    She brought him a frosted glass with ice cubes ringing in the silence. “You’re just a nice child, Dominique,” he said.
    “Of course. That’s what I am.”
    She sat down on the edge of a table, her hands flat behind her, leaning back on two straight arms, swinging her legs slowly. She said:
    “You know, Alvah, it would be terrible if I had a job I really wanted.”
”Well, of all things! Well, of all fool things to say! What do you mean?”
”Just that. That it would be terrible to have a job I enjoyed and did not want to lose.” “Why?”
    “Because I would have to depend on you–you’re a wonderful person, Alvah, but not exactly inspiring and I don’t think it would be beautiful to cringe before a whip in your hand–oh, don’t protest, it would be such a polite little whip, and that’s what would make it uglier. I would have
    to depend on our boss Gail–he’s a great man, I’m sure, only I’d just as soon never set eyes on him.”
    “Whatever gives you such a crazy attitude? When you know that Gail and I would do anything for you, and I personally…”
    “It’s not only that, Alvah. It’s not you alone. If I found a job, a project, an idea or a person I wanted–I’d have to depend on the whole world. Everything has strings leading to everything else. We’re all so tied together. We’re all in a net, the net is waiting, and we’re pushed into it by one single desire. You want a thing and it’s precious to you. Do you know who is standing ready to tear it out of your hands? You can’t know, it may be so involved and so far away, but someone is ready, and you’re afraid of them all. And you cringe and you crawl and you beg and you accept them–just so they’ll let you keep it. And look at whom you come to accept.”
    “If I’m correct in gathering that you’re criticizing mankind in general…”
    “You know, it’s such a peculiar thing–our idea of mankind in general. We all have a sort of vague, glowing picture when we say that, something solemn, big and important. But actually all we know of it is the people we meet in our lifetime. Look at them. Do you know any you’d feel big and solemn about? There’s nothing but housewives haggling at pushcarts, drooling brats who write dirty words on the sidewalks, and drunken debutantes. Or their spiritual equivalent. As a matter of fact, one can feel some respect for people when they suffer. They have a certain dignity. But have you ever looked at them when they’re enjoying themselves? That’s when you see the truth. Look at those who spend the money they’ve slaved for–at amusement parks and side shows. Look at those who’re rich and have the whole world open to them. Observe what they pick out for enjoyment. Watch them in the smarter speak-easies. That’s your mankind in general. I don’t want to touch it.”
    “But hell! That’s not the way to look at it. That’s not the whole picture. There’s some good in the worst of us. There’s always a redeeming feature.”
    “So much the worse. Is it an inspiring sight to see a man commit a heroic gesture, and then learn that he goes to vaudeville shows for relaxation? Or see a man who’s painted a magnificent canvas–and learn that he spends his time sleeping with every slut he meets?”
    “What do you want? Perfection?”
”–or nothing. So, you see, I take the nothing.”
”That doesn’t make sense.”
”I take the only desire one can really permit oneself. Freedom, Alvah, freedom.” “You call that freedom?”
”To ask nothing. To expect nothing. To depend on nothing.”
”What if you found something you wanted?”
    “I won’t find it. I won’t choose to see it. It would be part of that lovely world of yours. I’d have to share it with all the rest of you–and I wouldn’t. You know, I never open again any great book I’ve read and loved. It hurts me to think of the other eyes that have read it and of what they were. Things like that can’t be shared. Not with people like that.”
    “Dominique, it’s abnormal to feel so strongly about anything.” “That’s the only way I can feel. Or not at all.”
    “Dominique, my dear,” he said, with earnest, sincere concern, “I wish I’d been your father. What kind of a tragedy did you have in your childhood?”
    “Why, none at all. I had a wonderful childhood. Free and peaceful and not bothered too much by anybody. Well, yes, I did feel bored very often. But I’m used to that.”
    “I suppose you’re just an unfortunate product of our times. That’s what I’ve always said. We’re too cynical, too decadent. If we went back in all humility to the simple virtues…”
    “Alvah, how can you start on that stuff? That’s only for your editorials and…” She stopped, seeing his eyes; they looked puzzled and a little hurt. Then she laughed. “I’m wrong. You really do believe all that. If it’s actually believing, or whatever it is you do that takes its place. Oh, Alvah! That’s why I love you. That’s why I’m doing again right now what I did tonight at the meeting.”
    “What?” he asked, bewildered.
    “Talking as I am talking–to you as you are. It’s nice, talking to you about such things. Do you know, Alvah, that primitive people made statues of their gods in man’s likeness? Just think of what a statue of you would look like–of you nude, your stomach and all.”
    “Now what’s that in relation to?”
    “To nothing at all, darling. Forgive me.” She added: “You know, I love statues of naked men. Don’t look so silly. I said statues. I had one in particular. It was supposed to be Helios. I got it out of a museum in Europe. I had a terrible time getting it–it wasn’t for sale, of course. I think I was in love with it, Alvah. I brought it home with me.”
    “Where is it? I’d like to see something you like, for a change.” “It’s broken.”
”Broken? A museum piece? How did that happen?”
”I broke it.”
    “How?”
    “I threw it down the air shaft. There’s a concrete floor below.”
    “Are you totally crazy? Why?”
    “So that no one else would ever see it.”
    “Dominique!”
    She jerked her head, as if to shake off the subject; the straight mass of her hair stirred in a heavy ripple, like a wave through a half-liquid pool of mercury. She said:
    “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t want to shock you. I thought I could speak to you because you’re the one person who’s impervious to any sort of shock. I shouldn’t have. It’s no use, I guess.”
    She jumped lightly off the table.
    “Run on home, Alvah,” she said. “It’s getting late. I’m tired. See you tomorrow.” #
    Guy Francon read his daughter’s articles; he heard of the remarks she had made at the reception and at the meeting of social workers. He understood nothing of it, but he understood that it had been precisely the sequence of events to expect from his daughter. It preyed on his mind, with the bewildered feeling of apprehension which the thought of her always brought him. He asked himself whether he actually hated his daughter.
    But one picture came back to his mind, irrelevantly, whenever he asked himself that question. It was a picture of her childhood, of a day from some forgotten summer on his country estate in Connecticut long ago. He had forgotten the rest of that day and what had led to the one moment he remembered. But he remembered how he stood on the terrace and saw her leaping over a high green hedge at the end of the lawn. The hedge seemed too high for her
    little body; he had time to think that she could not make it, in the very moment when he saw her flying triumphantly over the green barrier. He could not remember the beginning nor the end of that leap; but he still saw, clearly and sharply, as on a square of movie film cut out and held motionless forever, the one instant when her body hung in space, her long legs flung wide, her thin arms thrown up, hands braced against the air, her white dress and blond hair spread in two broad, flat mats on the wind, a single moment, the flash of a small body in the greatest burst of ecstatic freedom he had ever witnessed in his life.
    He did not know why that moment remained with him, what significance, unheeded at the time, had preserved it for him when so much else of greater import had been lost. He did not know why he had to see that moment again whenever he felt bitterness for his daughter, nor why, seeing it, he felt that unbearable twinge of tenderness. He told himself merely that his paternal affection was asserting itself quite against his will. But in an awkward, unthinking way he wanted to help her, not knowing, not wanting to know what she had to be helped against.
    So he began to look more frequently at Peter Keating. He began to accept the solution which he never quite admitted to himself. He found comfort in the person of Peter Keating, and he felt that Keating’s simple, stable wholesomeness was just the support needed by the unhealthy inconstancy of his daughter.
    Keating would not admit that he had tried to see Dominique again, persistently and without results. He had obtained her telephone number from Francon long ago, and he had called her often. She had answered, and laughed gaily, and told him that of course she’d see him, she knew she wouldn’t be able to escape it, but she was so busy for weeks to come and would he give her a ring by the first of next month?
    Francon guessed it. He told Keating he would ask Dominique to lunch and bring them together again. “That is,” he added, “I’ll try to ask her. She’ll refuse, of course.” Dominique surprised him again: she accepted, promptly and cheerfully.
    She met them at a restaurant, and she smiled as if this were a reunion she welcomed. She talked gaily, and Keating felt enchanted, at ease, wondering why he had ever feared her. At the end of a half hour she looked at Francon and said:
    “It was wonderful of you to take time off to see me, Father. Particularly when you’re so busy and have so many appointments.”
    Francon’s face assumed a look of consternation. “My God, Dominique, that reminds me!”
    “You have an appointment you forgot?” she asked gently. “Confound it, yes! It slipped my mind entirely. Old Andrew Colson phoned this morning and I forgot to make a note of it and he insisted on seeing me at two o’clock, you know how it is, I just simply can’t refuse to see Andrew Colson, confound it!–today of all…” He added, suspiciously: “How did you know it?”
    “Why, I didn’t know it at all. It’s perfectly all right, Father. Mr. Keating and I will excuse you, and we’ll have a lovely luncheon together, and I have no appointments at all for the day, so you don’t have to be afraid that I’ll escape from him.”
    Francon wondered whether she knew that that had been the excuse he’d prepared in advance in order to leave her alone with Keating. He could not be sure. She was looking straight at him; her eyes seemed just a bit too candid. He was glad to escape.
    Dominique turned to Keating with a glance so gentle that it could mean nothing but contempt.
    “Now let’s relax,” she said. “We both know what Father is after, so it’s perfectly all right. Don’t let it embarrass you. It doesn’t embarrass me. It’s nice that you’ve got Father on a leash. But I know it’s not helpful to you to have him pulling ahead of the leash. So let’s forget it and eat our lunch.”
    He wanted to rise and walk out; and knew, in furious helplessness, that he wouldn’t. She said:
    “Don’t frown, Peter. You might as well call me Dominique, because we’ll come to that anyway, sooner or later. I’ll probably see a great deal of you, I see so many people, and if it will please
    Father to have you as one of them–why not?”
    For the rest of the luncheon she spoke to him as to an old friend, gaily and openly; with a disquieting candor which seemed to show that there was nothing to conceal, but showed that it was best to attempt no probe. The exquisite kindliness of her manner suggested that their relationship was of no possible consequence, that she could not pay him the tribute of hostility. He knew that he disliked her violently. But he watched the shape of her mouth, the movements of her lips framing words; he watched the way she crossed her legs, a gesture smooth and exact, like an expensive instrument being folded; and he could not escape the feeling of incredulous admiration he had experienced when he had seen her for the first time. When they were leaving, she said:
    “Will you take me to the theater tonight, Peter? I don’t care what play, any one of them. Call for me after dinner. Tell Father about it. It will please him.”
    “Though, of course, he should know better than to be pleased,” said Keating, “and so should I, but I’ll be delighted just the same, Dominique.”
    “Why should you know better?”
    “Because you have no desire to go to a theater or to see me tonight.”
    “None whatever. I’m beginning to like you, Peter. Call for me at half past eight.”
    When Keating returned to the office, Francon called him upstairs at once.
    “Well?” Francon asked anxiously.
    “What’s the matter, Guy?” said Keating, his voice innocent. “Why are you so concerned?”
    “Well, I…I’m just…frankly, I’m interested to see whether you two could get together at all. I think you’d be a good influence for her. What happened?”
    “Nothing at all. We had a lovely time. You know your restaurants–the food was wonderful…Oh, yes, I’m taking your daughter to a show tonight.”
    “No!”
”Why, yes.”
”How did you ever manage that?”
Keating shrugged. “I told you one mustn’t be afraid of Dominique.”
    “I’m not afraid, but…Oh, is it ‘Dominique’ already? My congratulations, Peter….I’m not afraid, it’s only that I can’t figure her out. No one can approach her. She’s never had a single girl friend, not even in kindergarten. There’s always a mob around her, but never a friend. I don’t know what to think. There she is now, living all alone, always with a crowd of men around and…”
    “Now, Guy, you mustn’t think anything dishonorable about your own daughter.”
    “I don’t! That’s just the trouble–that I don’t. I wish I could. But she’s twenty-four, Peter, and she’s a virgin–I know, I’m sure of it. Can’t you tell just by looking at a woman? I’m no moralist, Peter, and I think that’s abnormal. It’s unnatural at her age, with her looks, with the kind of utterly unrestricted existence that she leads. I wish to God she’d get married. I honestly do….Well, now, don’t repeat that, of course, and don’t misinterpret it, I didn’t mean it as an invitation.”
    “Of course not.”
    “By the way, Peter, the hospital called while you were out. They said poor Lucius is much better. They think he’ll pull through.” Lucius N. Heyer had had a stroke, and Keating had
    exhibited a great deal of concern for his progress, but had not gone to visit him at the hospital. “I’m so glad,” said Keating.
    “But I don’t think he’ll ever be able to come back to work. He’s getting old, Peter….Yes, he’s getting old….One reaches an age when one can’t be burdened with business any longer.” He let a paper knife hang between two fingers and tapped it pensively against the edge of a desk calendar. “It happens to all of us, Peter, sooner or later….One must look ahead….”

    Keating sat on the floor by the imitation logs in the fireplace of his living room, his hands clasped about his knees, and listened to his mother’s questions on what did Dominique look like, what did she wear, what had she said to him and how much money did he suppose her mother had actually left her.
    He was meeting Dominique frequently now. He had just returned from an evening spent with her on a round of night clubs. She always accepted his invitations. He wondered whether her attitude was a deliberate proof that she could ignore him more completely by seeing him often than by refusing to see him. But each time he met her, he planned eagerly for the next meeting. He had not seen Catherine for a month. She was busy with research work which her uncle had entrusted to her, in preparation for a series of his lectures.
    Mrs. Keating sat under a lamp, mending a slight tear in the lining of Peter’s dinner jacket, reproaching him, between questions, for sitting on the floor in his dress trousers and best formal shirt. He paid no attention to the reproaches or the questions. But under his bored annoyance he felt an odd sense of relief; as if the stubborn stream of her words were pushing him on and justifying him. He answered once in a while: “Yes….No….I don’t know….Oh, yes, she’s lovely. She’s very lovely….It’s awfully late, Mother. I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed….” The doorbell rang.
    “Well,” said Mrs. Keating. “What can that be, at this hour?” Keating rose, shrugging, and ambled to the door. It was Catherine. She stood, her two hands clasped on a large, old, shapeless pocketbook. She looked determined and hesitant at once. She drew back a little. She said: “Good evening, Peter. Can I come in? I’ve got to speak to you.”
    “Katie! Of course! How nice of you! Come right in. Mother, it’s Katie.”
    Mrs. Keating looked at the girl’s feet which stepped as if moving on the rolling deck of a ship; she looked at her son, and she knew that something had happened, to be handled with great caution.
    “Good evening, Catherine,” she said softly.
    Keating was conscious of nothing save the sudden stab of joy he had felt on seeing her; the joy told him that nothing had changed, that he was safe in certainty, that her presence resolved all doubts. He forgot to wonder about the lateness of the hour, about her first, uninvited appearance in his apartment.
    “Good evening, Mrs. Keating,” she said, her voice bright and hollow. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, it’s late probably, is it?”
    “Why, not at all, child,” said Mrs. Keating.
    Catherine hurried to speak, senselessly, hanging on to the sound of words:
    “I’ll just take my hat off….Where can I put it, Mrs. Keating? Here on the table? Would that be all right?…No, maybe I’d better put it on this bureau, though it’s a little damp from the street, the hat is, it might hurt the varnish, it’s a nice bureau, I hope it doesn’t hurt the varnish….”
    “What’s the matter, Katie?” Keating asked, noticing at last.
    She looked at him and he saw that her eyes were terrified. Her lips parted; she was trying to smile. “Katie!” he gasped. She said nothing. “Take your coat off. Come here, get yourself
    warm by the fire.”
    He pushed a low bench to the fireplace, he made her sit down. She was wearing a black sweater and an old black skirt, school-girlish house garments which she had not changed for her visit. She sat hunched, her knees drawn tight together. She said, her voice lower and more natural, with the first released sound of pain in it:
    “You have such a nice place….So warm and roomy….Can you open the windows any time you want to?”
    “Katie darling,” he said gently, “what happened?”
”Nothing. It’s not that anything really happened. Only I had to speak to you. Now. Tonight.” He looked at Mrs. Keating. “If you’d rather…”
    “No. It’s perfectly all right. Mrs. Keating can hear it. Maybe it’s better if she hears it.” She turned to his mother and said very simply: “You see, Mrs. Keating, Peter and I are engaged.” She turned to him and added, her voice breaking: “Peter, I want to be married now, tomorrow, as soon as possible.”
    Mrs. Keating’s hand descended slowly to her lap. She looked at Catherine, her eyes expressionless. She said quietly, with a dignity Keating had never expected of her:
    “I didn’t know it, I am very happy, my dear.”
”You don’t mind? You really don’t mind at all?” Catherine asked desperately.
”Why, child, such things are to be decided only by you and my son.”
”Katie!” he gasped, regaining his voice. “What happened? Why as soon as possible?”
    “Oh! oh, it did sound as if…as if I were in the kind of trouble girls are supposed to…” She blushed furiously. “Oh, my God! No! It’s not that! You know it couldn’t be! Oh, you couldn’t think, Peter, that I…that…”
    “No, of course not,” he laughed, sitting down on the floor by her side, slipping an arm around her. “But pull yourself together. What is it? You know I’d marry you tonight if you wanted me to. Only what happened?”
    “Nothing. I’m all right now. I’ll tell you. You’ll think I’m crazy. I just suddenly had the feeling that I’d never marry you, that something dreadful was happening to me and I had to escape from it.”
    “What was happening to you?”
    “I don’t know. Not a thing. I was working on my research notes all day, and nothing had happened at all. No calls or visitors. And then suddenly tonight, I had that feeling, it was like a nightmare, you know, the kind of horror that you can’t describe, that’s not like anything normal at all. Just the feeling that I was in mortal danger, that something was closing in on me, that I’d never escape it, because it wouldn’t let me and it was too late.”
    “That you’d never escape what?”
    “I don’t know exactly. Everything. My whole life. You know, like quicksand. Smooth and natural. With not a thing that you can notice about it or suspect. And you walk on it easily. When you’ve noticed, it’s too late….And I felt that it would get me, that I’d never marry you, that I had to run, now, now or never. Haven’t you ever had a feeling like that, just fear that you couldn’t explain?”
    “Yes,” he whispered.
”You don’t think I’m crazy?”
    “No, Katie. Only what was it exactly that started it? Anything in particular?”
    “Well…it seems so silly now.” She giggled apologetically. “It was like this: I was sitting in my room and it was a little chilly, so I didn’t open the window. I had so many papers and books on the table, I hardly had room to write and every time I made a note my elbow’d push something off. There were piles of things on the floor all around me, all paper, and it rustled a little, because I had the door to the living room half open and there was a little draft, I guess. Uncle was working too, in the living room. I was getting along fine, I’d been at it for hours, didn’t even know what time it was. And then suddenly it got me. I don’t know why. Maybe the room was stuffy, or maybe it was the silence, I couldn’t hear a thing, not a sound in the living room, and there was that paper rustling, so softly, like somebody being choked to death. And then I looked around and…and I couldn’t see Uncle in the living room, but I saw his shadow on the wall, a huge shadow, all hunched, and it didn’t move, only it was so huge!”
    She shuddered. The thing did not seem silly to her any longer. She whispered:
    “That’s when it got me. It wouldn’t move, that shadow, but I thought all that paper was moving, I thought it was rising very slowly off the floor, and it was going to come to my throat and I was going to drown. That’s when I screamed. And, Peter, he didn’t hear. He didn’t hear it! Because the shadow didn’t move. Then I seized my hat and coat and I ran. When I was running through the living room, I think he said: ‘Why, Catherine, what time is it?–Where are you going?’ Something like that, I’m not sure. But I didn’t look back and I didn’t answer–I couldn’t. I was afraid of him. Afraid of Uncle Ellsworth who’s never said a harsh word to me in his life!…That was all, Peter. I can’t understand it, but I’m afraid. Not so much any more, not here with you, but I’m afraid….” Mrs. Keating spoke, her voice dry and crisp: “Why, it’s plain what happened to you, my dear. You worked too hard and overdid it, and you just got a mite hysterical.”
    “Yes…probably…”
    “No,” said Keating dully, “no, it wasn’t that….” He was thinking of the loud-speaker in the lobby of the strike meeting. Then he added quickly: “Yes, Mother’s right. You’re killing yourself with work, Katie. That uncle of yours–I’ll wring his neck one of these days.”
    “Oh, but it’s not his fault! He doesn’t want me to work. He often takes the books away from me and tells me to go to the movies. He’s said that himself, that I work too hard. But I like it. I think that every note I make, every little bit of information–it’s going to be taught to hundreds of young students, all over the country, and I think it’s me who’s helping to educate people, just my own little bit in such a big cause–and I feel proud and I don’t want to stop. You see? I’ve really got nothing to complain about. And then…then, like tonight…I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
    “Look, Katie, we’ll get the license tomorrow morning and then we’ll be married at once, anywhere you wish.”
    “Let’s, Peter,” she whispered. “You really don’t mind? I have no real reasons, but I want it. I want it so much. Then I’ll know that everything’s all right. We’ll manage. I can get a job if you…if you’re not quite ready or…”
    “Oh, nonsense. Don’t talk about that. We’ll manage. It doesn’t matter. Only let’s get married and everything else will take care of itself.”
    “Darling, you understand? You do understand?” “Yes, Katie.”
    “Now that it’s all settled,” said Mrs. Keating, “I’ll fix you a cup of hot tea, Catherine. You’ll need it before you go home.” She prepared the tea, and Catherine drank it gratefully and said, smiling:
    “I…I’ve often been afraid that you wouldn’t approve, Mrs. Keating.”
    “Whatever gave you that idea,” Mrs. Keating drawled, her voice not in the tone of a question. “Now you run on home like a good girl and get a good night’s sleep.”
    “Mother, couldn’t Katie stay here tonight? She could sleep with you.” “Well, now, Peter, don’t get hysterical. What would her uncle think?” “Oh, no, of course not. I’ll be perfectly all right, Peter. I’ll go home.” “Not if you…”
    “I’m not afraid. Not now. I’m fine. You don’t think that I’m really scared of Uncle Ellsworth?” “Well, all right. But don’t go yet.”
    “Now, Peter,” said Mrs. Keating, “you don’t want her to be running around the streets later than she has to.”
    “I’ll take her home.”
”No,” said Catherine. “I don’t want to be sillier than I am. No, I won’t let you.”
    He kissed her at the door and he said: “I’ll come for you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and we’ll go for the license.”
    “Yes, Peter,” she whispered.
    He closed the door after her and he stood for a moment, not noticing that he was clenching his fists. Then he walked defiantly back to the living room, and he stopped, his hands in his pockets, facing his mother. He looked at her, his glance a silent demand. Mrs. Keating sat looking at him quietly, without pretending to ignore the glance and without answering it.
    Then she asked:
”Do you want to go to bed, Peter?”
    He had expected anything but that. He felt a violent impulse to seize the chance, to turn, leave the room and escape. But he had to learn what she thought; he had to justify himself.
    “Now, Mother, I’m not going to listen to any objections.” “I’ve made no objections,” said Mrs. Keating.
    “Mother, I want you to understand that I love Katie, that nothing can stop me now, and that’s that.”
    “Very well, Peter.”
”I don’t see what it is that you dislike about her.”
”What I like or dislike is of no importance to you any more.”
”Oh yes, Mother, of course it is! You know it is. How can you say that?”
    “Peter, I have no likes or dislikes as far as I’m concerned. I have no thought for myself at all, because nothing in the world matters to me, except you. It might be old-fashioned, but that’s the way I am. I know I shouldn’t be, because children don’t appreciate it nowadays, but I can’t help it.”
    “Oh, Mother, you know that I appreciate it! You know that I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” “You can’t hurt me, Peter, except by hurting yourself. And that…that’s hard to bear.”
    “How am I hurting myself?”
    “Well, if you won’t refuse to listen to me…”
    “I’ve never refused to listen to you!”
    “If you do want to hear my opinion, I’ll say that this is the funeral of twenty-nine years of my life, of all the hopes I’ve had for you.”
    “But why? Why?”
    “It’s not that I dislike, Catherine, Peter. I like her very much. She’s a nice girl–if she doesn’t let herself go to pieces often and pick things out of thin air like that. But she’s a respectable girl and I’d say she’d make a good wife for anybody. For any nice, plodding, respectable boy. But to think of it for you, Peter! For you!”
    “But…”
    “You’re modest, Peter. You’re too modest. That’s always been your trouble. You don’t appreciate yourself. You think you’re just like anybody else.”
    “I certainly don’t! and I won’t have anyone think that!”
    “Then use your head! Don’t you know what’s ahead of you? Don’t you see how far you’ve come already and how far you’re going? You have a chance to become–well, not the very best, but pretty near the top in the architectural profession, and…”
    “Pretty near the top? Is that what you think? If I can’t be the very best, if I can’t be the one architect of this country in my day–I don’t want any damn part of it!”
    “Ah, but one doesn’t get to that, Peter, by falling down on the job. One doesn’t get to be first in anything without the strength to make some sacrifices.”
    “But…”
    “Your life doesn’t belong to you, Peter, if you’re really aiming high. You can’t allow yourself to indulge every whim, as ordinary people can, because with them it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not you or me or what we feel. Peter. It’s your career. It takes strength to deny yourself in order to win other people’s respect.”
    “You just dislike Katie and you let your own prejudice…”
    “Whatever would I dislike about her? Well, of course, I can’t say that I approve of a girl who has so little consideration for her man that she’ll run to him and upset him over nothing at all, and ask him to chuck his future out the window just because she gets some crazy notion. That shows what help you can expect from a wife like that. But as far as I’m concerned, if you think that I’m worried about myself–well, you’re just blind, Peter. Don’t you see that for me personally it would be a perfect match? Because I’d have no trouble with Catherine, I could get along with her beautifully, she’d be respectful and obedient to her mother-in-law. While, on the other hand, Miss Francon…”
    He winced. He had known that this would come. It was the one subject he had been afraid to hear mentioned.
    “Oh yes, Peter,” said Mrs. Keating quietly, firmly, “we’ve got to speak of that. Now, I’m sure I could never manage Miss Francon, and an elegant society girl like that wouldn’t even stand for a dowdy, uneducated mother like me. She’d probably edge me out of the house. Oh, yes, Peter. But you see, it’s not me that I’m thinking of.”
    “Mother,” he said harshly, “that part of it is pure drivel–about my having a chance with Dominique. That hell-cat–I’m not sure she’d ever look at me.”
    “You’re slipping, Peter. There was a time when you wouldn’t have admitted that there was
    anything you couldn’t get.” “But I don’t want her, Mother.”
    “Oh, you don’t, don’t you? Well, there you are. Isn’t that what I’ve been saying? Look at yourself! There you’ve got Francon, the best architect in town, just where you want him! He’s practically begging you to take a partnership–at your age, over how many other, older men’s heads? He’s not permitting, he’s asking you to marry his daughter! And you’ll walk in tomorrow and you’ll present to him the little nobody you’ve gone and married! Just stop thinking of yourself for a moment and think of others a bit. How do you suppose he’ll like that? How will he like it when you show him the little guttersnipe that you’ve preferred to his daughter?”
    “He won’t like it,” Keating whispered.
    “You bet your life he won’t! You bet your life he’ll kick you right out on the street! He’ll find plenty who’ll jump at the chance to take your place. How about that Bennett fellow?”
    “Oh, no!” Keating gasped so furiously that she knew she had struck right. “Not Bennett!”
    “Yes,” she said triumphantly. “Bennett! That’s what it’ll be–Francon & Bennett, while you’ll be pounding the pavements looking for a job! But you’ll have a wife! Oh, yes, you’ll have a wife!”
    “Mother, please…” he whispered, so desperately that she could allow herself to go on without restraint.
    “This is the kind of a wife you’ll have. A clumsy little girl who won’t know where to put her hands or feet. A sheepish little thing who’ll run and hide from any important person that you’ll want to bring to the house. So you think you’re so good? Don’t kid yourself, Peter Keating! No great man ever got there alone. Don’t you shrug it off, how much the right woman’s helped the best of them. Your Francon didn’t marry a chambermaid, you bet your life he didn’t! Just try to see things through other people’s eyes for a bit. What will they think of your wife? What will they think of you? You don’t make your living building chicken coops for soda jerkers, don’t you forget that! You’ve got to play the game as the big men of this world see it. You’ve got to live up to them. What will they think of a man who’s married to a common little piece of baggage like that? Will they admire you? Will they trust you? Will they respect you?”
    “Shut up!” he cried.
    But she went on. She spoke for a long time, while he sat, cracking his knuckles savagely, moaning once in a while: “But I love her….I can’t, Mother! I can’t….I love her….”
    She released him when the streets outside were gray with the light of morning. She let him stumble off to his room, to the accompaniment of the last, gentle, weary sounds of her voice:
    “At least, Peter, you can do that much. Just a few months. Ask her to wait just a few months. Heyer might die any moment and then, once you’re a partner, you can marry her and you might get away with it. She won’t mind waiting just that little bit longer, if she loves you….Think it over, Peter….And while you’re thinking it over, think just a bit that if you do this now, you’ll be breaking your mother’s heart. It’s not important, but take just a tiny notice of that. Think of yourself for an hour, but give one minute to the thought of others….”
    He did not try to sleep. He did not undress, but sat on his bed for hours, and the thing clearest in his mind was the wish to find himself transported a year ahead when everything would have been settled, he did not care how.
    He had decided nothing when he rang the doorbell of Catherine’s apartment at ten o’clock. He felt dimly that she would take his hand, that she would lead him, that she would insist–and thus the decision would be made.
    Catherine opened the door and smiled, happily and confidently, as if nothing had happened. She led him to her room, where broad shafts of sunlight flooded the columns of books and papers stacked neatly on her desk. The room was clean, orderly, the pile of the rug still striped in bands left by a carpet sweeper. Catherine wore a crisp organdy blouse, with sleeves
    standing stiffly, cheerfully about her shoulders; little fluffy needles glittered through her hair in the sunlight. He felt a brief wrench of disappointment that no menace met him in her house; a wrench of relief also, and of disappointment.
    “I’m ready, Peter,” she said. “Get me my coat.”
    “Did you tell your uncle?” he asked.
    “Oh, yes. I told him last night. He was still working when I got back.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Nothing. He just laughed and asked me what I wanted for a wedding present. But he laughed so much!”
    “Where is he? Didn’t he want to meet me at least?”
    “He had to go to his newspaper office. He said he’d have plenty of time to see more than enough of you. But he said it so nicely!”
    “Listen, Katie, I…there’s one thing I wanted to tell you.” He hesitated, not looking at her. His voice was flat. “You see, it’s like this: Lucius Heyer, Francon’s partner, is very ill and they don’t expect him to live. Francon’s been hinting quite openly mat I’m to take Heyer’s place. But Francon has the crazy idea that he wants me to marry his daughter. Now don’t misunderstand me, you know there’s not a chance, but I can’t tell him so. And I thought…I thought that if we waited…for just a few weeks…I’d be set with the firm and then Francon could do nothing to me when I come and tell him that I’m married….But, of course it’s up to you.” He looked at her and his voice was eager. “If you want to do it now, we’ll go at once.”
    “But, Peter,” she said calmly, serene and astonished. “But of course. We’ll wait.” He smiled in approval and relief. But he closed his eyes.
    “Of course, we’ll wait,” she said firmly. “I didn’t know this and it’s very important. There’s really no reason to hurry at all.”
    “You’re not afraid that Francon’s daughter might get me?” She laughed. “Oh, Peter! I know you too well.”
”But if you’d rather…”
    “No, it’s much better. You see, to tell you the truth, I thought this morning that it would be better if we waited, but I didn’t want to say anything if you had made up your mind. Since you’d rather wait, I’d much rather too, because, you see, we got word this morning that Uncle’s invited to repeat this same course of lectures at a terribly important university on the West Coast this summer. I felt horrible about leaving him flat, with the work unfinished. And then I thought also that perhaps we were being foolish, we’re both so young. And Uncle Ellsworth laughed so much. You see, it’s really wiser to wait a little.”
    “Yes. Well, that’s fine. But, Katie, if you feel as you did last night…”
    “But I don’t! I’m so ashamed of myself. I can’t imagine what ever happened to me last night. I try to remember it and I can’t understand. You know how it is, you feel so silly afterward. Everything’s so clear and simple the next day. Did I say a lot of awful nonsense last night?”
    “Well, forget it. You’re a sensible little girl. We’re both sensible. And we’ll wait just a while, it won’t be long.”
    “Yes, Peter.”
He said suddenly, fiercely:
    “Insist on it now, Katie.”
And then he laughed stupidly, as if he had not been quite serious.
She smiled gaily in answer. “You see?” she said, spreading her hands out.
    “Well…” he muttered. “Well, all right, Katie. We’ll wait. It’s better, of course. I…I’ll run along then. I’ll be late at the office.” He felt he had to escape her room for the moment, for that day. “I’ll give you a ring. Let’s have dinner together tomorrow.”
    “Yes, Peter. That will be nice.”
    He went away, relieved and desolate, cursing himself for the dull, persistent feeling that told him he had missed a chance which would never return; that something was closing in on them both and they had surrendered. He cursed, because he could not say what it was that they should have fought. He hurried on to his office where he was being late for an appointment with Mrs. Moorehead.
    Catherine stood in the middle of the room, after he had left, and wondered why she suddenly felt empty and cold; why she hadn’t known until this moment that she had hoped he would force her to follow him. Then she shrugged, and smiled reproachfully at herself, and went back to the work on her desk.
    13.
    ON A DAY in October, when the Heller house was nearing completion, a lanky young man in overalls stepped out of a small group that stood watching the house from the road and approached Roark.
    “You the fellow who built the Booby Hatch?” he asked, quite diffidently. “If you mean this house, yes,” Roark answered.
    “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. It’s only that that’s what they call the place around here. It’s not what I’d call it. You see, I’ve got a building job…well, not exactly, but I’m going to build a filling station of my own about ten miles from here, down on the Post Road. I’d like to talk to you.”
    Later, on a bench in front of the garage where he worked, Jimmy Gowan explained in detail. He added: “And how I happened to think of you, Mr. Roark, is that I like it, that funny house of yours. Can’t say why, but I like it. It makes sense to me. And then again I figured everybody’s gaping at it and talking about it, well, that’s no use to a house, but that’d be plenty smart for a business, let them giggle, but let them talk about it. So I thought I’d get you to build it, and then they’ll all say I’m crazy, but do you care? I don’t.”
    Jimmy Gowan had worked like a mule for fifteen years, saving money for a business of his own. People voiced indignant objections to his choice of architect; Jimmy uttered no word of explanation or self-defense; he said politely: “Maybe so, folks, maybe so,” and proceeded to have Roark build his station.
    The station opened on a day in late December. It stood on the edge of the Boston Post Road, two small structures of glass and concrete forming a semicircle among the trees: the cylinder of the office and the long, low oval of the diner, with the gasoline pumps as the colonnade of a forecourt between them. It was a study in circles; there were no angles and no straight lines; it looked like shapes caught in a flow, held still at the moment of being poured, at the precise moment when they formed a harmony that seemed too perfect to be intentional. It looked like a cluster of bubbles hanging low over the ground, not quite touching it, to be swept aside in an instant on a wind of speed; it looked gay, with the hard, bracing gaiety of efficiency, like a powerful airplane engine.
    Roark stayed at the station on the day of its opening. He drank coffee in a clean, white mug, at the counter of the diner, and he watched the cars stopping at the door. He left late at night.
    He looked back once, driving down the long, empty road. The lights of the station winked, flowing away from him. There it stood, at the crossing of two roads, and cars would be streaming past it day and night, cars coming from cities in which there was no room for buildings such as this, going to cities in which there would be no buildings such as this. He turned his face to the road before him, and he kept his eyes off the mirror which still held, glittering softly, dots of light that moved away far behind him….
    He drove back to months of idleness. He sat in his office each morning, because he knew that he had to sit there, looking at a door that never opened, his fingers forgotten on a telephone that never rang. The ash trays he emptied each day, before leaving, contained nothing but the stubs of his own cigarettes.
    “What are you doing about it, Howard?” Austen Heller asked him at dinner one evening. “Nothing.”
”But you must.”
”There’s nothing I can do.”
    “You must learn how to handle people.”
”I can’t.”
”Why?”
”I don’t know how. I was born without some one particular sense.” “It’s something one acquires.”
    “I have no organ to acquire it with. I don’t know whether it’s something I lack, or something extra I have that stops me. Besides, I don’t like people who have to be handled.”
    “But you can’t sit still and do nothing now. You’ve got to go after commissions.”
    “What can I tell people in order to get commissions? I can only show my work. If they don’t hear that, they won’t hear anything I say. I’m nothing to them, but my work–my work is all we have in common. And I have no desire to tell them anything else.”
    “Then what are you going to do? You’re not worried?” “No. I expected it. I’m waiting.”
”For what?”
”My kind of people.”
    “What kind is that?”
    “I don’t know. Yes, I do know, but I can’t explain it. I’ve often wished I could. There must be some one principle to cover it, but I don’t know what it is.”
    “Honesty?”
    “Yes…no, only partly. Guy Francon is an honest man, but it isn’t that. Courage? Ralston Holcombe has courage, in his own manner….I don’t know. I’m not that vague on other things. But I can tell my kind of people by their faces. By something in their faces. There will be thousands passing by your house and by the gas station. If out of those thousands, one stops and sees it–that’s all I need.”
    “Then you do need other people, after all, don’t you, Howard?” “Of course. What are you laughing at?”
    “I’ve always thought that you were the most anti-social animal I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”
    “I need people to give me work. I’m not building mausoleums. Do you suppose I should need them in some other way? In a closer, more personal way?”
    “You don’t need anyone in a very personal way.” “No.”
”You’re not even boasting about it.”
”Should I?”
    You can’t. You’re too arrogant to boast.”
”Is that what I am?”
”Don’t you know what you are?”
”No. Not as far as you’re seeing me, or anyone else.”
Heller sat silently, his wrist describing circles with a cigarette. Then Heller laughed, and said: “That was typical.”
    “W hat?”
”That you didn’t ask me to tell you what you are as I see you. Anybody else would have.”
    “I’m sorry. It wasn’t indifference. You’re one of the few friends I want to keep. I just didn’t think of asking.”
    “I know you didn’t. That’s the point. You’re a self-centered monster, Howard. The more monstrous because you’re utterly innocent about it.”
    “That’s true.”
”You should show a little concern when you admit that.” “Why?”
    “You know, there’s a thing that stumps me. You’re the coldest man I know. And I can’t understand why–knowing that you’re actually a fiend in your quiet sort of way–why I always feel, when I see you, that you’re the most life-giving person I’ve ever met.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I don’t know. Just that.”
    The weeks went by, and Roark walked to his office each day, sat at his desk for eight hours, and read a great deal. At five o’clock, he walked home. He had moved to a better room, near the office; he spent little; he had enough money for a long time to come.
    On a morning in February the telephone rang in his office. A brisk, emphatic feminine voice asked for an appointment with Mr. Roark, the architect. That afternoon, a brisk, small, dark- skinned woman entered the office; she wore a mink coat and exotic earrings that tinkled when she moved her head. She moved her head a great deal, in sharp little birdlike jerks. She was Mrs. Wayne Wilmot of Long Island and she wished to build a country house. She had selected Mr. Roark to build it, she explained, because he had designed the home of Austen Heller. She adored Austen Heller; he was, she stated, an oracle to all those pretending just the tiniest bit to the title of progressive intellectual, she thought–“don’t you?”–and she followed Heller like a
    zealot, “yes, literally, like a zealot.” Mr. Roark was very young, wasn’t he?–but she didn’t mind that, she was very liberal and glad to help youth. She wanted a large house, she had two children, she believed in expressing their individuality–“don’t you?”–and each had to have a separate nursery, she had to have a library–“I read to distraction”–a music room, a conservatory–“we grow lilies-of-the-valley, my friends tell me it’s my flower”–a den for her husband, who trusted her implicitly and let her plan the house–“because I’m so good at it, if I weren’t a woman I’m sure I’d be an architect”–servants’ rooms and all that, and a three-car garage. After an hour and a half of details and explanations, she said:
    “And of course, as to the style of the house, it will be English Tudor. I adore English Tudor.” He looked at her. He asked slowly:
”Have you seen Austen Heller’s house?”
    “No, though I did want to see it, but how could I?–I’ve never met Mr. Heller, I’m only his fan, just that, a plain, ordinary fan, what is he like in person?–you must tell me, I’m dying to hear it–no, I haven’t seen his house, it’s somewhere up in Maine, isn’t it?”
    Roark took photographs out of the desk drawer and handed them to her. “This,” he said, “is the Heller house.”
    She looked at the photographs, her glance like water skimming off their glossy surfaces, and threw them down on the desk.
    “Very interesting,” she said. “Most unusual. Quite stunning. But, of course, that’s not what I want. That kind of a house wouldn’t express my personality. My friends tell me I have the Elizabethan personality.”
    Quietly, patiently, he tried to explain to her why she should not build a Tudor house. She interrupted him in the middle of a sentence.
    “Look here, Mr. Roark, you’re not trying to teach me something, are you? I’m quite sure that I have good taste, and I know a great deal about architecture, I’ve taken a special course at the club. My friends tell me that I know more than many architects. I’ve quite made up my mind that I shall have an English Tudor house. I do not care to argue about it.”
    “You’ll have to go to some other architect, Mrs. Wilmot.” She stared at him incredulously.
”You mean, you’re refusing the commission?”
”Yes.”
    “You don’t want my commission?” “No.”
”But why?”
”I don’t do this sort of thing.”
    “But I thought architects…”
”Yes. Architects will build you anything you ask for. Any other architect in town will.” “But I gave you first chance.”
    “Will you do me a favor, Mrs. Wilmot? Will you tell me why you came to me if all you wanted was a Tudor house?”
    “Well, I certainly thought you’d appreciate the opportunity. And then, I thought I could tell my friends that I had Austen Heller’s architect.”
    He tried to explain and to convince. He knew, while he spoke, that it was useless, because his words sounded as if they were hitting a vacuum. There was no such person as Mrs. Wayne Wilmot; there was only a shell containing the opinions of her friends, the picture post cards she had seen, the novels of country squires she had read; it was this that he had to address, this immateriality which could not hear him or answer, deaf and impersonal like a wad of cotton.
    “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Wayne Wilmot, “but I’m not accustomed to dealing with a person utterly incapable of reason. I’m quite sure I shall find plenty of bigger men who’ll be glad to work for me. My husband was opposed to my idea of having you, in the first place, and I’m sorry to see that he was right. Good day, Mr. Roark.”
    She walked out with dignity, but she slammed the door. He slipped the photographs back into the drawer of his desk.
    Mr. Robert L. Mundy, who came to Roark’s office in March, had been sent by Austin Heller. Mr. Mundy’s voice and hair were gray as steel, but his eyes were blue, gentle and wistful. He wanted to build a house in Connecticut, and he spoke of it tremulously, like a young bridegroom and like a man groping for his last, secret goal.
    “It’s not just a house, Mr. Roark,” he said with timid diffidence, as if he were speaking to a man older and more prominent than himself, “it’s like…like a symbol to me. It’s what I’ve been waiting and working for all these years. It’s so many years now….I must tell you this, so you’ll understand. I have a great deal of money now, more than I care to think about. I didn’t always have it. Maybe it came too late. I don’t know. Young people think that you forget what happens on the way when you get there. But you don’t. Something stays. I’ll always remember how I was a boy–in a little place down in Georgia, that was–and how I ran errands for the harness maker, and the kids laughed when carriages drove by and splashed mud all over my pants. That’s how long ago I decided that some day I’d have a house of my own, the kind of house that carriages stop before. After that, no matter how hard it got to be at times, I’d always think of that house, and it helped. Afterward, there were years when I was afraid of it–I could have built it, but I was afraid. Well, now the time has come. Do you understand, Mr. Roark? Austen said you’d be just the man who’d understand.”
    “Yes,” said Roark eagerly, “I do.”
    “There was a place,” said Mr. Mundy, “down there, near my home town. The mansion of the whole county. The Randolph place. An old plantation house, as they don’t build them any more. I used to deliver things there sometimes, at the back door. That’s the house I want, Mr. Roark. Just like it. But not back there in Georgia. I don’t want to go back. Right here, near the city. I’ve bought the land. You must help me to have it landscaped just like the Randolph place. We’ll plant trees and shrubs, the kind they have in Georgia, the flowers and everything. We’ll find a way to make them grow. I don’t care how much it costs. Of course, we’ll have electric lights and garages now, not carriages. But I want the electric lights made like candles and I want the garages to look like the stables. Everything, just as it was. I have photographs of the Randolph place. And I’ve bought some of their old furniture.”
    When Roark began to speak Mr. Mundy listened, in polite astonishment. He did not seem to resent the words. They did not penetrate.
    “Don’t you see?” Roark was saying. “It’s a monument you want to build, but not to yourself. Not to your own life or your own achievement. To other people. To their supremacy over you. You’re not challenging that supremacy. You’re immortalizing it. You haven’t thrown it off– you’re putting it up forever. Will you be happy if you seal yourself for the rest of your life in that borrowed shape? Or if you strike free, for once, and build a new house, your own? You don’t want the Randolph place. You want what it stood for. But what it stood for is what you’ve fought all your life.”
    Mr. Mundy listened blankly. And Roark felt again a bewildered helplessness before unreality: there was no such person as Mr. Mundy; there were only the remnants, long dead, of the
    people who had inhabited the Randolph place; one could not plead with remnants or convince them.
    “No,” said Mr. Mundy, at last. “No. You may be right, but that’s not what I want at all. I don’t say you haven’t got your reasons, and they sound like good reasons, but I like the Randolph place.”
    “Why?”
”Just because I like it. Just because that’s what I like.”
    When Roark told him that he would have to select another architect, Mr. Mundy said unexpectedly:
    “But I like you. Why can’t you build it for me? What difference would it make to you?” Roark did not explain.
    Later, Austen Heller said to him: “I expected it. I was afraid you’d turn him down. I’m not blaming you, Howard. Only he’s so rich. It could have helped you so much. And, after all, you’ve got to live.”
    “Not that way,” said Roark. #
    In April Mr. Nathaniel Janss, of the Janss-Stuart Real Estate Company, called Roark to his office. Mr. Janss was frank and blunt. He stated that his company was planning the erection of a small office building–thirty stories–on lower Broadway, and that he was not sold on Roark as the architect, in fact he was more or less opposed to him, but his friend Austen Heller had insisted that he should meet Roark and talk to him about it; Mr. Janss did not think very much of Roark’s stuff, but Heller had simply bullied him and he would listen to Roark before deciding on anyone, and what did Roark have to say on the subject?
    Roark had a great deal to say. He said it calmly, and this was difficult, at first, because he wanted that building, because what he felt was the desire to wrench that building out of Mr. Janss at the point of a gun, if he’d had one. But after a few minutes, it became simple and easy, the thought of the gun vanished, and even his desire for the building; it was not a commission to get and he was not there to get it; he was only speaking of buildings.
    “Mr. Janss, when you buy an automobile, you don’t want it to have rose garlands about the windows, a lion on each fender and an angel sitting on the roof. Why don’t you?”
    “That would be silly,” stated Mr. Janss.
    “Why would it be silly? Now I think it would be beautiful. Besides, Louis the Fourteenth had a carriage like that and what was good enough for Louis is good enough for us. We shouldn’t go in for rash innovations and we shouldn’t break with tradition.”
    “Now you know damn well you don’t believe anything of the sort!”
    “I know I don’t. But that’s what you believe, isn’t it? Now take a human body. Why wouldn’t you like to see a human body with a curling tail with a crest of ostrich feathers at the end? And with ears shaped like acanthus leaves? It would be ornamental, you know, instead of the stark, bare ugliness we have now. Well, why don’t you like the idea? Because it would be useless and pointless. Because the beauty of the human body is that it hasn’t a single muscle which doesn’t serve its purpose; that there’s not a line wasted; that every detail of it fits one idea, the idea of a man and the life of a man. Will you tell me why, when it comes to a building, you don’t want it to look as if it had any sense or purpose, you want to choke it with trimmings, you want to sacrifice its purpose to its envelope–not knowing even why you want that kind of an envelope? You want it to look like a hybrid beast produced by crossing the bastards of ten different species until you get a creature without guts, without heart or brain, a creature all pelt, tail, claws and feathers? Why? You must tell me, because I’ve never been able to understand it.”
    “Well,” said Mr. Janss, “I’ve never thought of it that way.” He added, without great conviction: “But we want our building to have dignity, you know, and beauty, what they call real beauty.”
    “What who calls what beauty?” “W ell-l-l…”
    “Tell me, Mr. Janss, do you really think that Greek columns and fruit baskets are beautiful on a modern, steel office building?”
    “I don’t know that I’ve ever thought anything about why a building was beautiful, one way or another,” Mr. Janss confessed, “but I guess that’s what the public wants.”
    “Why do you suppose they want it?”
”I don’t know.”
”Then why should you care what they want?” “You’ve got to consider the public.”
    “Don’t you know that most people take most things because that’s what’s given them, and they have no opinion whatever? Do you wish to be guided by what they expect you to think they think or by your own judgment?”
    “You can’t force it down their throats.”
    “You don’t have to. You must only be patient. Because on your side you have reason–oh, I know, it’s something no one really wants to have on his side–and against you, you have just a vague, fat, blind inertia.”
    “Why do you think that I don’t want reason on my side?”
    “It’s not you, Mr. Janss. It’s the way most people feel. They have to take a chance, everything they do is taking a chance, but they feel so much safer when they take it on something they know to be ugly, vain and stupid.”
    “That’s true, you know,” said Mr. Janss.
    At the conclusion of the interview, Mr. Janss said thoughtfully: “I can’t say that it doesn’t make sense, Mr. Roark. Let me think it over. You’ll hear from me shortly.”
    Mr. Janss called him a week later. “It’s the board of directors that will have to decide. Are you willing to try, Roark? Draw up the plans and some preliminary sketches. I’ll submit them to the board. I can’t promise anything. But I’m for you and I’ll fight them on it.”
    Roark worked on the plans for two weeks of days and nights. The plans were submitted. Then he was called before the board of directors of the Janss-Stuart Real Estate Company. He stood at the side of a long table and he spoke, his eyes moving slowly from face to face. He tried not to look down at the table, but on the lower rim of his vision there remained the white spot of his drawings spread before the twelve men. He was asked a great many questions. Mr. Janss jumped up at times to answer instead, to pound the table with his fist, to snarl: “Don’t you see? Isn’t it clear?…What of it, Mr. Grant? What if no one has ever built anything like it?…Gothic, Mr. Hubbard? Why must we have Gothic?…I’ve a jolly good mind to resign if you turn this down!”
    Roark spoke quietly. He was the only man in the room who felt certain of his own words. He felt also that he had no hope. The twelve faces before him had a variety of countenances, but there was something, neither color nor feature, upon all of them, as a common denominator, something that dissolved their expressions, so that they were not faces any longer but only empty ovals of flesh. He was addressing everyone. He was addressing no one. He felt no answer, not even the echo of his own words striking against the membrane of an eardrum. His
    words were falling down a well, hitting stone salients on their way, and each salient refused to stop them, threw them farther, tossed them from one another, sent them to seek a bottom that did not exist.
    He was told that he would be informed of the board’s decision. He knew that decision in advance. When he received the letter, he read it without feeling. The letter was from Mr. Janss and it began: “Dear Mr. Roark, I am sorry to inform you that our board of directors find themselves unable to grant you the commission for…” There was a plea in the letter’s brutal, offensive formality: the plea of a man who could not face him.

    John Fargo had started in life as a pushcart peddler. At fifty he owned a modest fortune and a prosperous department store on lower Sixth Avenue. For years he had fought successfully against a large store across the street, one of many inherited by a numerous family. In the fall of last year the family had moved that particular branch to new quarters, farther uptown. They were convinced that the center of the city’s retail business was shifting north and they had decided to hasten the downfall of their former neighborhood by leaving their old store vacant, a grim reminder and embarrassment to their competitor across the street. John Fargo had answered by announcing that he would build a new store of his own, on the very same spot, next door to his old one; a store newer and smarter than any the city had seen; he would, he declared, keep the prestige of his old neighborhood.
    When he called Roark to his office he did not say that he would have to decide later or think things over. He said: “You’re the architect.” He sat, his feet on his desk, smoking a pipe, snapping out words and puffs of smoke together. “I’ll tell you what space I need and how much I want to spend. If you need more–say so. The rest is up to you. I don’t know much about buildings. But I know a man who knows when I see him. Go ahead.”
    Fargo had chosen Roark because Fargo had driven, one day, past Gowan’s Service Station, and stopped, and gone in, and asked a few questions. After that, he bribed Heller’s cook to show him through the house in Heller’s absence. Fargo needed no further argument.
#
    Late in May, when the drafting table in Roark’s office was buried deep in sketches for the Fargo store, he received another commission.
    Mr. Whitford Sanborn, the client, owned an office building that had been built for him many years ago by Henry Cameron. When Mr. Sanborn decided that he needed a new country residence he rejected his wife’s suggestions of other architects; he wrote to Henry Cameron. Cameron wrote a ten-page letter in answer; the first three lines of the letter stated that he had retired from practice; the rest of it was about Howard Roark. Roark never learned what had been said in that letter; Sanborn would not show it to him and Cameron would not tell him. But Sanborn signed him to build the country residence, in spite of Mrs. Sanborn’s violent objections.
    Mrs. Sanborn was the president of many charity organizations and this had given her an addiction to autocracy such as no other avocation could develop. Mrs. Sanborn wished a French chateau built upon their new estate on the Hudson. She wished it to look stately and ancient, as if it had always belonged to the family; of course, she admitted, people would know that it hadn’t, but it would appear as if it had.
    Mr. Sanborn signed the contract after Roark had explained to him in detail the kind of a house he was to expect; Mr. Sanborn had agreed to it readily, had not wished even to wait for sketches. “But of course, Fanny,” Mr. Sanborn said wearily, “I want a modern house. I told you that long ago. That’s what Cameron would have designed.”
    “What in heaven’s name does Cameron mean now?” she asked. “I don’t know, Fanny. I know only that there’s no building in New York like the one he did for me.”
    The arguments continued for many long evenings in the dark, cluttered, polished mahogany splendor of the Sanborns’ Victorian drawing room. Mr. Sanborn wavered. Roark asked, his arm sweeping out at the room around them: “Is this what you want?”
    “Well, if you’re going to be impertinent…” Mrs. Sanborn began, but Mr. Sanborn exploded: “Christ, Fanny! He’s right! That’s just what I don’t want! That’s just what I’m sick of!”
    Roark saw no one until his sketches were ready. The house–of plain fieldstone, with great windows and many terraces–stood in the gardens over the river, as spacious as the spread of water, as open as the gardens, and one had to follow its lines attentively to find the exact steps by which it was tied to the sweep of the gardens, so gradual was the rise of the terraces, the approach to and the full reality of the walls; it seemed only that the trees flowed into the house and through it; it seemed that the house was not a barrier against the sunlight, but a bowl to gather it, to concentrate it into brighter radiance than that of the air outside.
    Mr. Sanborn was first to see the sketches. He studied them, and then he said: “I…I don’t know quite how to say it, Mr. Roark. It’s great. Cameron was right about you.”
    After others had seen the sketches Mr. Sanborn was not certain of this any longer. Mrs. Sanborn said that the house was awful. And the long evening arguments were resumed. “Now why, why can’t we add turrets there, on the corners?” Mrs. Sanborn asked. “There’s plenty of room on those flat roofs.” When she had been talked out of the turrets, she inquired: “Why can’t we have mullioned windows? What difference would that make? God knows, the windows are large enough–though why they have to be so large I fail to see, it gives one no privacy at all–but I’m willing to accept your windows, Mr. Roark, if you’re so stubborn about it, but why can’t you put mullions on the panes? It will soften things, and it gives a regal air, you know, a feudal sort of mood.”
    The friends and relatives to whom Mrs. Sanborn hurried with the sketches did not like the house at all. Mrs. Walling called it preposterous, and Mrs. Hooper–crude. Mr. Melander said he wouldn’t have it as a present. Mrs. Applebee stated that it looked like a shoe factory. Miss Davitt glanced at the sketches and said with approval: “Oh, how very artistic, my dear! Who designed it?…Roark?…Roark?…Never heard of him….Well, frankly, Fanny, it looks like something phony.”
    The two children of the family were divided on the question. June Sanborn, aged nineteen, had always thought that all architects were romantic, and she had been delighted to learn that they would have a very young architect; but she did not like Roark’s appearance and his indifference to her hints, so she declared that the house was hideous and she, for one, would refuse to live in it. Richard Sanborn, aged twenty-four, who had been a brilliant student in college and was now slowly drinking himself to death, startled his family by emerging from his usual lethargy and declaring that the house was magnificent. No one could tell whether it was esthetic appreciation or hatred of his mother or both.
    Whitford Sanborn swayed with every new current. He would mutter: “Well, now, not mullions, of course, that’s utter rubbish, but couldn’t you give her a cornice, Mr. Roark, to keep peace in the family? Just a kind of a crenelated cornice, it wouldn’t spoil anything. Or would it?”
    The arguments ended when Roark declared that he would not build the house unless Mr. Sanborn approved the sketches just as they were and signed his approval on every sheet of the drawings. Mr. Sanborn signed.
    Mrs. Sanborn was pleased to learn, shortly afterward, that no reputable contractor would undertake the erection of the house. “You see?” she stated triumphantly. Mr. Sanborn refused to see. He found an obscure firm that accepted the commission, grudgingly and as a special favor to him. Mrs. Sanborn learned that she had an ally in the contractor, and she broke social precedent to the extent of inviting him for tea. She had long since lost all coherent ideas about the house; she merely hated Roark. Her contractor hated all architects on principle.
    The construction of the Sanborn house proceeded through the months of summer and fall, each day bringing new battles. “But, of course, Mr. Roark, I told you I wanted three closets in my bedroom, I remember distinctly, it was on a Friday and we were sitting in the drawing room and Mr. Sanborn was sitting in the big chair by the window and I was…What about the plans? What plans? How do you expect me to understand plans?”
    “Aunt Rosalie says she can’t possibly climb a circular stairway, Mr. Roark. What are we going to do? Select our guests to fit your house?”
    “Mr. Hulburt says that kind of ceiling won’t hold….Oh yes, Mr. Hulburt knows a lot about architecture. He’s spent two summers in Venice.”
    “June, poor darling, says her room will be dark as a cellar….Well, that’s the way she feels, Mr. Roark. Even if it isn’t dark, but if it makes her feel dark, it’s the same thing.” Roark stayed up nights, redrafting the plans for the alterations which he could not avoid. It meant days of tearing down floors, stairways, partitions already erected; it meant extras piling up on the contractor’s budget. The contractor shrugged and said: “I told you so. That’s what always happens when you get one of those fancy architects. You wait and see what this thing will cost you before he gets through.”
    Then, as the house took shape, it was Roark who found that he wanted to make a change. The eastern wing had never quite satisfied him. Watching it rise, he saw the mistake he had made and the way to correct it; he knew it would bring the house into a more logical whole. He was making his first steps in building and they were his first experiments. He could admit it openly. But Mr. Sanborn refused to allow the change; it was his turn. Roark pleaded with him; once the picture of that new wing had become clear in Roark’s mind he could not bear to look at the house as it stood. “It’s not that I disagree with you,” Mr. Sanborn said coldly, “in fact, I do think you’re right. But we cannot afford it. Sorry.”
    “It will cost you less than the senseless changes Mrs. Sanborn has forced me to make.” “Don’t bring that up again.”
    “Mr. Sanborn,” Roark asked slowly, “will you sign a paper that you authorize this change provided it costs you nothing?”
    “Certainly. If you can conjure up a miracle to work that.”
    He signed. The eastern wing was rebuilt. Roark paid for it himself. It cost him more than the fee he received. Mr. Sanborn hesitated: he wanted to repay it. Mrs. Sanborn stopped him. “It’s just a low trick,” she said, “just a form of high-pressure. He’s blackmailing you on your better feelings. He expects you to pay. Wait and see. He’ll ask for it. Don’t let him get away with that.” Roark did not ask for it. Mr. Sanborn never paid him.
    When the house was completed, Mrs. Sanborn refused to live in it. Mr. Sanborn looked at it wistfully, too tired to admit that he loved it, that he had always wanted a house just like it. He surrendered. The house was not furnished. Mrs. Sanborn took herself, her husband and her daughter off to Florida for the winter, “where,” she said, “we have a house that’s a decent Spanish, thank God!–because we bought it ready-made. This is what happens when you venture to build for yourself, with some half-baked idiot of an architect!” Her son, to everybody’s amazement, exhibited a sudden burst of savage will power: he refused to go to Florida; he liked the new house, he would live nowhere else. So three of the rooms were furnished for him. The family left and he moved alone into the house on the Hudson. At night, one could see from the river a single rectangle of yellow, small and lost, among the windows of the huge, dead house.
    The bulletin of the Architects’ Guild of America carried a small item:
    “A curious incident, which would be amusing if it were not deplorable, is reported to us about a home recently built by Mr. Whitford Sanborn, noted industrialist. Designed by one Howard Roark and erected at a cost of well over $100,000, this house was found by the family to be uninhabitable. It stands now, abandoned, as an eloquent witness to professional incompetence.”
    14.
    LUCIUS N. Heyer stubbornly refused to die. He had recovered from the stroke and returned to his office, ignoring the objections of his doctor and the solicitous protests of Guy Francon. Francon offered to buy him out. Heyer refused, his pale, watering eyes staring obstinately at
    nothing at all. He came to his office every two or three days; he read the copies of correspondence left in his letter basket according to custom; he sat at his desk and drew flowers on a clean pad; then he went home. He walked, dragging his feet slowly; he held his elbows pressed to his sides and his forearms thrust forward, with the fingers half closed, like claws; the fingers shook; he could not use his left hand at all. He would not retire. He liked to see his name on the firm’s stationery.
    He wondered dimly why he was no longer introduced to prominent clients, why he never saw the sketches of their new buildings, until they were half erected. If he mentioned this, Francon protested: “But, Lucius, I couldn’t think of bothering you in your condition. Any other man would have retired, long ago.”
    Francon puzzled him mildly. Peter Keating baffled him. Keating barely bothered to greet him when they met, and then as an afterthought; Keating walked off in the middle of a sentence addressed to him; when Heyer issued some minor order to one of the draftsmen, it was not carried out and the draftsman informed him that the order had been countermanded by Mr. Keating. Heyer could not understand it; he always remembered Keating as the diffident boy who had talked to him so nicely about old porcelain. He excused Keating at first; then he tried to mollify him, humbly and clumsily; then he conceived an unreasoning fear of Keating. He complained to Francon. He said, petulantly, assuming the tone of an authority he could never have exercised: “That boy of yours, Guy, that Keating fellow, he’s getting to be impossible. He’s rude to me. You ought to get rid of him.”
    “Now you see, Lucius,” Francon answered dryly, “why I say that you should retire. You’re overstraining your nerves and you’re beginning to imagine things.”
    Then came the competition for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building.
    Cosmo-Slotnick Pictures of Hollywood, California, had decided to erect a stupendous home office in New York, a skyscraper to house a motion-picture theater and forty floors of offices. A world-wide competition for the selection of the architect had been announced a year in advance. It was stated that Cosmo-Slotnick were not merely the leaders in the art of the motion picture, but embraced all the arts, since all contributed to the creation of the films; and architecture being a lofty, though neglected, branch of esthetics, Cosmo-Slotnick were ready to put it on the map.
    With the latest news of the casting of I’ll Take a Sailor and the shooting of Wives for Sale, came stories about the Parthenon and the Pantheon. Miss Sally O’Dawn was photographed on the steps of the Rheims Cathedral–in a bathing suit, and Mr. Pratt (“Pardner”) Purcell gave an interview, stating that he had always dreamed of being a master builder, if he hadn’t been a movie actor. Ralston Holcombe, Guy Francon and Gordon L. Prescott were quoted on the future of American architecture–in an article written by Miss Dimples Williams, and an imaginary interview quoted what Sir Christopher Wren would have said about the motion picture. In the Sunday supplements there were photographs of Cosmo-Slotnick starlets in shorts and sweaters, holding T-squares and slide-rules, standing before drawing boards that bore the legend: “Cosmo-Slotnick Building” over a huge question mark.
    The competition was open to all architects of all countries; the building was to rise on Broadway and to cost ten million dollars; it was to symbolize the genius of modern technology and the spirit of the American people; it was announced in advance as “the most beautiful building in the world.” The jury of award consisted of Mr. Shupe, representing Cosmo, Mr. Slotnick, representing Slotnick. Professor Peterkin of the Stanton Institute of Technology, the Mayor of the City of New York, Ralston Holcombe, president of the A.G.A., and Ellsworth M. T oohey.
    “Go to it, Peter!” Francon told Keating enthusiastically. “Do your best. Give me all you’ve got. This is your great chance. You’ll be known the world over if you win. And here’s what we’ll do: we’ll put your name on our entry, along with the firm’s. If we win, you’ll get one fifth of the prize. The grand prize is sixty thousand dollars, you know.”
    “Heyer will object” said Keating cautiously.
”Let him object. That’s why I’m doing it. He might get it through his head what’s the decent
    thing for him to do. And I…well, you know how I feel, Peter. I think of you as my partner already. I owe it to you. You’ve earned it. This might be your key to it.”
    Keating redrew his project five times. He hated it. He hated every girder of that building before it was born. He worked, his hand trembling. He did not think of the drawing under his hand. He thought of all the other contestants, of the man who might win and be proclaimed publicly as his superior. He wondered what that other one would do, how the other would solve the problem and surpass him. He had to beat that man; nothing else mattered; there was no Peter Keating, there was only a suction chamber, like the kind of tropical plant he’d heard about, a plant that drew an insect into its vacuum and sucked it dry and thus acquired its own substance.
    He felt nothing but immense uncertainty when his sketches were ready and the delicate perspective of a white marble edifice lay, neatly finished, before him. It looked like a Renaissance palace made of rubber and stretched to the height of forty stories. He had chosen the style of the Renaissance because he knew the unwritten law that all architectural juries liked columns, and because he remembered Ralston Holcombe was on the jury. He had borrowed from all of Holcombe’s favorite Italian palaces. It looked good…it might be good…he was not sure. He had no one to ask.
    He heard these words in his own mind and he felt a wave of blind fury. He felt it before he knew the reason, but he knew the reason almost in the same instant: there was someone whom he could ask. He did not want to think of that name; he would not go to him; the anger rose to his face and he felt the hot, tight patches under his eyes. He knew that he would go.
    He pushed the thought out of his mind. He was not going anywhere. When the time came, he slipped his drawings into a folder and went to Roark’s office.
    He found Roark alone, sitting at the desk in the large room that bore no signs of activity. “Hello, Howard!” he said brightly. “How are you? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” “Hello, Peter,” said Roark. “You aren’t.”
”Not awfully busy, are you?”
    “No.”
    “Mind if I sit down for a few minutes?”
    “Sit down.”
    “Well, Howard, you’ve been doing great work. I’ve seen the Fargo Store. It’s splendid. My congratulations.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You’ve been forging straight ahead, haven’t you? Had three commissions already?”
    “Four.”
    “Oh, yes, of course, four. Pretty good. I hear you’ve been having a little trouble with the Sanborns.”
    “I have.”
”Well, it’s not all smooth sailing, not all of it, you know. No new commissions since? Nothing?” “No. Nothing.”
    “Well, it will come. I’ve always said that architects don’t have to cut one another’s throat, there’s plenty of work for all of us, we must develop a spirit of professional unity and co- operation. For instance, take that competition–have you sent your entry in already?”
    “What competition?”
    “Why, the competition. The Cosmo-Slotnick competition.”
    “I’m not sending any entry.”
    “You’re…not? Not at all?”
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t enter competitions.”
    “Why, for heaven’s sake?”
    “Come on, Peter. You didn’t come here to discuss that.”
    “As a matter of fact I did think I’d show you my own entry, you understand I’m not asking you to help me, I just want your reaction, just a general opinion.”
    He hastened to open the folder.
Roark studied the sketches. Keating snapped: “Well? Is it all right?” “No. It’s rotten. And you know it.”
    Then, for hours, while Keating watched and the sky darkened and lights flared up in the windows of the city, Roark talked, explained, slashed lines through the plans, untangled the labyrinth of the theater’s exits out windows, unraveled halls, smashed useless arches, straightened stairways. Keating stammered once: “Jesus, Howard! Why don’t you enter the competition, if you can do it like this?” Roark answered: “Because I can’t. I couldn’t if I tried. I dry up. I go blank. I can’t give them what they want. But I can straighten someone else’s damn mess when I see it:”
    It was morning when he pushed the plans aside. Keating whispered: “And the elevation?”
    “Oh, to hell with your elevation! I don’t want to look at your damn Renaissance elevations!” But he looked. He could not prevent his hand from cutting lines across the perspective. “All right, damn you, give them good Renaissance if you must and if there is such a thing! Only I can’t do that for you. Figure it out yourself. Something like this. Simpler. Peter, simpler, more direct, as honest as you can make of a dishonest thing. Now go home and try to work out something on this order.”
    Keating went home. He copied Roark’s plans. He worked out Roark’s hasty sketch of the elevation into a neat, finished perspective. Then the drawings were mailed, properly addressed to:
#
    “The Most Beautiful Building in the World” Competition Cosmo-Slotnick Pictures, Inc.
    New York City. #
    The envelope, accompanying the entry, contained the names: “Francon & Heyer, architects, Peter Keating, associated designer.”
#
    Through the months of that winter Roark found no other chances, no offers, no prospects of commissions. He sat at his desk and forgot, at times, to turn on the lights in the early dusk. It was as if the heavy immobility of all the hours that had flowed through the office, of its door, of its air were beginning to seep into his muscles. He would rise and fling a book at the wall, to feel his arm move, to hear the burst of sound. He smiled, amused, picked up the book, and laid it neatly back on the desk. He turned on the desk lamp. Then he stopped, before he had withdrawn his hands from the cone of light under the lamp, and he looked at his hands; he spread his fingers out slowly. Then he remembered what Cameron had said to him long ago. He jerked his hands away. He reached for his coat, turned the lights off, locked the door and went home.
    As spring approached he knew that his money would not last much longer. He paid the rent on his office promptly on the first of each month. He wanted the feeling of thirty days ahead, during which he would still own the office. He entered it calmly each morning. He found only that he did not want to look at the calendar when it began to grow dark and he knew that another day of the thirty had gone. When he noticed this, he made himself look at the calendar. It was a race he was running now, a race between his rent money and…he did not know the name of the other contestant. Perhaps it was every man whom he passed on the street.
    When he went up to his office, the elevator operators looked at him in a queer, lazy, curious sort of way; when he spoke, they answered, not insolently, but in an indifferent drawl that seemed to say it would become insolent in a moment. They did not know what he was doing or why; they knew only that he was a man to whom no clients ever came. He attended, because Austen Heller asked him to attend, the few parties Heller gave occasionally; he was asked by guests: “Oh, you’re an architect? You’ll forgive me, I haven’t kept up with architecture–what have you built?” When he answered, he heard them say: “Oh, yes, indeed,” and he saw the conscious politeness of their manner tell him that he was an architect by presumption. They had never seen his buildings; they did not know whether his buildings were good or worthless; they knew only that they had never heard of these buildings.
    It was a war in which he was invited to fight nothing, yet he was pushed forward to fight, he had to fight, he had no choice–and no adversary.
    He passed by buildings under construction. He stopped to look at the steel cages. He felt at times as if the beams and girders were shaping themselves not into a house, but into a barricade to stop him; and the few steps on the sidewalk that separated him from the wooden fence enclosing the construction were the steps he would never be able to take. It was pain, but it was a blunted, unpenetrating pain. It’s true, he would tell himself; it’s not, his body would answer, the strange, untouchable healthiness of his body.
    The Fargo Store had opened. But one building could not save a neighborhood; Fargo’s competitors had been right, the tide had turned, was flowing uptown, his customers were deserting him. Remarks were made openly on the decline of John Fargo, who had topped his poor business judgment by an investment in a preposterous kind of a building; which proved, it was stated, that the public would not accept these architectural innovations. It was not stated that the store was the cleanest and brightest in the city; that the skill of its plan made its operation easier than had ever been possible; that the neighborhood had been doomed before its erection. The building took the blame.
    Athelstan Beasely, the wit of the architectural profession, the court jester of the A.G.A., who never seemed to be building anything, but organized all the charity balls, wrote in his column entitled “Quips and Quirks” in the A.G.A. Bulletin:
    “Well, lads and lassies, here’s a fairy tale with a moral: seems there was, once upon a time, a little boy with hair the color of a Hallowe’en pumpkin, who thought that he was better than all you common boys and girls. So to prove it, he up and built a house, which is a very nice house, except that nobody can live in it, and a store, which is a very lovely store, except that it’s going bankrupt. He also erected a very eminent structure, to wit: a dogcart on a mud road. This last is reported to be doing very well indeed, which, perhaps, is the right field of endeavor for that little boy.”
    At the end of March Roark read in the papers about Roger Enright. Roger Enright possessed
    millions, an oil concern and no sense of restraint. This made his name appear in the papers frequently. He aroused a half-admiring, half-derisive awe by the incoherent variety of his sudden ventures. The latest was a project for a new type of residential development–an apartment building, with each unit complete and isolated like an expensive private home. It was to be known as the Enright House. Enright had declared that he did not want it to look like anything anywhere else. He had approached and rejected several of the best architects in town.
    Roark felt as if this newspaper item were a personal invitation; the kind of chance created expressly for him. For the first time he attempted to go after a commission. He requested an interview with Roger Enright. He got an interview with a secretary. The secretary, a young man who looked bored, asked him several questions about his experience; he asked them slowly, as if it required an effort to decide just what it would be appropriate to ask under the circumstances, since the answers would make no difference whatever; he glanced at some photographs of Roark’s buildings, and declared that Mr. Enright would not be interested.
    In the first week of April, when Roark had paid his last rental for one more month at the office, he was asked to submit drawings for the new building of the Manhattan Bank Company. He was asked by Mr. Weidler, a member of the board of directors, who was a friend of young Richard Sanborn. Weidler told him: “I’ve had a stiff fight, Mr. Roark, but I think I’ve won. I’ve taken them personally through the Sanborn house, and Dick and I explained a few things. However, the board must see the drawings before they make a decision. So it’s not quite certain as yet, I must tell you frankly, but it’s almost certain. They’ve turned down two other architects. They’re very much interested in you. Go ahead. Good luck!”
    Henry Cameron had had a relapse and the doctor warned his sister that no recovery could be expected. She did not believe it. She felt a new hope, because she saw that Cameron, lying still in bed, looked serene and–almost happy, a word she had never found it possible to associate with her brother.
    But she was frightened, one evening, when he said suddenly: “Call Howard. Ask him to come here.” In the three years since his retirement he had never called for Roark, he had merely waited for Roark’s visits.
    Roark arrived within an hour. He sat by the side of Cameron’s bed, and Cameron talked to him as usual. He did not mention the special invitation and did not explain. The night was warm and the window of Cameron’s bedroom stood open to the dark garden. When he noticed, in a pause between sentences, the silence of the trees outside, the unmoving silence of late hours, Cameron called his sister and said: “Fix the couch in the living room for Howard. He’s staying here.” Roark looked at him and understood. Roark inclined his head in agreement; he could acknowledge what Cameron had just declared to him only by a quiet glance as solemn as Cameron’s.
    Roark remained at the house for three days. No reference was made to his staying here–nor to how long he would have to stay. His presence was accepted as a natural fact requiring no comment. Miss Cameron understood–and knew that she must say nothing. She moved about silently, with the meek courage of resignation.
    Cameron did not want Roark’s continuous presence in his room. He would say: “Go out, take a walk through the garden, Howard. It’s beautiful, the grass is coming up.” He would lie in bed and watch, with contentment, through the open window, Roark’s figure moving among the bare trees that stood against a pale blue sky.
    He asked only that Roark eat his meals with him. Miss Cameron would put a tray on Cameron’s knees, and serve Roark’s meal on a small table by the bed. Cameron seemed to take pleasure in what he had never had nor sought: a sense of warmth in performing a daily routine, the sense of family.
    On the evening of the third day Cameron lay back on his pillow, talking as usual, but the words came slowly and he did not move his head. Roark listened and concentrated on not showing that he knew what went on in the terrible pauses between Cameron’s words. The words sounded natural, and the strain they cost was to remain Cameron’s last secret, as he wished.
    Cameron spoke about the future of building materials. “Watch the light metals industry, Howard….In a few…years…you’ll see them do some astounding things….Watch the plastics, there’s a whole new era…coming from that….You’ll find new tools, new means, new forms….You’ll have to show…the damn fools…what wealth the human brain has made for them…what possibilities….Last week I read about a new kind of composition tile…and I’ve thought of a way to use it where nothing…else would do…take, for instance, a small house…about five thousand dollars…”
    After a while he stopped and remained silent, his eyes closed. Then Roark heard him whisper suddenly:
    “Gail Wynand…”
    Roark leaned closer to him, bewildered.
    “I don’t…hate anybody any more…only Gail Wynand…No, I’ve never laid eyes on him….But he represents…everything that’s wrong with the world…the triumph…of overbearing vulgarity….It’s Gail Wynand that you’ll have to fight, Howard….”
    Then he did not speak for a long time. When he opened his eyes again, he smiled. He said:
    “I know…what you’re going through at your office just now….” Roark had never spoken to him of that. “No…don’t deny and…don’t say anything….I know….But…it’s all right….Don’t be afraid….Do you remember the day when I tried to fire you?…Forget what I said to you then….It was not the whole story….This is…Don’t be afraid….It was worth it….”
    His voice failed and he could not use it any longer. But the faculty of sight remained untouched and he could lie silently and look at Roark without effort. He died half an hour later. #
    Keating saw Catherine often. He had not announced their engagement, but his mother knew, and it was not a precious secret of his own any longer. Catherine thought, at times, that he had dropped the sense of significance in their meetings. She was spared the loneliness of waiting for him; but she had lost the reassurance of his inevitable returns.
    Keating had told her: “Let’s wait for the results of that movie competition, Katie. It won’t be long, they’ll announce the decision in May. If I win–I’ll be set for life. Then we’ll be married. And that’s when I’ll meet your uncle–and he’ll want to meet me. And I’ve got to win.”
    “I know you’ll win.”
    “Besides, old Heyer won’t last another month. The doctor told us that we can expect a second stroke at any time and that will be that. If it doesn’t get him to the graveyard, it’ll certainly get him out of the office.”
    “Oh, Peter, I don’t like to hear you talk like that. You mustn’t be so…so terribly selfish.” “I’m sorry, dear. Well…yes, I guess I’m selfish. Everybody is.”
    He spent more time with Dominique. Dominique watched him complacently, as if he presented no further problem to her. She seemed to find him suitable as an inconsequential companion for an occasional, inconsequential evening. He thought that she liked him. He knew that this was not an encouraging sign.
    He forgot at times that she was Francon’s daughter; he forgot all the reasons that prompted him to want her. He felt no need to be prompted. He wanted her. He needed no reasons now but the excitement of her presence.
    Yet he felt helpless before her. He refused to accept the thought that a woman could remain indifferent to him. But he was not certain even of her indifference. He waited and tried to guess her moods, to respond as he supposed she wished him to respond. He received no answer.
    On a spring night they attended a ball together. They danced, and he drew her close, he stressed the touch of his fingers on her body. He knew that she noticed and understood. She did not withdraw; she looked at him with an unmoving glance that was almost expectation. When they were leaving, he held her wrap and let his fingers rest on her shoulders; she did not move or draw the wrap closed; she waited; she let him lift his hands. Then they walked together down to the cab.
    She sat silently in a corner of the cab; she had never before considered his presence important enough to require silence. She sat, her legs crossed, her wrap gathered tightly, her fingertips beating in slow rotation against her knee. He closed his hand softly about her forearm. She did not resist; she did not answer; only her fingers stopped beating. His lips touched her hair; it was not a kiss, he merely let his lips rest against her hair for a long time.
    When the cab stopped, he whispered: “Dominique…let me come up…for just a moment…”
    “Yes,” she answered. The word was flat, impersonal, with no sound of invitation. But she had never allowed it before. He followed her, his heart pounding.
    There was one fragment of a second, as she entered her apartment, when she stopped, waiting. He stared at her helplessly, bewildered, too happy. He noticed the pause only when she was moving again, walking away from him, into the drawing room. She sat down, and her hands fell limply one at each side, her arms away from her body, leaving her unprotected. Her eyes were half closed, rectangular, empty.
    “Dominique…” he whispered, “Dominique…how lovely you are!…” Then he was beside her, whispering incoherently:
    “Dominique…Dominique, I love you…Don’t laugh at me, please don’t laugh!…My whole life…anything you wish…Don’t you know how beautiful you are?…Dominique…I love you…”
    He stopped with his arms around her and his face over hers, to catch some hint of response or resistance; he saw nothing. He jerked her violently against him and kissed her lips.
    His arms fell open. He let her body fall back against the seat, and he stared at her, aghast. It had not been a kiss; he had not held a woman in his arms; what he had held and kissed had not been alive. Her lips had not moved in answer against his; her arms had not moved to embrace him; it was not revulsion–he could have understood revulsion. It was as if he could hold her forever or drop her, kiss her again or go further to satisfy his desire–and her body would not know it, would not notice it. She was looking at him, past him. She saw a cigarette stub that had fallen off a tray on a table beside her, she moved her hand and slipped the cigarette back into the tray.
    “Dominique,” he whispered stupidly, “didn’t you want me to kiss you?”
”Yes.” She was not laughing at him; she was answering simply and helplessly. “Haven’t you ever been kissed before?”
”Yes. Many times.”
”Do you always act like that?”
”Always. Just like that.”
”Why did you want me to kiss you?”
”I wanted to try it.”
”You’re not human, Dominique.”
    She lifted her head, she got up and the sharp precision of the movement was her own again. He knew he would hear no simple, confessing helplessness in her voice; he knew the intimacy
    was ended, even though her words, when she spoke, were more intimate and revealing than anything she had said; but she spoke as if she did not care what she revealed or to whom:
    “I suppose I’m one of those freaks you hear about, an utterly frigid woman. I’m sorry, Peter. You see? You have no rivals, but that includes you also. A disappointment, darling?”
    “You…you’ll outgrow it…some day…”
    “I’m really not so young, Peter. Twenty-five. It must be an interesting experience to sleep with a man. I’ve wanted to want it. I should think it would be exciting to become a dissolute woman. I am, you know, in everything but in fact….Peter, you look as if you were going to blush in a moment, and that’s very amusing.”
    “Dominique! Haven’t you ever been in love at all? Not even a little?”
    “I haven’t. I really wanted to fall in love with you. I thought it would be convenient. I’d have no trouble with you at all. But you see? I can’t feel anything. I can’t feel any difference, whether it’s you or Alvah Scarret or Lucius Heyer.”
    He got up. He did not want to look at her. He walked to a window and stood, staring out, his hands clasped behind his back. He had forgotten his desire and her beauty, but he remembered now that she was Francon’s daughter.
    “Dominique, will you marry me?”
    He knew he had to say it now; if he let himself think of her, he would never say it; what he felt for her did not matter any longer; he could not let it stand between him and his future; and what lie felt for her was growing into hatred.
    “You’re not serious?” she asked.
    He turned to her. He spoke rapidly, easily; he was lying now, and so he was sure of himself and it was not difficult:
    “I love you, Dominique. I’m crazy about you. Give me a chance. If there’s no one else, why not? You’ll learn to love me–because I understand you. I’ll be patient. I’ll make you happy.”
    She shuddered suddenly, and then she laughed. She laughed simply, completely; he saw the pale form of her dress trembling; she stood straight, her head thrown back, like a string shaking with the vibrations of a blinding insult to him; an insult, because her laughter was not bitter or mocking, but quite simply gay.
    Then it stopped. She stood looking at him. She said earnestly:
    “Peter, if I ever want to punish myself for something terrible, if I ever want to punish myself disgustingly–I’ll marry you.” She added: “Consider it a promise.”
    “I’ll wait–no matter what reason you choose for it.”
    Then she smiled gaily, the cold, gay smile he dreaded.
    “Really, Peter, you don’t have to do it, you know. You’ll get that partnership anyway. And we’ll always be good friends. Now its time for you to go home. Don’t forget, you’re taking me to the horse show Wednesday. Oh, yes, we’re going to the horse show Wednesday. I adore horse shows. Good night, Peter.”
    He left and walked home through the warm spring night. He walked savagely. If, at that moment, someone had offered him sole ownership of the firm of Francon & Heyer at the price of marrying Dominique, he would have refused it. He knew also, hating himself, that he would not refuse, if it were offered to him on the following morning.
    15.
    THIS was fear. This was what one feels in nightmares, thought Peter Keating, only then one awakens when it becomes unbearable, but he could neither awaken nor bear it any longer. It had been growing, for days, for weeks, and now it had caught him: this lewd, unspeakable dread of defeat. He would lose the competition, he was certain that he would lose it, and the certainty grew as each day of waiting passed. He could not work; he jerked when people spoke to him; he had not slept for nights.
    He walked toward the house of Lucius Heyer. He tried not to notice the faces of the people he passed, but he had to notice; he had always looked at people; and people looked at him, as they always did. He wanted to shout at them and tell them to turn away, to leave him alone. They were staring at him, he thought, because he was to fail and they knew it.
    He was going to Heyer’s house to save himself from the coming disaster in the only way he saw left to him. If he failed in that competition–and he knew he was to fail–Francon would be shocked and disillusioned; then if Heyer died, as he could die at any moment, Francon would hesitate–in the bitter aftermath of a public humiliation–to accept Keating as his partner; if Francon hesitated, the game was lost. There were others waiting for the opportunity: Bennett, whom he had been unable to get out of the office; Claude Stengel, who had been doing very well on his own, and had approached Francon with an offer to buy Heyer’s place. Keating had nothing to count on, except Francon’s uncertain faith in him. Once another partner replaced Heyer, it would be the end of Keating’s future. He had come too close and had missed. That was never forgiven.
    Through the sleepless nights the decision had become clear and hard in his mind: he had to close the issue at once; he had to take advantage of Francon’s deluded hopes before the winner of the competition was announced; he had to force Heyer out and take his place; he had only a few days left.
    He remembered Francon’s gossip about Heyer’s character. He looked through the files in Heyer’s office and found what he had hoped to find. It was a letter from a contractor, written fifteen years ago; it stated merely that the contractor was enclosing a check for twenty thousand dollars due Mr. Heyer. Keating looked up the records for that particular building; it did seem that the structure had cost more than it should have cost. That was the year when Heyer had started his collection of porcelain.
    He found Heyer alone in his study. It was a small, dim room and the air in it seemed heavy, as if it had not been disturbed for years. The dark mahogany paneling, the tapestries, the priceless pieces of old furniture were kept faultlessly clean, but the room smelt, somehow, of indigence and of decay. There was a single lamp burning on a small table in a corner, and five delicate, precious cups of ancient porcelain on the table. Heyer sat hunched, examining the cups in the dim light, with a vague, pointless enjoyment. He shuddered a little when his old valet admitted Keating, and he blinked in vapid bewilderment, but he asked Keating to sit down.
    When he heard the first sounds of his own voice, Keating knew he had lost the fear that had followed him on his way through the streets; his voice was cold and steady. Tim Davis, he thought, Claude Stengel, and now just one more to be removed.
    He explained what he wanted, spreading upon the still air of the room one short, concise, complete paragraph of thought, perfect as a gem with clean edges.
    “And so, unless you inform Francon of your retirement tomorrow morning,” he concluded, holding the letter by a corner between two fingers, “this goes to the A.G.A.”
    He waited. Heyer sat still, with his pale, bulging eyes blank and his mouth open in a perfect circle. Keating shuddered and wondered whether he was speaking to an idiot.
    Then Heyer’s mouth moved and his pale pink tongue showed, flickering against his lower teeth.
    “But I don’t want to retire.” He said it simply, guilelessly, in a little petulant whine.
    “You will have to retire.”
    “I don’t want to. I’m not going to. I’m a famous architect. I’ve always been a famous architect. I wish people would stop bothering me. They all want me to retire. I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned forward; he whispered slyly: “You may not know it, but I know, he can’t deceive me; Guy wants me to retire. He thinks he’s outwitting me, but I can see through him. That’s a good one on Guy.” He giggled softly.
    “I don’t think you understood me. Do you understand this?” Keating pushed the letter into Heyer’s half-closed fingers.
    He watched the thin sheet trembling as Heyer held it. Then it dropped to the table and Heyer’s left hand with the paralyzed fingers jabbed at it blindly, purposelessly, like a hook. He said, gulping:
    “You can’t send this to the A.G.A. They’ll have my license taken away.” “Certainly,” said Keating, “they will.”
”And it will be in the papers.”
”In all of them.”
    “You can’t do that.”
”I’m going to–unless you retire.”
    Heyer’s shoulders drew down to the edge of the table. His head remained above the edge, timidly, as if he were ready to draw it also out of sight.
    “You won’t do that please you won’t,” Heyer mumbled in one long whine without pauses. “You’re a nice boy you’re a very nice boy you won’t do it will you?”
    The yellow square of paper lay on the table. Heyer’s useless left hand reached for it, crawling slowly over the edge. Keating leaned forward and snatched the letter from under his hand.
    Heyer looked at him, his head bent to one side, his mouth open. He looked as if he expected Keating to strike him; with a sickening, pleading glance that said he would allow Keating to strike him.
    “Please,” whispered Heyer, “you won’t do that, will you? I don’t feel very well. I’ve never hurt you. I seem to remember, I did something very nice for you once.”
    “What?” snapped Keating. “What did you do for me?”
    “Your name’s Peter Keating…Peter Keating…I remember…I did something nice for you….You’re the boy Guy has so much faith in. Don’t trust Guy. I don’t trust him. But I like you. We’ll make you a designer one of these days.” His mouth remained hanging open on the word. A thin strand of saliva trickled down from the corner of his mouth. “Please…don’t…”
    Keating’s eyes were bright with disgust; aversion goaded him on; he had to make it worse because he couldn’t stand it.
    “You’ll be exposed publicly,” said Keating, the sounds of his voice glittering. “You’ll be denounced as a grafter. People will point at you. They’ll print your picture in the papers. The owners of that building will sue you. They’ll throw you in jail.”
    Heyer said nothing. He did not move. Keating heard the cups on the table tinkling suddenly. He could not see the shaking of Heyer’s body. He heard a thin, glassy ringing in the silence of the room, as if the cups were trembling of themselves.
    “Get out!” said Keating, raising his voice, not to hear that sound. “Get out of the firm! What do
    you want to stay for? You’re no good. You’ve never been any good.”
    The yellow face at the edge of the table opened its mouth and made a wet, gurgling sound like a moan.
    Keating sat easily, leaning forward, his knees spread apart, one elbow resting on his knee, the hand hanging down, swinging the letter.
    “I…” Heyer choked. “I…”
    “Shut up! You’ve got nothing to say, except yes or no. Think fast now. I’m not here to argue with you.”
    Heyer stopped trembling. A shadow cut diagonally across his face. Keating saw one eye that did not blink, and half a mouth, open, the darkness flowing in through the hole, into the face, as if it were drowning.
    “Answer me!” Keating screamed, frightened suddenly. “Why don’t you answer me?”
    The half-face swayed and he saw the head lurch forward; it fell down on the table, and went on, and rolled to the floor, as it cut off; two of the cups fell after it, cracking softly to pieces on the carpet. The first thing Keating felt was relief to see that the body had followed the head and lay crumpled in a heap on the floor, intact. There had been no sound; only the muffled, musical bursting of porcelain.
    He’ll be furious, thought Keating, looking down at the cups. He had jumped to his feet, he was kneeling, gathering the pieces pointlessly; he saw that they were broken beyond repair. He knew he was thinking also, at the same time, that it had come, that second stroke they had been expecting, and that he would have to do something about it in a moment, but that it was all right, because Heyer would have to retire now.
    Then he moved on his knees closer to Heyer’s body. He wondered why he did not want to touch it. “Mr. Heyer,” he called. His voice was soft, almost respectful. He lifted Heyer’s head, cautiously. He let it drop. He heard no sound of its falling. He heard the hiccough in his own throat. Heyer was dead.
    He sat beside the body, his buttocks against his heels, his hands spread on his knees. He looked straight ahead; his glance stopped on the folds of the hangings by the door; he wondered whether the gray sheen was dust or the nap of velvet and was it velvet and how old- fashioned it was to have hangings by a door. Then he felt himself shaking. He wanted to vomit. He rose, walked across the room and threw the door open, because he remembered that there was the rest of the apartment somewhere and a valet in it, and he called, trying to scream for help.

    Keating came to the office as usual. He answered questions, he explained that Heyer had asked him, that day, to come to his house after dinner; Heyer had wanted to discuss the matter of his retirement. No one doubted the story and Keating knew that no one ever would. Heyer’s end had come as everybody had expected it to come. Francon felt nothing but relief. “We knew he would, sooner or later,” said Francon. “Why regret that he spared himself and all of us a prolonged agony?”
    Keating’s manner was calmer than it had been for weeks. It was the calm of blank stupor. The thought followed him, gentle, unstressed, monotonous, at his work, at home, at night: he was a murderer…no, but almost a murderer…almost a murderer…He knew that it had not been an accident; he knew he had counted on the shock and the terror; he had counted on that second stroke which would send Heyer to the hospital for the rest of his days. But was that all he had expected? Hadn’t he known what else a second stroke could mean? Had he counted on that? He tried to remember. He tried, wringing his mind dry. He felt nothing. He expected to feel nothing, one way or another. Only he wanted to know. He did not notice what went on in the office around him. He forgot that he had but a short time left to close the deal with Francon about the partnership.
    A few days after Heyer’s death Francon called him to his office.
    “Sit down, Peter,” he said with a brighter smile than usual. “Well, I have some good news for you, kid. They read Lucius’s will this morning. He had no relatives left, you know. Well, I was surprised, I didn’t give him enough credit, I guess, but it seems he could make a nice gesture on occasion. He’s left everything to you….Pretty grand, isn’t it? Now you won’t have to worry about investment when we make arrangements for…What’s the matter, Peter?…Peter, my boy, are you sick?”
    Keating’s face fell upon his arm on the corner of the desk. He could not let Francon see his face. He was going to be sick; sick, because through the horror, he had caught himself wondering how much Heyer had actually left….
    The will had been made out five years ago; perhaps in a senseless spurt of affection for the only person who had shown Heyer consideration in the office; perhaps as a gesture against his partner; it had been made and forgotten. The estate amounted to two hundred thousand dollars, plus Heyer’s interest in the firm and his porcelain collection.
    Keating left the office early, that day, not hearing the congratulations. He went home, told the news to his mother, left her gasping in the middle of the living room, and locked himself in his bedroom. He went out, saying nothing, before dinner. He had no dinner that night, but he drank himself into a ferocious lucidity, at his favorite speak-easy. And in that heightened state of luminous vision, his head nodding over a glass but his mind steady, he told himself that he had nothing to regret; he had done what anyone would have done; Catherine had said it, he was selfish; everybody was selfish; it was not a pretty thing, to be selfish, but he was not alone in it; he had merely been luckier than most; he had been, because he was better than most; he felt fine; he hoped the useless questions would never come back to him again; every man for himself, he muttered, falling asleep on the table.
    The useless questions never came back to him again. He had no time for them in the days that followed. He had won the Cosmo-Slotnick competition.
#
    Peter Keating had known it would be a triumph, but he had not expected the thing that happened. He had dreamed of a sound of trumpets; he had not foreseen a symphonic explosion.
    It began with the thin ringing of a telephone, announcing the names of the winners. Then every phone in the office joined in, screaming, bursting from under the fingers of the operator who could barely control the switchboard; calls from every paper in town, from famous architects, questions, demands for interviews, congratulations. Then the flood rushed out of the elevators, poured through the office doors, the messages, the telegrams, the people Keating knew, the people he had never seen before, the reception clerk losing all sense, not knowing whom to admit or refuse, and Keating shaking hands, an endless stream of hands like a wheel with soft moist cogs flapping against his fingers. He did not know what he said at that first interview, with Francon’s office full of people and cameras; Francon had thrown the doors of his liquor cabinet wide-open. Francon gulped to all these people that the Cosmo- Slotnick building had been created by Peter Keating alone; Francon did not care; he was magnanimous in a spurt of enthusiasm; besides, it made a good story.
    It made a better story than Francon had expected. From the pages of newspapers the face of Peter Keating looked upon the country, the handsome, wholesome, smiling face with the brilliant eyes and the dark curls; it headed columns of print about poverty, struggle, aspiration and unremitting toil that had won their reward; about the faith of a mother who had sacrificed everything to her boy’s success; about the “Cinderella of Architecture.”
    Cosmo-Slotnick were pleased; they had not thought that prize-winning architects could also be young, handsome and poor–well, so recently poor. They had discovered a boy genius; Cosmo-Slotnick adored boy geniuses; Mr. Slotnick was one himself, being only forty-three.
    Keating’s drawings of the “most beautiful skyscraper on earth” were reproduced in the papers, with the words of the award underneath: “…for the brilliant skill and simplicity of its plan…for its clean, ruthless efficiency…for its ingenious economy of space…for the masterful blending of
    the modern with the traditional in Art…to Francon & Heyer and Peter Keating…”
    Keating appeared in newsreels, shaking hands with Mr. Shupe and Mr. Slotnick, and the subtitle announced what these two gentlemen thought of his building. Keating appeared in newsreels, shaking hands with Miss Dimples Williams, and the subtitle announced what he thought of her current picture. He appeared at architectural banquets and at film banquets, in the place of honor, and he had to make speeches, forgetting whether he was to speak of buildings or of movies. He appeared at architectural clubs and at fan clubs. Cosmo-Slotnick put out a composite picture of Keating and of his building, which could be had for a self- addressed, stamped envelope, and two bits. He made a personal appearance each evening, for a week, on the stage of the Cosmo Theater, with the first run of the latest Cosmo-Slotnick special; he bowed over the footlights, slim and graceful in a black tuxedo, and he spoke for two minutes on the significance of architecture. He presided as judge at a beauty contest in Atlantic City, the winner to be awarded a screen test by Cosmo-Slotnick. He was photographed with a famous prize-fighter, under the caption: “Champions.” A scale model of his building was made and sent on tour, together with the photographs of the best among the other entries, to be exhibited in the foyers of Cosmo-Slotnick theaters throughout the country.
    Mrs. Keating had sobbed at first, clasped Peter in her arms and gulped that she could not believe it. She had stammered, answering questions about Petey, and she had posed for pictures, embarrassed, eager to please. Then she became used to it. She told Peter, shrugging, that of course he had won, it was nothing to gape at, no one else could have won. She acquired a brisk little tone of condescension for the reporters. She was distinctly annoyed when she was not included in the photographs taken of Petey. She acquired a mink coat.
    Keating let himself be carried by the torrent. He needed the people and the clamor around him. There were no questions and no doubts when he stood on a platform over a sea of faces; the air was heavy, compact, saturated with a single solvent–admiration; there was no room for anything else. He was great; great as the number of people who told him so. He was right; right at the number of people who believed it. He looked at the faces, at the eyes; he saw himself born in them, he saw himself being granted the gift of life. That was Peter Keating, that, the reflection in those staring pupils, and his body was only its reflection.
    He found time to spend two hours with Catherine, one evening. He held her in his arms and she whispered radiant plans for their future; he glanced at her with contentment; he did not hear her words; he was thinking of how it would look if they were photographed like this together and in how many papers it would be syndicated.
    He saw Dominique once. She was leaving the city for the summer. Dominique was disappointing. She congratulated him, quite correctly; but she looked at him as she had always looked, as if nothing had happened. Of all architectural publications, her column had been the only one that had never mentioned the Cosmo-Slotnick competition or its winner.
    “I’m going to Connecticut,” she told him. “I’m taking over Father’s place down there for the summer. He’s letting me have it all to myself. No, Peter, you can’t come to visit me. Not even once. I’m going there so I won’t have to see anybody.” He was disappointed, but it did not spoil the triumph of his days. He was not afraid of Dominique any longer. He felt confident that he could bring her to change her attitude, that he would see the change when she came back in the fall.
    But there was one thing which did spoil his triumph; not often and not too loudly. He never tired of hearing what was said about him; but he did not like to hear too much about his building. And when he had to hear it, he did not mind the comments on “the masterful blending of the modern with the traditional” in its facade; but when they spoke of the plan–and they spoke so much of the plan–when he heard about “the brilliant skill and simplicity…the clean, ruthless efficiency…the ingenious economy of space…” when he heard it and thought of…He did not think it. There were no words in his brain. He would not allow them. There was only a heavy, dark feeling–and a name.
    For two weeks after the award he pushed this thing out of his mind, as a thing unworthy of his concern, to be buried as his doubting, humble past was buried. All winter long he had kept his own sketches of the building with the pencil lines cut across them by another’s hands; on the evening of the award he had burned them; it was the first thing he had done.
    But the thing would not leave him. Then he grasped suddenly that it was not a vague threat, but a practical danger; and he lost all fear of it. He could deal with a practical danger, he could dispose of it quite simply. He chuckled with relief, he telephoned Roark’s office, and made an appointment to see him.
    He went to that appointment confidently. For the first time in his life he felt free of the strange uneasiness which he had never been able to explain or escape in Roark’s presence. He felt safe now. He was through with Howard Roark.
#
    Roark sat at the desk in his office, waiting. The telephone had rung once, that morning, but it had been only Peter Keating asking for an appointment. He had forgotten now that Keating was coming. He was waiting for the telephone. He had become dependent on that telephone in the last few weeks. He was to hear at any moment about his drawings for the Manhattan Bank Company.
    His rent on the office was long since overdue. So was the rent on the room where he lived. He did not care about the room; he could tell the landlord to wait; the landlord waited; it would not have mattered greatly if he had stopped waiting. But it mattered at the office. He told the rental agent that he would have to wait; he did not ask for the delay; he only said flatly, quietly, that there would be a delay, which was all he knew how to do. But his knowledge that he needed his alms from the rental agent, that too much depended on it, and made it sound like begging in his own mind. That was torture. All right, he thought, it’s torture. What of it?
    The telephone bill was overdue for two months. He had received the final warning. The telephone was to be disconnected in a few days. He had to wait. So much could happen in a few days.
    The answer of the bank board, which Weidler had promised him long ago, had been postponed from week to week. The board could reach no decision; there had been objectors and there had been violent supporters; there had been conferences; Weidler told him eloquently little, but he could guess much; there had been days of silence, of silence in the office, of silence in the whole city, of silence within him. He waited.
    He sat, slumped across the desk, his face on his arm, his fingers on the stand of the telephone. He thought dimly that he should not sit like that; but he felt very tired today. He thought that he should take his hand off that phone; but he did not move it. Well, yes, he depended on that phone, he could smash it, but he would still depend on it; he and every breath in him and every bit of him. His fingers rested on the stand without moving. It was this and the mail; he had lied to himself also about the mail; he had lied when he had forced himself not to leap, as a rare letter fell through the slot in the door, not to run forward, but to wait, to stand looking at me white envelope on the floor, then to walk to it slowly and pick it up. The slot in the door and the telephone–there was nothing else left to him of the world.
    He raised his head, as he thought of it, to look down at the door, at the foot of the door. There was nothing. It was late in the afternoon, probably past the time of the last delivery. He raised his wrist to glance at his watch; he saw his bare wrist; the watch had been pawned. He turned to the window; there was a clock he could distinguish on a distant tower; it was half past four; there would be no other delivery today.
    He saw that his hand was lifting the telephone receiver. His fingers were dialing the number.
    “No, not yet,” Weidler’s voice told him over the wire. “We had that meeting scheduled for yesterday, but it had to be called off….I’m keeping after them like a bulldog….I can promise you that we’ll have a definite answer tomorrow. I can almost promise you. If not tomorrow, then it will have to wait over the week end, but by Monday I promise it for certain….You’ve been wonderfully patient with us, Mr. Roark. We appreciate it.” Roark dropped the receiver. He closed his eyes. He thought he would allow himself to rest, just to rest blankly like this for a few minutes, before he would begin to think of what the date on the telephone notice had been and in what way he could manage to last until Monday.
    “Hello, Howard,” said Peter Keating.
    He opened his eyes. Keating had entered and stood before him, smiling. He wore a light tan spring coat, thrown open, the loops of its belt like handles at his sides, a blue cornflower in his buttonhole. He stood, his legs apart, his fists on his hips, his hat on the back of his head, his black curls so bright and crisp over his pale forehead that one expected to see drops of spring dew glistening on them as on the cornflower.
    “Hello, Peter,” said Roark.
    Keating sat down comfortably, took his hat off, dropped it in the middle of the desk, and clasped one hand over each knee with a brisk little slap.
    “Well, Howard, things are happening, aren’t they?” “Congratulations.”
    “Thanks. What’s the matter, Howard? You look like hell. Surely, you’re not overworking yourself, from what I hear?”
    This was not the manner he had intended to assume. He had planned the interview to be smooth and friendly. Well, he decided, he’d switch back to that later. But first he had to show that he was not afraid of Roark, that he’d never be afraid again.
    “No, I’m not overworking.”
”Look, Howard, why don’t you drop it?”
    That was something he had not intended saying at all. His mouth remained open a little, in astonishment.
    “Drop what?”
    “The pose. Oh, the ideals, if you prefer. Why don’t you come down to earth? Why don’t you start working like everybody else? Why don’t you stop being a damn fool?” He felt himself rolling down a hill, without brakes. He could not stop.
    “What’s the matter, Peter?”
    “How do you expect to get along in the world? You have to live with people, you know. There are only two ways. You can join them or you can fight them. But you don’t seem to be doing either.”
    “No. Not either.”
    “And people don’t want you. They don’t want you! Aren’t you afraid?”
    “No.”
    “You haven’t worked for a year. And you won’t. Who’ll ever give you work? You might have a few hundreds left–and then it’s the end.”
    “That’s wrong, Peter. I have fourteen dollars left, and fifty-seven cents.”
    “Well? And look at me! I don’t care if it’s crude to say that myself. That’s not the point. I’m not boasting. It doesn’t matter who says it. But look at me! Remember how we started? Then look at us now. And then think that it’s up to you. Just drop that fool delusion that you’re better than everybody else–and go to work. In a year, you’ll have an office that’ll make you blush to think of this dump. You’ll have people running after you, you’ll have clients, you’ll have friends, you’ll have an army of draftsmen to order around!…Hell! Howard, it’s nothing to me–what can it mean to me?–but this time I’m not fishing for anything for myself, in fact I know that you’d make a dangerous competitor, but I’ve got to say this to you. Just think, Howard, think of it! You’ll be rich, you’ll be famous, you’ll be respected, you’ll be praised, you’ll be admired–you’ll be one of us!…Well?…Say something! Why don’t you say something?”
    He saw that Roark’s eyes were not empty and scornful, but attentive and wondering. It was close to some sort of surrender for Roark, because he had not dropped the iron sheet in his eyes, because he allowed his eyes to be puzzled and curious–and almost helpless.
    “Look, Peter. I believe you. I know that you have nothing to gain by saying this. I know more than that. I know that you don’t want me to succeed–it’s all right, I’m not reproaching you, I’ve always known it–you don’t want me ever to reach these things you’re offering me. And yet you’re pushing me on to reach them, quite sincerely. And you know that if I take your advice, I’ll reach them. And it’s not love for me, because that wouldn’t make you so angry–and so frightened….Peter, what is it that disturbs you about me as I am?”
    “I don’t know…” whispered Rearing.
    He understood that it was a confession, that answer of his, and a terrifying one. He did not know the nature of what he had confessed and he felt certain that Roark did not know it either. But the thing had been bared; they could not grasp it, but they felt its shape. And it made them sit silently, facing each other, in astonishment, in resignation.
    “Pull yourself together, Peter,” said Roark gently, as to a comrade. “We’ll never speak of that again.”
    Then Keating said suddenly, his voice clinging in relief to the bright vulgarity of its new tone:
    “Aw hell, Howard, I was only talking good plain horse sense. Now if you wanted to work like a normal person–”
    “Shut up!” snapped Roark.
    Keating leaned back, exhausted. He had nothing else to say. He had forgotten what he had come here to discuss.
    “Now,” said Roark, “what did you want to tell me about the competition?”
    Keating jerked forward. He wondered what had made Roark guess that. And then it became easier, because he forgot the rest in a sweeping surge of resentment.
    “Oh, yes!” said Keating crisply, a bright edge of irritation in the sound of his voice. “Yes, I did want to speak to you about that. Thanks for reminding me. Of course, you’d guess it, because you know that I’m not an ungrateful swine. I really came here to thank you, Howard. I haven’t forgotten that you had a share in that building, you did give me some advice on it. I’d be the first one to give you part of the credit.”
    “That’s not necessary.”
    “Oh, it’s not that I’d mind, but I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to say anything about it. And I’m sure you don’t want to say anything yourself, because you know how it is, people are so funny, they misinterpret everything in such a stupid way….But since I’m getting part of the award money, I thought it’s only fair to let you have some of it. I’m glad that it comes at a time when you need it so badly.”
    He produced his billfold, pulled from it a check he had made out in advance and put it down on the desk. It read: “Pay to the order of Howard Roark–the sum of five hundred dollars.”
    “Thank you, Peter,” said Roark, taking the check.
    Then he turned it over, took his fountain pen, wrote on the back: “Pay to the order of Peter Keating,” signed and handed the check to Keating.
    “And here’s my bribe to you, Peter,” he said. “For the same purpose. To keep your mouth shut.”
    Keating stared at him blankly.
    “That’s all I can offer you now,” said Roark. “You can’t extort anything from me at present, but later, when I’ll have money, I’d like to ask you please not to blackmail me. I’m telling you frankly that you could. Because I don’t want anyone to know that I had anything to do with that building.”
    He laughed at the slow look of comprehension on Keating’s face.
    “No?” said Roark. “You don’t want to blackmail me on that?…Go home, Peter. You’re perfectly safe. I’ll never say a word about it. It’s yours, the building and every girder of it and every foot of plumbing and every picture of your face in the papers.”
    Then Keating jumped to his feet. He was shaking.
    “God damn you!” he screamed. “God damn you! Who do you think you are? Who told you that you could do this to people? So you’re too good for that building? You want to make me ashamed of it? You rotten, lousy, conceited bastard! Who are you? You don’t even have the wits to know that you’re a flop, an incompetent, a beggar, a failure, a failure, a failure! And you stand there pronouncing judgment! You, against the whole country! You against everybody! Why should I listen to you? You can’t frighten me. You can’t touch me. I have the whole world with me!…Don’t stare at me like that! I’ve always hated you! You didn’t know that, did you? I’ve always hated you! I always will! I’ll break you some day, I swear I will, if it’s the last thing I do!”
    “Peter,” said Roark, “why betray so much?”
    Keating’s breath failed on a choked moan. He slumped down on a chair, he sat still, his hands clasping the sides of the seat under him.
    After a while he raised his head. He asked woodenly: “Oh God, Howard, what have I been saying?”
”Are you all right now? Can you go?”
    “Howard, I’m sorry. I apologize, if you want me to.” His voice was raw and dull, without conviction. “I lost my head. Guess I’m just unstrung. I didn’t mean any of it. I don’t know why I said it. Honestly, I don’t.”
    “Fix your collar. It’s unfastened.”
    “I guess I was angry about what you did with that check. But I suppose you were insulted, too. I’m sorry. I’m stupid like that sometimes. I didn’t mean to offend you. We’ll just destroy the damn thing.”
    He picked up the check, struck a match, cautiously watched the paper burn till he had to drop the last scrap.
    “Howard, we’ll forget it?”
    “Don’t you think you’d better go now?”
    Keating rose heavily, his hands poked about in a few useless gestures, and he mumbled:
    “Well…well, good night, Howard. I…I’ll see you soon….It’s because so much’s happened to me lately….Guess I need a rest….So long, Howard….”
    When he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him, Keating felt an icy sense of relief. He felt heavy and very tired, but drearily sure of himself. He had acquired the knowledge of one thing: he hated Roark. It was not necessary to doubt and wonder and squirm in uneasiness any longer. It was simple. He hated Roark. The reasons? It was not necessary to wonder about the reasons. It was necessary only to hate, to hate blindly, to hate patiently, to hate without anger; only to hate, and let nothing intervene, and not let oneself forget, ever.
    #
The telephone rang late on Monday afternoon.
    “Mr. Roark?” said Weidler. “Can you come right over? I don’t want to say anything over the phone, but get here at once.” The voice sounded clear, gay, radiantly premonitory.
    Roark looked at the window, at the clock on the distant tower. He sat laughing at that clock, as at a friendly old enemy; he would not need it any longer, he would have a watch of his own again. He threw his head back in defiance to that pale gray dial hanging high over the city.
    He rose and reached for his coat. He threw his shoulders back, slipping the coat on; he felt pleasure in the jolt of his muscles.
    In the street outside, he took a taxi which he could not afford.
    The chairman of the board was waiting for him in his office, with Weidler and with the vice- president of the Manhattan Bank Company. There was a long conference table in the room, and Roark’s drawings were spread upon it. Weidler rose when he entered and walked to meet him, his hand outstretched. It was in the air of the room, like an overture to the words Weidler uttered, and Roark was not certain of the moment when he heard them, because he thought he had heard them the instant he entered.
    “Well, Mr. Roark, the commission’s yours,” said Weidler.
Roark bowed. It was best not to trust his voice for a few minutes.
    The chairman smiled amiably, inviting him to sit down. Roark sat down by the side of the table that supported his drawings. His hand rested on the table. The polished mahogany felt warm and living under his fingers; it was almost as if he were pressing his hand against the foundations of his building; his greatest building, fifty stories to rise in the center of Manhattan.
    “I must tell you,” the chairman was saying, “that we’ve had a hell of a fight over that building of yours. Thank God it’s over. Some of our members just couldn’t swallow your radical innovations. You know how stupidly conservative some people are. But we’ve found a way to please them, and we got their consent. Mr. Weidler here was really magnificently convincing on your behalf.”
    A great deal more was said by the three men. Roark barely heard it. He was thinking of the first bite of machine into earth that begins an excavation. Then he heard the chairman saying: “…and so it’s yours, on one minor condition.” He heard that and looked at the chairman.
    “It’s a small compromise, and when you agree to it we can sign the contract. It’s only an inconsequential matter of the building’s appearance. I understand that you modernists attach no great importance to a mere facade, it’s the plan that counts with you, quite rightly, and we wouldn’t think of altering your plan in any way, it’s the logic of the plan that sold us on the building. So I’m sure you won’t mind.”
    “What do you want?”
    “It’s only a matter of a slight alteration in the facade. I’ll show you. Our Mr. Parker’s son is studying architecture and we had him draw us up a sketch, just a rough sketch to illustrate what we had in mind and to show the members of the board, because they couldn’t have visualized the compromise we offered. Here it is.”
    He pulled a sketch from under the drawings on the table and handed it to Roark.
    It was Roark’s building on the sketch, very neatly drawn. It was his building, but it had a simplified Doric portico in front, a cornice on top, and his ornament was replaced by a stylized Greek ornament.
    Roark got up. He had to stand. He concentrated on the effort of standing. It made the rest easier. He leaned on one straight arm, his hand closed over the edge of the table, the tendons
    showing under the skin of his wrist.
    “You see the point?” said the chairman soothingly. “Our conservatives simply refused to accept a queer stark building like yours. And they claim that the public won’t accept it either. So we hit upon the middle course. In this way, though it’s not traditional architecture of course, it will give the public the impression of what they’re accustomed to. It adds a certain air of sound, stable dignity–and that’s what we want in a bank, isn’t it? It does seem to be an unwritten law that a bank must have a Classic portico–and a bank is not exactly the right institution to parade law-breaking and rebellion. Undermines that intangible feeling of confidence, you know. People don’t trust novelty. But this is the scheme that pleased everybody. Personally, I wouldn’t insist on it, but I really don’t see that it spoils anything. And that’s what the board has decided. Of course, we don’t mean that we want you to follow this sketch. But it gives you our general idea and you’ll work it out yourself, make your own adaptation of the Classic motive to the facade.”
    Then Roark answered. The men could not classify the tone of his voice; they could not decide whether it was too great a calm or too great an emotion. They concluded that it was calm, because the voice moved forward evenly, without stress, without color, each syllable spaced as by a machine; only the air in the room was not the air that vibrates to a calm voice.
    They concluded that there was nothing abnormal in the manner of the man who was speaking, except the fact that his right hand would not leave the edge of the table, and when he had to move the drawings, he did it with his left hand, like a man with one arm paralyzed.
    He spoke for a long time. He explained why this structure could not have a Classic motive on its facade. He explained why an honest building, like an honest man, had to be of one piece and one faith; what constituted the life source, the idea in any existing thing or creature, and why–if one smallest part committed treason to that idea–the thing of the creature was dead; and why the good, the high and the noble on earth was only that which kept its integrity.
    The chairman interrupted him:
    “Mr. Roark, I agree with you. There’s no answer to what you’re saying. But unfortunately, in practical life, one can’t always be so flawlessly consistent. There’s always the incalculable human element of emotion. We can’t fight that with cold logic. This discussion is actually superfluous. I can agree with you, but I can’t help you. The matter is closed. It was the board’s final decision–after more than usually prolonged consideration, as you know.”
    “Will you let me appear before the board and speak to them?”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Roark, but the board will not re-open the question for further debate. It was final. I can only ask you to state whether you agree to accept the commission on our terms or not. I must admit that the board has considered the possibility of your refusal. In which case, the name of another architect, one Gordon L. Prescott, has been mentioned most favorably as an alternative. But I told the board that I felt certain you would accept.”
    He waited. Roark said nothing.
”You understand the situation, Mr. Roark?”
”Yes,” said Roark. His eyes were lowered. He was looking down at the drawings. “W ell?”
Roark did not answer.
”Yes or no, Mr. Roark?”
Roark’s head leaned back. He closed his eyes.
”No,” said Roark.
After a while the chairman asked:
    “Do you realize what you’re doing?”
    “Quite,” said Roark.
    “Good God!” Weidler cried suddenly. “Don’t you know how big a commission this is? You’re a young man, you won’t get another chance like this. And…all right, damn it, I’ll say it! You need this! I know how badly you need it!”
    Roark gathered the drawings from the table, rolled them together and put them under his arm.
    “It’s sheer insanity!” Weidler moaned. “I want you. We want your building. You need the commission. Do you have to be quite so fanatical and selfless about it?”
    “What?” Roark asked incredulously. “Fanatical and selfless.”
    Roark smiled. He looked down at his drawings. His elbow moved a little, pressing them to his body. He said:
    “That was the most selfish thing you’ve ever seen a man do.”
    He walked back to his office. He gathered his drawing instruments and the few things he had there. It made one package and he carried it under his arm. He locked the door and gave the key to the rental agent. He told the agent that he was closing his office. He walked home and left the package there. Then he went to Mike Donnigan’s house.
    “No?” Mike asked, after one look at him. “No,” said Roark.
”What happened?”
”I’ll tell you some other time.”
    “The bastards!”
    “Never mind that, Mike.”
    “How about the office now?”
    “I’ve closed the office.”
    “For good?”
    “For the time being.”
    “God damn them all, Red! God damn them!”
    “Shut up. I need a job, Mike. Can you help me?”
    “Me?”
    “I don’t know anyone in those trades here. Not anyone that would want me. You know them all.”
    “In what trades? What are you talking about?”
”In the building trades. Structural work. As I’ve done before.” “You mean–a plain workman’s job?”
    “I mean a plain workman’s job.”
    “You’re crazy, you God-damn fool!”
    “Cut it, Mike. Will you get me a job?”
    “But why in hell? You can get a decent job in an architect’s office. You know you can.”
    “I won’t, Mike. Not ever again.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to help them do what they’re doing.”
    “You can get a nice clean job in some other line.”
    “I would have to think on a nice clean job. I don’t want to think. Not their way. It will have to be their way, no matter where I go. I want a job where I won’t have to think.”
    “Architects don’t take workmen’s jobs.” “That’s all this architect can do.”
”You can learn something in no time.” “I don’t want to learn anything.”
    “You mean you want me to get you into a construction gang, here, in town?” “That’s what I mean.”
”No, God damn you! I can’t! I won’t! I won’t do it!”
”Why?”
    “Red, to be putting yourself up like a show for all the bastards in this town to see? For all the sons of bitches to know they brought you down like this? For all of them to gloat?”
    Roark laughed.
    “I don’t give a damn about that, Mike. Why should you?”
    “Well, I’m not letting you. I’m not giving the sons of bitches that kinda treat.”
    “Mike,” Roark said softly, “there’s nothing else for me to do.”
    “Hell, yes, there is. I told you before. You’ll be listening to reason now. I got all the dough you need until…”
    “I’ll tell you what I’ve told Austen Heller: If you ever offer me money again, that’ll be the end between us.”
    “But why?”
    “Don’t argue, Mike.”
    “But…”
    “I’m asking you to do me a bigger favor. I want that job. You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I don’t.”
    “But…but what’ll happen to you, Red?”
    “Where?”
    “I mean…your future?”
    “I’ll save enough money and I’ll come back. Or maybe someone will send for me before then.”
    Mike looked at him. He saw something in Roark’s eyes which he knew Roark did not want to be there.
    “Okay, Red,” said Mike softly.
He thought it over for a long time. He said:
    “Listen, Red, I won’t get you a job in town. I just can’t. It turns my stomach to think of it. But I’ll get you something in the same line.”
    “All right. Anything. It doesn’t make any difference to me.”
    “I’ve worked for all of that bastard Francon’s pet contractors for so long I know everybody ever worked for him. He’s got a granite quarry down in Connecticut. One of the foremen’s a great pal of mine. He’s in town right now. Ever worked in a quarry before?”
    “Once. Long ago.”
”Think you’ll like that?”
”Sure.”
”I’ll go see him. We won’t be telling him who you are, just a friend of mine, that’s all.” “Thanks, Mike.”
Mike reached for his coat, and then his hands fell back, and he looked at the floor. “Red…”
”It will be all right, Mike.”
    Roark walked home. It was dark and the street was deserted. There was a strong wind. He could feel the cold, whistling pressure strike his cheeks. It was the only evidence of the flow ripping the air. Nothing moved in the stone corridor about him. There was not a tree to stir, no curtains, no awnings; only naked masses of stone, glass, asphalt and sharp corners. It was strange to feel that fierce movement against his face. But in a trash basket on a corner a crumpled sheet of newspaper was rustling, beating convulsively against the wire mesh. It made the wind real.
    #
In the evening, two days later, Roark left for Connecticut.
    From the train, he looked back once at the skyline of the city as it flashed into sight and was held for some moments beyond the windows. The twilight had washed off the details of the buildings. They rose in thin shafts of a soft, porcelain blue, a color not of real things, but of evening and distance. They rose in bare outlines, like empty molds waiting to be filled. The distance had flattened the city. The single shafts stood immeasurably tall, out of scale to the rest of the earth. They were of their own world, and they held up to the sky the statement of what man had conceived and made possible. They were empty molds. But man had come so far; he could go farther. The city on the edge of the sky held a question–and a promise.

    Little pinheads of light flared up about the peak of one famous tower, in the windows of the Star Roof Restaurant. Then the train swerved around a bend and the city vanished.
    That evening, in the banquet hall of the Star Roof Restaurant, a dinner was held to celebrate
    the admittance of Peter Keating to partnership in the firm to be known henceforward as Francon & Keating.
    At the long table that seemed covered, not with a tablecloth, but with a sheet of light, sat Guy Francon. Somehow, tonight, he did not mind the streaks of silver that appeared on his temples; they sparkled crisply against the black of his hair and they gave him an air of cleanliness and elegance, like the rigid white of his shirt against his black evening clothes. In the place of honor sat Peter Keating. He leaned back, his shoulders straight, his hand closed about the stem of a glass. His black curls glistened against his white forehead. In that one moment of silence, the guests felt no envy, no resentment, no malice. There was a grave feeling of brotherhood in the room, in the presence of the pale, handsome boy who looked solemn as at his first communion. Ralston Holcombe had risen to speak. He stood, his glass in hand. He had prepared his speech, but he was astonished to hear himself saying something quite different, in a voice of complete sincerity. He said:
    “We are the guardians of a great human function. Perhaps of the greatest function among the endeavors of man. We have achieved much and we have erred often. But we are willing in all humility to make way for our heirs. We are only men and we are only seekers. But we seek for truth with the best there is in our hearts. We seek with what there is of the sublime granted to the race of men. It is a great quest. To the future of American Architecture!”
    Part Two: ELLSWORTH M. TOOHEY
    1.
    TO HOLD his fists closed tight, as if the skin of his palms had grown fast to the steel he clasped–to keep his feet steady, pressed down hard, the flat rock an upward thrust against his soles–not to feel the existence of his body, but only a few clots of tension: his knees, his wrists, his shoulders and the drill he held–to feel the drill trembling in a long convulsive shudder–to feel his stomach trembling, his lungs trembling, the straight lines of the stone ledges before him dissolving into jagged streaks of trembling–to feel the drill and his body gathered into the single will of pressure, that a shaft of steel might sink slowly into granite–this was all of life for Howard Roark, as it had been in the days of the two months behind him.
    He stood on the hot stone in the sun. His face was scorched to bronze. His shirt stuck in long, damp patches to his back. The quarry rose about him in flat shelves breaking against one another. It was a world without curves, grass or soil, a simplified world of stone planes, sharp edges and angles. The stone had not been made by patient centuries welding the sediment of winds and tides; it had come from a molten mass cooling slowly at unknown depth; it had been flung, forced out of the earth, and it still held the shape of violence against the violence of the men on its ledges.
    The straight planes stood witness to the force of each cut; the drive of each blow had run in an unswerving line; the stone had cracked open in unbending resistance. Drills bored forward with a low, continuous drone, the tension of the sound cutting through nerves, through skulls, as if the quivering tools were shattering slowly both the stone and the men who held them.
    He liked the work. He felt at times as if it were a match of wrestling between his muscles and the granite. He was very tired at night. He liked the emptiness of his body’s exhaustion.
    Each evening he walked the two miles from the quarry to the little town where the workers lived. The earth of the woods he crossed was soft and warm under his feet; it was strange, after a day spent on the granite ridges; he smiled as at a new pleasure, each evening, and looked down to watch his feet crushing a surface that responded, gave way and conceded faint prints to be left behind.
    There was a bathroom in the garret of the house where he roomed; the paint had peeled off
    the floor long ago and the naked boards were gray-white. He lay in the tub for a long time and let the cool water soak the stone dust out of his skin. He let his head hang back, on the edge of the tub, his eyes closed. The greatness of the weariness was its own relief: it allowed no sensation but the slow pleasure of the tension leaving his muscles.
    He ate his dinner in a kitchen, with other quarry workers. He sat alone at a table in a corner; the fumes of the grease, crackling eternally on the vast gas range, hid the rest of the room in a sticky haze. He ate little. He drank a great deal of water; the cold, glittering liquid in a clean glass was intoxicating.
    He slept in a small wooden cube under the roof. The boards of the ceiling slanted down over his bed. When it rained, he could hear the burst of each drop against the roof, and it took an effort to realize why he did not feel the rain beating against his body.
    Sometimes, after dinner, he would walk into the woods that began behind the house. He would stretch down on the ground, on his stomach, his elbows planted before him, his hands propping his chin, and he would watch the patterns of veins on the green blades of grass under his face; he would blow at them and watch the blades tremble then stop again. He would roll over on his back and lie still, feeling the warmth of the earth under him. Far above, the leaves were still green, but it was a thick, compressed green, as if the color were condensed in one last effort before the dusk coming to dissolve it. The leaves hung without motion against a sky of polished lemon yellow; its luminous pallor emphasized that its light was failing. He pressed his hips, his back into the earth under him; the earth resisted, but it gave way; it was a silent victory; he felt a dim, sensuous pleasure in the muscles of his legs.
    Sometimes, not often, he sat up and did not move for a long time; then he smiled, the slow smile of an executioner watching a victim. He thought of his days going by, of the buildings he could have been doing, should have been doing and, perhaps, never would be doing again. He watched the pain’s unsummoned appearance with a cold, detached curiosity; he said to himself: Well, here it is again. He waited to see how long it would last. It gave him a strange, hard pleasure to watch his fight against it, and he could forget that it was his own suffering; he could smile in contempt, not realizing that he smiled at his own agony. Such moments were rare. But when they came, he felt as he did in the quarry: that he had to drill through granite, that he had to drive a wedge and blast the thing within him which persisted in calling to his pity.
#
    Dominique Francon lived alone, that summer, in the great Colonial mansion of her father’s estate, three miles beyond the quarry town. She received no visitors. An old caretaker and his wife were the only human beings she saw, not too often and merely of necessity; they lived some distance from the mansion, near the stables; the caretaker attended to the grounds and the horses; his wife attended to the house and cooked Dominique’s meals.
    The meals were served with the gracious severity the old woman had learned in the days when Dominique’s mother lived and presided over the guests in that great dining room. At night Dominique found her solitary place at the table laid out as for a formal banquet, the candles lighted, the tongues of yellow flame standing motionless like the shining metal spears of a guard of honor. The darkness stretched the room into a hall, the big windows rose like a flat colonnade of sentinels. A shallow crystal bowl stood in a pool of light in the center of the long table, with a single water lily spreading white petals about a heart yellow like a drop of candle fire.
    The old woman served the meal in unobtrusive silence, and disappeared from the house as soon as she could afterward. When Dominique walked up the stairs to her bedroom, she found the fragile lace folds of her nightgown laid out on the bed. In the morning she entered her bathroom and found water in the sunken bathtub, the hyacinth odor of her bath sails, the aquamarine tiles polished, shining under her feet, her huge towels spread out like snowdrifts to swallow her body–yet she heard no steps and felt no living presence in the house. The old woman’s treatment of Dominique had the same reverent caution with which she handled the pieces of Venetian glass in the drawing-room cabinets. Dominique had spent so many summers and winters, surrounding herself with people in order to feel alone, that the experiment of actual solitude was an enchantment to her and a betrayal into a weakness she had never allowed herself: the weakness of enjoying it. She stretched her arms and let them
    drop lazily, feeling a sweet, drowsy heaviness above her elbows, as after a first drink. She was conscious of her summer dresses, she felt her knees, her thighs encountering the faint resistance of cloth when she moved, and it made her conscious not of the cloth, but of her knees and thighs.
    The house stood alone amidst vast grounds, and the woods stretched beyond; there were no neighbors for miles. She rode on horseback down long, deserted roads, down hidden paths leading nowhere. Leaves glittered in the sun and twigs snapped in the wind of her flying passage. She caught her breath at times from the sudden feeling that something magnificent and deadly would meet her beyond the next turn of the road; she could give no identity to what she expected, she could not say whether it was a sight, a person or an event; she knew only its quality–the sensation of a defiling pleasure.
    Sometimes she started on foot from the house and walked for miles, setting herself no goal and no hour of return. Cars passed her on the road; the people of the quarry town knew her and bowed to her; she was considered the chatelaine of the countryside, as her mother had been long ago. She turned off the road into the woods and walked on, her arms swinging loosely, her head thrown back, watching the tree tops. She saw clouds swimming behind the leaves; it looked as if a giant tree before her were moving, slanting, ready to fall and crush her; she stopped; she waited, her head thrown back, her throat pulled tight; she felt as if she wanted to be crushed. Then she shrugged and went on. She flung thick branches impatiently out of her way and let them scratch her bare arms. She walked on long after she was exhausted, she drove herself forward against the weariness of her muscles. Then she fell down on her back and lay still, her arms and legs flung out like a cross on the ground, breathing in release, feeling empty and flattened, feeling the weight of the air like a pressure against her breasts.
    Some mornings, when she awakened in her bedroom, she heard the explosions of blasting at the granite quarry. She stretched, her arms flung back above her head on the white silk pillow, and she listened. It was the sound of destruction and she liked it.
#
    Because the sun was too hot, that morning, and she knew it would be hotter at the granite quarry, because she wanted to see no one and knew she would face a gang of workers, Dominique walked to the quarry. The thought of seeing it on that blazing day was revolting; she enjoyed the prospect.
    When she came out of the woods to the edge of the great stone bowl, she felt as if she were thrust into an execution chamber filled with scalding steam. The heat did not come from the sun, but from that broken cut in the earth, from the reflectors of flat ridges. Her shoulders, her head, her back, exposed to the sky, seemed cool while she felt the hot breath of the stone rising up her legs, to her chin, to her nostrils. The air shimmered below, sparks of fire shot through the granite; she thought the stone was stirring, melting, running in white trickles of lava. Drills and hammers cracked the still weight of the air. It was obscene to see men on the shelves of the furnace. They did not look like workers, they looked like a chain gang serving an unspeakable penance for some unspeakable crime. She could not turn away.
    She stood, as an insult to the place below. Her dress–the color of water, a pale green-blue, too simple and expensive, its pleats exact like edges of glass–her thin heels planted wide apart on the boulders, the smooth helmet of her hair, the exaggerated fragility of her body against the sky–flaunted the fastidious coolness of the gardens and drawing rooms from which she came.
    She looked down. Her eyes stopped on the orange hair of a man who raised his head and looked at her.
    She stood very still, because her first perception was not of sight, but of touch: the consciousness, not of a visual presence, but of a slap in the face. She held one hand awkwardly away from her body, the fingers spread wide on the air, as against a wall. She knew that she could not move until he permitted her to.
    She saw his mouth and the silent contempt in the shape of his mouth; the planes of his gaunt, hollow cheeks; the cold, pure brilliance of the eyes that had no trace of pity. She knew it was
    the most beautiful face she would ever see, because it was the abstraction of strength made visible. She felt a convulsion of anger, of protest, of resistance–and of pleasure. He stood looking up at her; it was not a glance, but an act of ownership. She thought she must let her face give him the answer he deserved. But she was looking, instead, at the stone dust on his burned arms, the wet shirt clinging to his ribs, the lines of his long legs. She was thinking of those statues of men she had always sought; she was wondering what he would look like naked. She saw him looking at her as if he knew that. She thought she had found an aim in life–a sudden, sweeping hatred for that man.
    She was first to move. She turned and walked away from him. She saw the superintendent of the quarry on the path ahead, and she waved. The superintendent rushed forward to meet her. “Why, Miss Francon!” he cried. “Why, how do you do, Miss Francon!”
    She hoped the words were heard by the man below. For the first time in her life, she was glad of being Miss Francon, glad of her father’s position and possessions, which she had always despised. She thought suddenly that the man below was only a common worker, owned by the owner of this place, and she was almost the owner of this place.
    The superintendent stood before her respectfully. She smiled and said:
    “I suppose I’ll inherit the quarry some day, so I thought I should show some interest in it once in a while.”
    The superintendent preceded her down the path, displayed his domain to her, explained the work. She followed him far to the other side of the quarry; she descended to the dusty green dell of the work sheds; she inspected the bewildering machinery. She allowed a convincingly sufficient time to elapse. Then she walked back, alone, down the edge of the granite bowl.
    She saw him from a distance as she approached. He was working. She saw one strand of red hair that fell over his face and swayed with the trembling of the drill. She thought–hopefully– that the vibrations of the drill hurt him, hurt his body, everything inside his body.
    When she was on the rocks above him, he raised his head and looked at her; she had not caught him noticing her approach; he looked up as if he expected her to be there, as if he knew she would be back. She saw the hint of a smile, more insulting than words. He sustained the insolence of looking straight at her, he would not move, he would not grant the concession of turning away–of acknowledging that he had no right to look at her in such manner. He had not merely taken that right, he was saying silently that she had given it to him.
    She turned sharply and walked on, down the rocky slope, away from the quarry. #
    It was not his eyes, not his mouth that she remembered, but his hands. The meaning of that day seemed held in a single picture she had noted: the simple instant of his one hand resting against granite. She saw it again: his fingertips pressed to the stone, his long fingers continuing the straight lines of the tendons that spread in a fan from his wrist to his knuckles. She thought of him, but the vision present through all her thoughts was the picture of that hand on the granite. It frightened her; she could not understand it.
    He’s only a common worker, she thought, a hired man doing a convict’s labor. She thought of that, sitting before the glass shelf of her dressing table. She looked at the crystal objects spread before her; they were like sculptures in ice–they proclaimed her own cold, luxurious fragility; and she thought of his strained body, of his clothes drenched in dust and sweat, of his hands. She stressed the contrast, because it degraded her. She leaned back, closing her eyes. She thought of the many distinguished men whom she had refused. She thought of the quarry worker. She thought of being broken–not by a man she admired, but by a man she loathed. She let her head fall down on her arm; the thought left her weak with pleasure.
    For two days she made herself believe that she would escape from this place; she found old travel folders in her trunk, studied them, chose the resort, the hotel and the particular room in that hotel, selected the train she would take, the boat and the number of the stateroom. She found a vicious amusement in doing that, because she knew she would not take this trip she wanted; she would go back to the quarry.
    She went back to the quarry three days later. She stopped over the ledge where he worked and she stood watching him openly. When he raised his head, she did not turn away. Her glance told him she knew the meaning of her action, but did not respect him enough to conceal it. His glance told her only that he had expected her to come. He bent over his drill and went on with his work. She waited. She wanted him to look up. She knew that he knew it. He would not look again.
    She stood, watching his hands, waiting for the moments when he touched stone. She forgot the drill and the dynamite. She liked to think of the granite being broken by his hands.
    She heard the superintendent calling her name, hurrying to her up the path. She turned to him when he approached.
    “I like to watch the men working,” she explained.
    “Yes, quite a picture, isn’t it?” the superintendent agreed. “There’s the train starting over there with another load.”
    She was not watching the train. She saw the man below looking at her, she saw the insolent hint of amusement tell her that he knew she did not want him to look at her now. She turned her head away. The superintendent’s eyes traveled over the pit and stopped on the man below them.
    “Hey, you down there!” he shouted. “Are you paid to work or to gape?” The man bent silently over his drill. Dominique laughed aloud.
    The superintendent said: “It’s a tough crew we got down here, Miss Francon….Some of ’em even with jail records.”
    “Has that man a jail record?” she asked, pointing down.
    “Well, I couldn’t say. Wouldn’t know them all by sight.”
    She hoped he had. She wondered whether they whipped convicts nowadays. She hoped they did. At the thought of it, she felt a sinking gasp such as she had felt in childhood, in dreams of falling down a long stairway; but she felt the sinking in her stomach.
    She turned brusquely and left the quarry.
    She came back many days later. She saw him, unexpectedly, on a flat stretch of stone before her, by the side of the path. She stopped short. She did not want to come too close. It was strange to see him before her, without the defense and excuse of distance.
    He stood looking straight at her. Their understanding was too offensively intimate, because they had never said a word to each other. She destroyed it by speaking to him.
    “Why do you always stare at me?” she asked sharply.
    She thought with relief that words were the best means of estrangement. She had denied everything they both knew by naming it. For a moment, he stood silently, looking at her. She felt terror at the thought that he would not answer, that he would let his silence tell her too clearly why no answer was necessary. But he answered. He said:
    “For the same reason you’ve been staring at me.”
”I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
”If you didn’t, you’d be much more astonished and much less angry, Miss Francon.” “So you know my name?”
    “You’ve been advertising it loudly enough.”
”You’d better not be insolent. I can have you fired at a moment’s notice, you know.”
    He turned his head, looking for someone among the men below. He asked: “Shall I call the superintendent?”
    She smiled contemptuously.
    “No, of course not. It would be too simple. But since you know who I am, it would be better if you stopped looking at me when I come here. It might be misunderstood.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    She turned away. She had to control her voice. She looked over the stone ledges. She asked: “Do you find it very hard to work here?”
    “Yes. Terribly.”
    “Do you get tired?”
    “Inhumanly.”
    “How does that feel?”
    “I can hardly walk when the day’s ended. I can’t move my arms at night. When I lie in bed, I can count every muscle in my body to the number of separate, different pains.”
    She knew suddenly that he was not telling her about himself; he was speaking of her, he was saying the things she wanted to hear and telling her that he knew why she wanted to hear these particular sentences.
    She felt anger, a satisfying anger because it was cold and certain. She felt also a desire to let her skin touch his; to let the length of her bare arm press against the length of his; just that; the desire went no further.,
    She was asking calmly:
”You don’t belong here, do you? You don’t talk like a worker. What were you before?” “An electrician. A plumber. A plasterer. Many things.”
”Why are you working here?”
”For the money you’re paying me, Miss Francon.”
    She shrugged. She turned and walked away from him up the path. She knew that he was looking after her. She did not glance back. She continued on her way through the quarry, and she left it as soon as she could, but she did not go back down the path where she would have to see him again.
    2.
    DOMINIQUE awakened each morning to the prospect of a day made significant by the existence of a goal to be reached: the goal of making it a day on which she would not go to the quarry.
    She had lost the freedom she loved. She knew that a continuous struggle against the compulsion of a single desire was compulsion also, but it was the form she preferred to accept. It was the only manner in which she could let him motivate her life. She found a dark satisfaction in pain–because that pain came from him.
    She went to call on he distant neighbors, a wealthy, gracious family who had bored her in New York; she had visited no one all summer. They were astonished and delighted to see her. She sat among a group of distinguished people at the edge of a swimming pool. She watched the air of fastidious elegance around her. She watched the deference of these people’s manner when they spoke to her. She glanced at her own reflection in the pool: she looked more delicately austere than any among them.
    And she thought, with a vicious thrill, of what these people would do if they read her mind in this moment; if they knew that she was thinking of a man in a quarry, thinking of his body with a sharp intimacy as one does not think of another’s body but only of one’s own. She smiled; the cold purity of her face prevented them from seeing the nature of that smile. She came back again to visit these people–for the same of such thoughts in the presence of their respect for her.
    One evening, a guest offered to drive her back to her house. He was an eminent young poet. He was pale and slender; he had a soft, sensitive mouth, and eyes hurt by the whole universe. She had not noticed the wistful attention with which he had watched her for a long time. As they drove through the twilight she saw him leaning hesitantly closer to her. She heard his voice whispering the pleading, incoherent things she had heard from many men. He stopped the car. She felt his lips pressed to her shoulder.
    She jerked away from him. She sat still for an instant, because she would have to brush against him if she moved and she could not bear to touch him. Then she flung the door open, she leaped out, she slammed the door behind her as if the crash of sound could wipe him out of existence, and she ran blindly. She stopped running after a while, and she walked on shivering, walked down the dark road until she saw the roof line of her own house.
    She stopped, looking about her with her first coherent thought of astonishment. Such incidents had happened to her often in the past; only then she had been amused; she had felt no revulsion; she had felt nothing.
    She walked slowly across the lawn, to the house. On the stairs to her room she stopped. She thought of the man in the quarry. She thought, in clear, formed words, that the man in the quarry wanted her. She had known it before; she had known it with his first glance at her. But she had never stated the knowledge to herself.
    She laughed. She looked about her, at the silent splendor of her house. The house made the words preposterous. She knew that would never happen to her. And she knew the kind of suffering she could impose on him.
    For days she walked with satisfaction through the rooms of her house. It was her defense. She heard the explosions of blasting from the quarry and smiled.
    But she felt too certain and the house was too safe. She felt a desire to underscore the safety by challenging it.
    She chose the marble slab in front of the fireplace in her bedroom. She wanted it broken. She knelt, hammer in hand, and tried to smash the marble. She pounded it, her thin arm sweeping high over her head, crashing down with ferocious helplessness. She felt the pain in the bones of her arms, in her shoulder sockets. She succeeded in making a long scratch across the marble.
    She went to the quarry. She saw him from a distance and walked straight to him. “Hello,” she said casually.
He stopped the drill. He leaned against a stone shelf. He answered:
”Hello.”
    “I have been thinking of you,” she said softly, and stopped, then added, her voice flowing on in the same tone of compelling invitation, “because there’s a bit of a dirty job to be done at my
    house. Would you like to make some extra money?” “Certainly, Miss Francon.”
    “Will you come to my house tonight? The way to the servants’ entrance is off Ridgewood Road. There’s a marble piece at a fireplace that’s broken and has to be replaced. I want you to take it out and order a new one made for me.”
    She expected anger and refusal. He asked: “What time shall I come?”
”At seven o’clock. What are you paid here?” “Sixty-two cents an hour.”
    “I’m sure you’re worth that. I’m quite willing to pay you at the same rate. Do you know how to find my house?”
    “No, Miss Francon.”
”Just ask anyone in the village to direct you.” “Yes, Miss Francon.”
    She walked away, disappointed. She felt that their secret understanding was lost; he had spoken as if it were a simple job which she could have offered to any other workman. Then she felt the sinking gasp inside, that feeling of shame and pleasure which he always gave her: she realized that their understanding had been more intimate and flagrant than ever–in his natural acceptance of an unnatural offer; he had shown her how much he knew–by his lack of astonishment.
    She asked her old caretaker and his wife to remain in the house that evening. Their diffident presence completed the picture of a feudal mansion. She heard the bell of the servants’ entrance at seven o’clock. The old woman escorted him to the great front hall where Dominique stood on the landing of a broad stairway.
    She watched him approaching, looking up at her. She held the pose long enough to let him suspect that it was a deliberate pose deliberately planned; she broke it at the exact moment before he could become certain of it. She said: “Good evening.” Her voice was austerely quiet.
    He did not answer, but inclined his head and walked on up the stairs toward her. He wore his work clothes and he carried a bag of tools. His movements had a swift, relaxed kind of energy that did not belong here, in her house, on the polished steps, between the delicate, rigid banisters. She had expected him to seem incongruous in her house; but it was the house that seemed incongruous around him.
    She moved one hand, indicating the door of her bedroom. He followed obediently. He did not seem to notice the room when he entered. He entered it as if it were a workshop. He walked straight to the fireplace.
    “There it is,” she said, one finger pointing to the marble slab.
    He said nothing. He knelt, took a thin metal wedge from his bag, held its point against the scratch on the slab, took a hammer and struck one blow. The marble split in a long, deep cut.
    He glanced up at her. It was the look she dreaded, a look of laughter that could not be answered, because the laughter could not be seen, only felt. He said:
    “Now it’s broken and has to be replaced.” She asked calmly:
    “Would you know what kind of marble this is and where to order another piece like it?” “Yes, Miss Francon.”
”Go ahead, then. Take it out.”
”Yes, Miss Francon.”
    She stood watching him. It was strange to feel a senseless necessity to watch the mechanical process of the work as if her eyes were helping it. Then she knew that she was afraid to look at the room around them. She made herself raise her head.
    She saw the shelf of her dressing table, its glass edge like a narrow green satin ribbon in the semidarkness, and the crystal containers; she saw a pair of white bedroom slippers, a pale blue towel on the floor by a mirror, a pair of stockings thrown over the arm of a chair; she saw the white satin cover of her bed. His shirt had damp stains and gray patches of stone dust; the dust made streaks on the skin of his arms. She felt as if each object in the room had been touched by him, as if the air were a heavy pool of water into which they had been plunged together, and the water that touched him carried the touch to her, to every object in the room. She wanted him to look up. He worked, without raising his head.
    She approached him and stood silently over him. She had never stood so close to him before. She looked down at the smooth skin on the back of his neck; she could distinguish single threads of his hair. She glanced down at the tip of her sandal. It was there, on the floor, an inch away from his body; she needed but one movement, a very slight movement of her foot, to touch him. She made a step back.
    He moved his head, but not to look up, only to pick another tool from the bag, and bent over his work again.
    She laughed aloud. He stopped and glanced at her.
”Yes?” he asked.
Her face was grave, her voice gentle when she answered:
”Oh, I’m sorry. You might have thought that I was laughing at you. But I wasn’t, of course.” She added:
    “I didn’t want to disturb you. I’m sure you’re anxious to finish and get out of here. I mean, of course, because you must be tired. But then, on the other hand, I’m paying you by the hour, so it’s quite all right if you stretch your time a little, if you want to make more out of it. There must be things you’d like to talk about.”
    “Oh, yes, Miss Francon.”
”W ell?”
”I think this is an atrocious fireplace.”
”Really? This house was designed by my father.”
”Yes, of course, Miss Francon.”
”There’s no point in your discussing the work of an architect.” “None at all.”
”Surely we could choose some other subject.”
”Yes, Miss Francon.”
    She moved away from him. She sat down on the bed, leaning back on straight arms, her legs crossed and pressed close together in a long, straight line. Her body, sagging limply from her shoulders, contradicted the inflexible precision of the legs; the cold austerity of her face contradicted the pose of her body.
    He glanced at her occasionally, as he worked. He was speaking obediently. He was saying:
    “I shall make certain to get a piece of marble of precisely the same quality, Miss Francon. It is very important to distinguish between the various kinds of marble. Generally speaking, there are three kinds. The white marbles, which are derived from the recrystallization of limestone, the onyx marbles which are chemical deposits of calcium carbonate, and the green marbles which consist mainly of hydrous magnesium silicate or serpentine. This last must not be considered as true marble. True marble is a metamorphic form of limestone, produced by heat and pressure. Pressure is a powerful factor. It leads to consequences which, once started, cannot be controlled.”
    “What consequences?” she asked, leaning forward.
    “The recrystallization of the particles of limestone and the infiltration of foreign elements from the surrounding soil. These constitute the colored streaks which are to be found in most marbles. Pink marble is caused by the presence of manganese oxides, gray marble is due to carbonaceous matter, yellow marble is attributed to a hydrous oxide of iron. This piece here is, of course, white marble. There are a great many varieties of white marble. You should be very careful, Miss Francon…”
    She sat leaning forward, gathered into a dim black huddle; the lamp light fell on one hand she had dropped limply on her knees, palm up, the fingers half-closed, a thin edge of fire outlining each finger, the dark cloth of her dress making the hand too naked and brilliant.
    “…to make certain that I order a new piece of precisely the same quality. It would not be advisable, for instance, to substitute a piece of white Georgia marble which is not as fine- grained as the white marble of Alabama. This is Alabama marble. Very high grade. Very expensive.”
    He saw her hand close and drop down, out of the light. He continued his work in silence. When he had finished, he rose, asking:
”Where shall I put the stone?”
”Leave it there. I’ll have it removed.”
    “I’ll order a new piece cut to measure and delivered to you C.O.D. Do you wish me to set it?”
    “Yes, certainly. I’ll let you know when it comes. How much do I owe you?” She glanced at a clock on her bedside table. “Let me see, you’ve been here three quarters of an hour. That’s forty-eight cents.” She reached for her bag, she took out the dollar bill, she handed it to him. “Keep the change,” she said.
    She hoped he would throw it back in her face. He slipped the bill into his pocket. He said: “Thank you, Miss Francon.”
He saw the edge of her long black sleeve trembling over her closed fingers.
”Good night,” she said, her voice hollow in anger.
    He bowed: “Good night, Miss Francon.”
He turned and walked down the stairs, out of the house.
    She stopped thinking of him. She thought of the piece of marble he had ordered. She waited for it to come, with the feverish intensity of a sudden mania; she counted the days; she
    watched the rare trucks on the road beyond the lawn.
    She told herself fiercely that she merely wanted the marble to come; just that; nothing else, no hidden reasons; no reasons at all. It was a last, hysterical aftermath; she was free of everything else. The stone would come and that would be the end.
    When the stone came, she barely glanced at it. The delivery truck had not left the grounds, when she was at her desk, writing a note on a piece of exquisite stationery. She wrote:
#
    “The marble is here. I want it set tonight.” #
    She sent her caretaker with the note to the quarry. She ordered it delivered to: “I don’t know his name. The redheaded workman who was here.”
    The caretaker came back and brought her a scrap torn from a brown paper bag, bearing in pencil:
#
    “You’ll have it set tonight.” #
    She waited, in the suffocating emptiness of impatience, at the window of her bedroom. The servants’ entrance bell rang at seven o’clock. There was a knock at her door. “Come in,” she snapped–to hide the strange sound of her own voice. The door opened and the caretaker’s wife entered, motioning for someone to follow. The person who followed was a short, squat, middle-aged Italian with bow legs, a gold hoop in one ear and a frayed hat held respectfully in both hands.
    “The man sent from the quarry, Miss Francon,” said the caretaker’s wife. Dominique asked, her voice not a scream and not a question:
”Who are you?”
”Pasquale Orsini,” the man answered obediently, bewildered.
    “What do you want?”
    “Well, I…Well, Red down at the quarry said fireplace gotta be fixed, he said you wanta I fix her.”
    “Yes. Yes, of course,” she said, rising. “I forgot. Go ahead.”
    She had to get out of the room. She had to run, not to be seen by anyone, not to be seen by herself if she could escape it.
    She stopped somewhere in the garden and stood trembling, pressing her fists against her eyes. It was anger. It was a pure, single emotion that swept everything clean; everything but the terror under the anger; terror, because she knew that she could not go near the quarry now and that she would go.
    It was early evening, many days later, when she went to the quarry. She returned on horseback from a long ride through the country, and she saw the shadows lengthening on the lawn; she knew that she could not live through another night. She had to get there before the workers left. She wheeled about. She rode to the quarry, flying, the wind cutting her cheeks.
    He was not there when she reached the quarry. She knew at once that he was not there, even though the workers were just leaving and a great many of them were filing down the paths from the stone bowl. She stood, her lips tight, and she looked for him. But she knew that he had left.
    She rode into the woods. She flew at random between walls of leaves that melted ahead in the gathering twilight. She stopped, broke a long, thin branch off a tree, tore the leaves off, and went on, using the flexible stick as a whip, lashing her horse to fly faster. She felt as if the speed would hasten the evening on, force the hours ahead to pass more quickly, let her leap across time to catch the coming morning before it came. And then she saw him walking alone on the path before her.
    She tore ahead. She caught up with him and stopped sharply, the jolt throwing her forward then back like the release of a spring. He stopped.
    They said nothing. They looked at each other. She thought that every silent instant passing was a betrayal; this wordless encounter was too eloquent, this recognition that no greeting was necessary.
    She asked, her voice flat:
”Why didn’t you come to set the marble?”
”I didn’t think it would make any difference to you who came. Or did it, Miss Francon?”
    She felt the words not as sounds, but as a blow flat against her mouth. The branch she held went up and slashed across his face. She started off in the sweep of the same motion.
#
    Dominique sat at the dressing table in her bedroom. It was very late. There was no sound in the vast, empty house around her. The french windows of the bedroom were open on a terrace and there was no sound of leaves in the dark garden beyond.
    The blankets on her bed were turned down, waiting for her, the pillow white against the tall, black windows. She thought she would try to sleep. She had not seen him for three days. She ran her hands over her head, the curves of her palms pressing against the smooth planes of hair. She pressed her fingertips, wet with perfume, to the hollows of her temples, and held them there for a moment; she felt relief in the cold, contracting bite of the liquid on her skin. A spilled drop of perfume remained on the glass of the dressing table, a drop sparkling like a gem and as expensive.
    She did not hear the sound of steps in the garden. She heard them only when they rose up the stairs to the terrace. She sat up, frowning. She looked at the french windows.
    He came in. He wore his work clothes, the dirty shirt with rolled sleeves, the trousers smeared with stone dust. He stood looking at her. There was no laughing understanding in his face. His face was drawn, austere in cruelty, ascetic in passion, the cheeks sunken, the lips pulled down, set tight. She jumped to her feet, she stood, her arms thrown back, her fingers spread apart. He did not move. She saw a vein of his neck rise, beating, and fall down again.
    Then he walked to her. He held her as if his flesh had cut through hers and she felt the bones of his arms on the bones of her ribs, her legs jerked tight against his, his mouth on hers.
    She did not know whether the jolt of terror shook her first and she thrust her elbows at his throat, twisting her body to escape, or whether she lay still in his arms, in the first instant, in the shock of feeling his skin against hers, the thing she had thought about, had expected, had never known to be like this, could not have known, because this was not part of living, but a thing one could not bear longer than a second.
    She tried to tear herself away from him. The effort broke against his arms that had not felt it. Her fists beat against his shoulders, against his face. He moved one hand, took her two wrists, pinned them behind her, under his arm, wrenching her shoulder blades. She twisted her head back. She felt his lips on her breast. She tore herself free.
    She fell back against the dressing table, she stood crouching, her hands clasping the edge behind her, her eyes wide, colorless, shapeless in terror. He was laughing. There was the movement of laughter on his face, but no sound. Perhaps he had released her intentionally. He stood, his legs apart, his arms hanging at his sides, letting her be more sharply aware of
    his body across the space between them than she had been in his arms. She looked at the door behind him, he saw the first hint of movement, no more than a thought of leaping toward that door. He extended his arm, not touching her, and fell back. Her shoulders moved faintly, rising. He took a step forward and her shoulders fell. She huddled lower, closer to the table. He let her wait. Then he approached. He lifted her without effort. She let her teeth sink into his hand and felt blood on the tip of her tongue. He pulled her head back and he forced her mouth open against his.
    She fought like an animal. But she made no sound. She did not call for help. She heard the echoes of her blows in a gasp of his breath, and she knew that it was a gasp of pleasure. She reached for the lamp on the dressing table. He knocked the lamp out of her hand. The crystal burst to pieces in the darkness.
    He had thrown her down on the bed and she felt the blood beating in her throat, in her eyes, the hatred, the helpless terror in her blood. She felt the hatred and his hands; his hands moving over her body, the hands that broke granite. She fought in a last convulsion. Then the sudden pain shot up, through her body, to her throat, and she screamed. Then she lay still.
    It was an act that could be performed in tenderness, as a seal of love, or in contempt, as a symbol of humiliation and conquest. It could be the act of a lover or the act of a soldier violating an enemy woman. He did it as an act of scorn. Not as love, but as defilement. And this made her lie still and submit. One gesture of tenderness from him–and she would have remained cold, untouched by the thing done to her body. But the act of a master taking shameful, contemptuous possession of her was the kind of rapture she had wanted. Then she felt him shaking with the agony of a pleasure unbearable even to him, she knew that she had given that to him, that it came from her, from her body, and she bit her lips and she knew what he had wanted her to know.
    He lay still across the bed, away from her, his head hanging back over the edge. She heard the slow, ending gasps of his breath. She lay on her back, as he had left her, not moving, her mouth open. She felt empty, light and flat.
    She saw him get up. She saw his silhouette against the window. He went out, without a word or a glance at her. She noticed that, but it did not matter. She listened blankly to the sound of his steps moving away in the garden.
    She lay still for a long time. Then she moved her tongue in her open mouth. She heard a sound that came from somewhere within her, and it was the dry, short, sickening sound of a sob, but she was not crying, her eyes were held paralyzed, dry and open. The sound became motion, a jolt running down her throat to her stomach. It flung her up, she stood awkwardly, bent over, her forearms pressed to her stomach. She heard the small table by the bed rattling in the darkness, and she looked at it, in empty astonishment that a table should move without reason. Then she understood that she was shaking. She was not frightened; it seemed foolish to shake like that, in short, separate jerks, like soundless hiccoughs. She thought she must take a bath. The need was unbearable, as if she had felt it for a long time. Nothing mattered, if only she would take a bath. She dragged her feet slowly to the door of her bathroom.
    She turned the light on in the bathroom. She saw herself in a tall mirror. She saw the purple bruises left on her body by his mouth. She heard a moan muffled in her throat, not very loud. It was not the sight, but the sudden flash of knowledge. She knew that she would not take a bath. She knew that she wanted to keep the feeling of his body, the traces of his body on hers, knowing also what such a desire implied. She fell on her knees, clasping the edge of the bathtub. She could not make herself crawl over that edge. Her hands slipped, she lay still on the floor. The tiles were hard and cold under her body. She lay there till morning.
    Roark awakened in the morning and thought that last night had been like a point reached, like a stop in the movement of his life. He was moving forward for the sake of such stops; like the moments when he had walked through the half-finished Heller house; like last night. In some unstated way, last night had been what building was to him; in some quality of reaction within him, in what it gave to his consciousness of existence.
    They had been united in an understanding beyond the violence, beyond the deliberate obscenity of his action; had she meant less to him, he would not have taken her as he did;
    had he meant less to her, she would not have fought so desperately. The unrepeatable exultation was in knowing that they both understood this.
    He went to the quarry and he worked that day as usual. She did not come to the quarry and he did not expect her to come. But the thought of her remained. He watched it with curiosity. It was strange to be conscious of another person’s existence, to feel it as a close, urgent necessity; a necessity without qualifications, neither pleasant nor painful, merely final like an ultimatum. It was important to know that she existed in the world; it was important to think of her, of how she had awakened this morning, of how she moved, with her body still his, now his forever, of what she thought.
    That evening, at dinner in the sooted kitchen, he opened a newspaper and saw the name of Roger Enright in the lines of a gossip column. He read the short paragraph:
    “It looks like another grand project on its way to the wastebasket. Roger Enright, the oil king, seems to be stumped this time. He’ll have to call a halt to his latest pipe dream of an Enright House. Architect trouble, we are told. Seems as if half a dozen of the big building boys have been shown the gate by the unsatisfiable Mr. Enright. Top-notchers, all of them.”
    Roark felt the wrench he had tried so often to fight, not to let it hurt him too much: the wrench of helplessness before the vision of what he could do, what should have been possible and was closed to him. Then, without reason, he thought of Dominique Francon. She had no relation to the things in his mind; he was shocked only to know that she could remain present even among these things.
    A week passed. Then, one evening, he found a letter waiting for him at home. It had been forwarded from his former office to his last New York address, from there to Mike, from Mike to Connecticut. The engraved address of an oil company on the envelope meant nothing to him. He opened the letter. He read:
#
”Dear Mr. Roark,
    “I have been endeavoring for some time to get in touch with you, but have been unable to locate you. Please communicate with me at your earliest convenience. I should like to discuss with you my proposed Enright House, if you are the man who built the Fargo Store.
    “Sincerely yours,
    “Roger Enright.” #
    Half an hour later Roark was on a train. When the train started moving, he remembered Dominique and that he was leaving her behind. The thought seemed distant and unimportant. He was astonished only to know that he still thought of her, even now.
#
    She could accept, thought Dominique, and come to forget in time everything that had happened to her, save one memory: that she had found pleasure in the thing which had happened, that he had known it, and more: that he had known it before he came to her and that he would not have come but for that knowledge. She had not given him the one answer that would have saved her: an answer of simple revulsion–she had found joy in her revulsion, in her terror and in his strength. That was the degradation she had wanted and she hated him for it.
    She found a letter one morning, waiting for her on the breakfast table. It was from Alvah Scarret. “…When are you coming back, Dominique? I can’t tell you how much we miss you here. You’re not a comfortable person to have around, I’m actually scared of you, but I might as well inflate your inflated ego some more, at a distance, and confess that we’re all waiting for you impatiently. It will be like the homecoming of an Empress.”
    She read it and smiled. She thought, if they knew…those people…that old life and that awed reverence before her person…I’ve been raped…I’ve been raped by some redheaded hoodlum from a stone quarry….I, Dominique Francon….Through the fierce sense of humiliation, the
    words gave her the same kind of pleasure she had felt in his arms.
    She thought of it when she walked through the countryside, when she passed people on the road and the people bowed to her, the chatelaine of the town. She wanted to scream it to the hearing of all.
    She was not conscious of the days that passed. She felt content in a strange detachment, alone with the words she kept repeating to herself. Then, one morning, standing on the lawn in her garden, she understood that a week had passed and that she had not seen him for a week. She turned and walked rapidly across the lawn to the road. She was going to the quarry.
    She walked the miles to the quarry, down the road, bareheaded in the sun. She did not hurry. It was not necessary to hurry. It was inevitable. To see him again….She had no purpose. The need was too great to name a purpose….Afterward…There were other things, hideous, important things behind her and rising vaguely in her mind, but first, above all, just one thing: to see him again…
    She came to the quarry and she looked slowly, carefully, stupidly about her, stupidly because the enormity of what she saw would not penetrate her brain: she saw at once that he was not there. The work was in full swing, the sun was high over the busiest hour of the day, there was not an idle man in sight, but he was not among the men. She stood, waiting numbly, for a long time.
    Then she saw the foreman and she motioned for him to approach.
    “Good afternoon, Miss Francon….Lovely day, Miss Francon, isn’t it? Just like the middle of summer again and yet fall’s not far away, yes, fall’s coming, look at the leaves, Miss Francon.”
    She asked:
    “There was a man you had here…a man with very bright orange hair…where is he?”
    “Oh yes. That one. He’s gone.”
    “Gone?”
    “Quit. Left for New York, I think. Very suddenly too.”
    “When? A week ago?”
    “Why, no. Just yesterday.”
    “Who was…”
    Then she stopped. She was going to ask: “Who was he?” She asked instead:
    “Who was working here so late last night? I heard blasting.”
    “That was for a special order for Mr. Francon’s building. The Cosmo-Slotnick Building, you know. A rash job.”
    “Yes…I see….”
”Sorry it disturbed you, Miss Francon.”
”Oh, not at all….”
She walked away. She would not ask for his name. It was her last chance of freedom.
    She walked swiftly, easily, in sudden relief. She wondered why she had never noticed that she did not know his name and why she had never asked him. Perhaps because she had known everything she had to know about him from that first glance. She thought, one could not find
    some nameless worker in the city of New York. She was safe. If she knew his name, she would be on her way to New York now.
    The future was simple. She had nothing to do except never to ask for his name. She had a reprieve. She had a chance to fight. She would break it–or it would break her. If it did, she would ask for his name.
    3.
    WHEN Peter Keating entered the office, the opening of the door sounded like a single high blast on a trumpet. The door flew forward as if it had opened of itself to the approach of a man before whom all doors were to open in such manner.
    His day in the office began with the newspapers. There was a neat pile of them waiting, stacked on his desk by his secretary. He liked to see what new mentions appeared in print about the progress of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building or the firm of Francon & Keating.
    There were no mentions in the papers this morning, and Keating frowned. He saw, however, a story about Ellsworth M. Toohey. It was a startling story. Thomas L. Foster, noted philanthropist, had died and had left, among larger bequests, the modest sum of one hundred thousand dollars to Ellsworth M. Toohey, “my friend and spiritual guide–in appreciation of his noble mind and true devotion to humanity.” Ellsworth M. Toohey had accepted the legacy and had turned it over, intact, to the “Workshop of Social Study,” a progressive institute of learning where he held the post of lecturer on “Art as a Social Symptom.” He had given the simple explanation that he “did not believe in the institution of private inheritance.” He had refused all further comment. “No, my friends,” he had said, “not about this.” And had added, with his charming knack for destroying the earnestness of his own moment: “I like to indulge in the luxury of commenting solely upon interesting subjects. I do not consider myself one of these.”
    Peter Keating read the story. And because he knew that it was an action which he would never have committed, he admired it tremendously.
    Then he thought, with a familiar twinge of annoyance, that he had not been able to meet Ellsworth Toohey. Toohey had left on a lecture tour shortly after the award in the Cosmo- Slotnick competition, and the brilliant gatherings Keating had attended ever since were made empty by the absence of the one man he’d been most eager to meet. No mention of Keating’s name had appeared in Toohey’s column. Keating turned hopefully, as he did each morning, to “One Small Voice” in the Banner. But “One Small Voice” was subtitled “Songs and Things” today, and was devoted to proving the superiority of folk songs over any other forms of musical art, and of choral singing over any other manner of musical rendition.
    Keating dropped the Banner. He got up and paced viciously across the office, because he had to turn now to a disturbing problem. He had been postponing it for several mornings. It was the matter of choosing a sculptor for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. Months ago the commission for the giant statue of “Industry” to stand in the main lobby of the building had been awarded–tentatively–to Steven Mallory. The award had puzzled Keating, but it had been made by Mr. Slotnick, so Keating had approved of it. He had interviewed Mallory and said: “…in recognition of your unusual ability…of course you have no name, but you will have, after a commission like this…they don’t come every day like this building of mine.”
    He had not liked Mallory. Mallory’s eyes were like black holes left after a fire not quite put out, and Mallory had not smiled once. He was twenty-four years old, had had one show of his work, but not many commissions. His work was strange and too violent. Keating remembered that Ellsworth Toohey had said once, long ago, in “One Small Voice.”
    “Mr. Mallory’s human figures would have been very fine were it not for the hypothesis that God created the world and the human form. Had Mr. Mallory been entrusted with the job, he might, perhaps, have done better than the Almighty, if we are to judge by what he passes as human bodies in stone. Or would he?”
    Keating had been baffled by Mr. Slotnick’s choice, until he heard that Dimples Williams had
    once lived in the same Greenwich Village tenement with Steven Mallory, and Mr. Slotnick could refuse nothing to Dimples Williams at the moment. Mallory had been hired, had worked and had submitted a model of his statue of “Industry.” When he saw it, Keating knew that the statue would look like a raw gash, like a smear of fire in the neat elegance of his lobby. It was a slender naked body of a man who looked as if he could break through the steel plate of a battleship and through any barrier whatever. It stood like a challenge. It left a strange stamp on one’s eyes. It made the people around it seem smaller and sadder than usual. For the first time in his life, looking at that statue, Keating thought he understood what was meant by the word “heroic.”
    He said nothing. But the model was sent on to Mr. Slotnick and many people said, with indignation, what Keating had felt. Mr. Slotnick asked him to select another sculptor and left the choice in his hands.
    Keating flopped down in an armchair, leaned back and clicked his tongue against his palate. He wondered whether he should give the commission to Bronson, the sculptor who was a friend of Mrs. Shupe, wife of the president of Cosmo; or to Palmer, who had been recommended by Mr. Huseby who was planning the erection of a new five-million-dollar cosmetic factory. Keating discovered that he liked this process of hesitation; he held the fate of two men and of many potential others; their fate, their work, their hope, perhaps even the amount of food in their stomachs. He could choose as he pleased, for any reason, without reasons; he could flip a coin, he could count them off on the buttons of his vest. He was a great man–by the grace of those who depended on him.
    Then he noticed the envelope.
    It lay on top of a pile of letters on his desk. It was a plain, thin, narrow envelope, but it bore the small masthead of the Banner in one corner. He reached for it hastily. It contained no letter; only a strip of proofs for tomorrow’s Banner. He saw the familiar “One Small Voice” by Ellsworth M. Toohey, and under it a single word as subtitle, in large, spaced letters, a single word, blatant in its singleness, a salute by dint of omission:
    #
”KEA TING” #
    He dropped the paper strip and seized it again and read, choking upon great unchewed hunks of sentences, the paper trembling in his hand, the skin on his forehead drawing into tight pink spots. Toohey had written:
#
    “Greatness is an exaggeration, and like all exaggerations of dimension it connotes at once the necessary corollary of emptiness. One thinks of an inflated toy balloon, does one not? There are, however, occasions when we are forced to acknowledge the promise of an approach– brilliantly close–to what we designate loosely by the term of greatness. Such a promise is looming on our architectural horizon in the person of a mere boy named Peter Keating.
    “We have heard a great deal–and with justice–about the superb Cosmo-Slotnick Building which he has designed. Let us glance, for once, beyond the building, at the man whose personality is stamped upon it.
    “There is no personality stamped upon that building–and in this, my friend, lies the greatness of the personality. It is the greatness of a selfless young spirit that assimilates all things and returns them to the world from which they came, enriched by the gentle brilliance of its own talent. Thus a single man comes to represent, not a lone freak, but the multitude of all men together, to embody the reach of all aspirations in his own….
    “…Those gifted with discrimination will be able to hear the message which Peter Keating addresses to us in the shape of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, to see that the three simple, massive ground floors are the solid bulk of our working classes which support all of society; that the rows of identical windows offering their panes to the sun are the souls of the common people, of the countless anonymous ones alike in the uniformity of brotherhood, reaching for the light; that the graceful pilasters rising from their firm base in the ground floors and bursting into the gay effervescence of their Corinthian capitals, are the flowers of Culture which
    blossom only when rooted in the rich soil of the broad masses….
    “…In answer to those who consider all critics as fiends devoted solely to the destruction of sensitive talent, this column wishes to thank Peter Keating for affording us the rare–oh, so rare!–opportunity to prove our delight in our true mission, which is to discover young talent– when it is there to be discovered. And if Pete Keating should chance to read these lines, we expect no gratitude from him. The gratitude is ours.”

    It was when Keating began to read the article for the third time that he noticed a few lines written in red pencil across the space by its title:
#
”Dear Peter Keating,
    “Drop in to see me at my office one of these days. Would love to discover what you look like.
    “E.M.T .” #
    He let the clipping flutter down to his desk, and he stood over it, running a strand of hair between his fingers, in a kind of happy stupor. Then he whirled around to his drawing of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, that hung on the wall between a huge photograph of the Parthenon and one of the Louvre. He looked at the pilasters of his building. He had never thought of them as Culture flowering from out of the broad masses, but he decided that one could very well think that and all the rest of the beautiful stuff.
    Then he seized the telephone, he spoke to a high, flat voice which belonged to Ellsworth Toohey’s secretary, and he made an appointment to see Toohey at four-thirty of the next afternoon.
    In the hours that followed, his daily work assumed a new relish. It was as if his usual activity had been only a bright, flat mural and had now become a noble bas-relief, pushed forward, given a three-dimensional reality by the words of Ellsworth Toohey.
    Guy Francon descended from his office once in a while, for no ascertainable purpose. The subtler shades of his shirts and socks matched the gray of his temples. He stood smiling benevolently in silence. Keating flashed past him in the drafting room and acknowledged his presence, not stopping, but slowing his steps long enough to plant a crackling bit of newspaper into the folds of the mauve handkerchief in Francon’s breast-pocket, with “Read that when you have time, Guy.” He added, his steps halfway across the next room: “Want to have lunch with me today, Guy? Wait for me at the Plaza.”
    When he came back from lunch, Keating was stopped by a young draftsman who asked, his voice high with excitement:
    “Say, Mr. Keating, who’s it took a shot at Ellsworth Toohey?” Keating managed to gasp out:
”Who is it did what?”
”Shot Mr. Toohey.”
    “W ho?”
”That’s what I want to know, who.”
”Shot…Ellsworth Toohey?”
”That’s what I saw in the paper in the restaurant a guy had. Didn’t have time to get one.” “He’s…killed?”
    “That’s what I don’t know. Saw only it said about a shot.”
”If he’s dead, does that mean they won’t publish his column tomorrow?” “Dunno. Why, Mr. Keating?”
”Go get me a paper.”
”But I’ve got to…”
”Get me that paper, you damned idiot!”
    The story was there, in the afternoon papers. A shot had been fired at Ellsworth Toohey that morning, as he stepped out of his car in front of a radio station where he was to deliver an address on “The Voiceless and the Undefended.” The shot had missed him. Ellsworth Toohey had remained calm and sane throughout. His behavior had been theatrical only in too complete an absence of anything theatrical. He had said: “We cannot keep a radio audience waiting,” and had hurried on upstairs to the microphone where, never mentioning the incident, he delivered a half-hour’s speech from memory, as he always did. The assailant had said nothing when arrested.
    Keating stared–his throat dry–at the name of the assailant. It was Steven Mallory.
    Only the inexplicable frightened Keating, particularly when the inexplicable lay, not in tangible facts, but in that causeless feeling of dread within him. There was nothing to concern him directly in what had happened, except his wish that it had been someone else, anyone but Steven Mallory; and that he didn’t know why he should wish this.
    Steven Mallory had remained silent. He had given no explanation of his act. At first, it was supposed that he might have been prompted by despair at the loss of his commission for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, since it was learned that he lived in revolting poverty. But it was learned, beyond any doubt, that Ellsworth Toohey had had no connection whatever with his loss. Toohey had never spoken to Mr. Slotnick about Steven Mallory. Toohey had not seen the statue of “Industry.” On this point Mallory had broken his silence to admit that he had never met Toohey nor seen him in person before, nor known any of Toohey’s friends. “Do you think that Mr. Toohey was in some way responsible for your losing that commission?” he was asked. Mallory had answered: “No.”
    “Then why?” Mallory said nothing.
    Toohey had not recognized his assailant when he saw him seized by policemen on the sidewalk outside the radio station. He did not learn his name until after the broadcast. Then, stepping out of the studio into an anteroom full of waiting newsmen, Toohey said: “No, of course I won’t press any charges. I wish they’d let him go. Who is he, by the way?” When he heard the name, Toohey’s glance remained fixed somewhere between the shoulder of one man and the hat brim of another. Then Toohey–who had stood calmly while a bullet struck an inch from his face against the glass of the entrance door below–uttered one word and the word seemed to fall at his feet, heavy with fear: “Why?”
    No one could answer. Presently, Toohey shrugged, smiled, and said: “If it was an attempt at free publicity–well, what atrocious taste!” But nobody believed this explanation, because all felt that Toohey did not believe it either. Through the interviews that followed, Toohey answered questions gaily. He said: “I had never thought myself important enough to warrant assassination. It would be the greatest tribute one could possibly expect–if it weren’t so much in the style of an operetta.” He managed to convey the charming impression that nothing of importance had happened because nothing of importance ever happened on earth.
    Mallory was sent to jail to await trial. All efforts to question him failed.
    The thought that kept Keating uneasily awake for many hours, that night, was the groundless certainty that Toohey felt exactly as he did. He knows, thought Keating, and I know, that there is–in Steven Mallory’s motive–a greater danger than in his murderous attempt. But we shall never know his motive. Or shall we?…And then he touched the core of fear: it was the sudden
    wish that he might be guarded, through the years to come, to the end of his life, from ever learning that motive.
#
    Ellsworth Toohey’s secretary rose in a leisurely manner, when Keating entered, and opened for him the door into Ellsworth Toohey’s office.
    Keating had grown past the stage of experiencing anxiety at the prospect of meeting a famous man, but he experienced it in the moment when he saw the door opening under her hand. He wondered what Toohey really looked like. He remembered the magnificent voice he had heard in the lobby of the strike meeting, and he imagined a giant of a man, with a rich mane of hair, perhaps just turning gray, with bold, broad features of an ineffable benevolence, something vaguely like the countenance of God the Father.
    “Mr. Peter Keating–Mr. Toohey,” said the secretary and closed the door behind him.
    At a first glance upon Ellsworth Monkton Toohey one wished to offer him a heavy, well- padded overcoat–so frail and unprotected did his thin little body appear, like that of a chicken just emerging from the egg, in all the sorry fragility of unhardened bones. At a second glance one wished to be sure that the overcoat should be an exceedingly good one–so exquisite were the garments covering that body. The lines of the dark suit followed frankly the shape within it, apologizing for nothing: they sank with the concavity of the narrow chest, they slid down from the long, thin neck with the sharp slope of the shoulders. A great forehead dominated the body. The wedge-shaped face descended from the broad temples to a small, pointed chin. The hair was black, lacquered, divided into equal halves by a thin white line. This made the skull look tight and trim, but left too much emphasis to the ears that flared out in solitary nakedness, like the handles of a bouillon cup. The nose was long and thin, prolonged by the small dab of a black mustache. The eyes were dark and startling. They held such a wealth of intellect and of twinkling gaiety that his glasses seemed to be worn not to protect his eyes but to protect other men from their excessive brilliance.
    “Hello, Peter Keating,” said Ellsworth Monkton Toohey in his compelling, magical voice. “What do you think of the temple of Nike Apteros?”
    “How…do you do, Mr. Toohey,” said Keating, stopped, stupefied. “What do I think…of what?” “Sit down, my friend. Of the temple of Nike Apteros.”
”W ell…W ell…I…”
    “I feel certain that you couldn’t have overlooked that little gem. The Parthenon has usurped the recognition which–and isn’t that usually the case? the bigger and stronger appropriating all the glory, while the beauty of the unprepossessing goes unsung–which should have been awarded to that magnificent little creation of the great free spirit of Greece. You’ve noted, I’m sure, the fine balance of its mass, the supreme perfection of its modest proportions–ah, yes, you know, the supreme in the modest–the delicate craftsmanship of detail?”
    “Yes, of course,” muttered Keating, “that’s always been my favorite–the temple of Nike Apteros.”
    “Really?” said Ellsworth Toohey, with a smile which Keating could not quite classify. “I was certain of it. I was certain you’d say it. You have a very handsome face, Peter Keating, when you don’t stare like this–which is really quite unnecessary.”
    And Toohey was laughing suddenly, laughing quite obviously, quite insultingly, at Keating and at himself; it was as if he were underscoring the falseness of the whole procedure. Keating sat aghast for an instant; and then he found himself laughing easily in answer, as if at home with a very old friend.
    “That’s better,” said Toohey. “Don’t you find it advisable not to talk too seriously in an important moment? And this might be a very important moment–who knows?–for both of us. And, of course, I knew you’d be a little afraid of me and–oh, I admit–I was quite a bit afraid of you, so isn’t this much better?”
    “Oh, yes, Mr. Toohey,” said Keating happily. His normal assurance in meeting people had vanished; but he felt at ease, as if all responsibility were taken away from him and he did not have to worry about saying the right things, because he was being led gently into saying them without any effort on his part. “I’ve always known it would be an important moment when I met you, Mr. Toohey. Always. For years.”
    “Really?” said Ellsworth Toohey, the eyes behind the glasses attentive. “Why?”
    “Because I’d always hoped that I would please you, that you’d approve of me…of my work…when the time came…why, I even…”
    “Yes?”
    “…I even thought, so often, when drawing, is this the kind of building that Ellsworth Toohey would say is good? I tried to see it like that, through your eyes…I…I’ve…” Toohey listened watchfully. “I’ve always wanted to meet you because you’re such a profound thinker and a man of such cultural distinc–”
    “Now,” said Toohey, his voice kindly but a little impatient; his interest had dropped on that last sentence. “None of that. I don’t mean to be ungracious, but we’ll dispense with that sort of thing, shall we? Unnatural as this may sound, I really don’t like to hear personal praise.”
    It was Toohey’s eyes, thought Keating, that put him at ease. There was such a vast understanding in Toohey’s eyes and such an unfastidious kindness–no, what a word to think of–such an unlimited kindness. It was as if one could hide nothing from him, but it was not necessary to hide it, because he would forgive anything. They were the most unaccusing eyes that Keating had ever seen.
    “But, Mr. Toohey,” he muttered, “I did want to…”
    “You wanted to thank me for my article,” said Toohey and made a little grimace of gay despair. “And here I’ve been trying so hard to prevent you from doing it. Do let me get away with it, won’t you? There’s no reason why you should thank me. If you happened to deserve the things I said–well, the credit belongs to you, not to me. Doesn’t it?”
    “But I was so happy that you thought I’m…”
    “…a great architect? But surely, my boy, you knew that. Or weren’t you quite sure? Never quite sure of it?”
    “Well, I…”
    It was only a second’s pause. And it seemed to Keating that this pause was all Toohey had wanted to hear from him; Toohey did not wait for the rest, but spoke as if he had received a full answer, and an answer that pleased him.
    “And as for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, who can deny that it’s an extraordinary achievement? You know, I was greatly intrigued by its plan. It’s a most ingenious plan. A brilliant plan. Very unusual. Quite different from what I have observed in your previous work. Isn’t it?”
    “Naturally,” said Keating, his voice clear and hard for the first time, “the problem was different from anything I’d done before, so I worked out that plan to fit the particular requirements of the problem.”
    “Of course,” said Toohey gently. “A beautiful piece of work. You should be proud of it.”
    Keating noticed that Toohey’s eyes stood centered in the middle of the lenses and the lenses stood focused straight on his pupils, and Keating knew suddenly that Toohey knew he had not designed the plan of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. This did not frighten him. What frightened him was that he saw approval in Toohey’s eyes.
    “If you must feel–no, not gratitude, gratitude is such an embarrassing word–but, shall we say, appreciation?” Toohey continued, and his voice had grown softer, as if Keating were a fellow conspirator who would know that the words used were to be, from now on, a code for a private meaning, “you might thank me for understanding the symbolic implications of your building and for stating them in words as you stated them in marble. Since, of course, you are not just a common mason, but a thinker in stone.”
    “Yes,” said Keating, “that was my abstract theme, when I designed the building–the great masses and the flowers of culture. I’ve always believed that true culture springs from the common man. But I had no hope that anyone would ever understand me.”
    Toohey smiled. His thin lips slid open, his teeth showed. He was not looking at Keating. He was looking down at his own hand, the long, slender, sensitive hand of a concert pianist, moving a sheet of paper on the desk. Then he said: “Perhaps we’re brothers of the spirit, Keating. The human spirit. That is all that matters in life”–not looking at Keating, but past him, the lenses raised flagrantly to a line over Keating’s face.
    And Keating knew that Toohey knew he had never thought of any abstract theme until he’d read that article, and more: that Toohey approved again. When the lenses moved slowly to Keating’s face, the eyes were sweet with affection, an affection very cold and very real. Then Keating felt as if the walls of the room were moving gently in upon him, pushing him into a terrible intimacy, not with Toohey, but with some unknown guilt. He wanted to leap to his feet and run. He sat still, his mouth half open.
    And without knowing what prompted him, Keating heard his own voice in the silence:
    “And I did want to say how glad I was that you escaped that maniac’s bullet yesterday, Mr. T oohey.”
    “Oh?…Oh, thanks. That? Well! Don’t let it upset you. Just one of the minor penalties one pays for prominence in public life.”
    “I’ve never liked Mallory. A strange sort of person. Too tense. I don’t like people who’re tense. I’ve never liked his work either.”
    “Just an exhibitionist. Won’t amount to much.”
    “It wasn’t my idea, of course, to give him a try. It was Mr. Slotnick’s. Pull, you know. But Mr. Slotnick knew better in the end.”
    “Did Mallory ever mention my name to you?”
”No. Never.”
”I haven’t even met him, you know. Never saw him before. Why did he do it?”
    And then it was Toohey who sat still, before what he saw on Keating’s face; Toohey, alert and insecure for the first time. This was it, thought Keating, this was the bond between them, and the bond was fear, and more, much more than that, but fear was the only recognizable name to give it. And he knew, with unreasoning finality, that he liked Toohey better than any man he had ever met.
    “Well, you know how it is,” said Keating brightly, hoping that the commonplace he was about to utter would close the subject. “Mallory is an incompetent and knows it and he decided to take it out on you as a symbol of the great and the able.”
    But instead of a smile, Keating saw the shot of Toohey’s sudden glance at him; it was not a glance, it was a fluoroscope, he thought he could feel it crawling searchingly inside his bones. Then Toohey’s face seemed to harden, drawing together again in composure, and Keating knew that Toohey had found relief somewhere, in his bones or in his gaping, bewildered face, that some hidden immensity of ignorance within him had given Toohey reassurance. Then Toohey said slowly, strangely, derisively:
    “You and I, we’re going to be great friends, Peter.”
    Keating let a moment pass before he caught himself to answer hastily:
    “Oh, I hope so, Mr. Toohey!”
    “Really, Peter! I’m not as old as all that, am I? ‘Ellsworth’ is the monument to my parents’ peculiar taste in nomenclature.”
    “Yes…Ellsworth.”
    “That’s better. I really don’t mind the name, when compared to some of the things I’ve been called privately–and publicly–these many years. Oh, well. Flattering. When one makes enemies one knows that one’s dangerous where it’s necessary to be dangerous. There are things that must be destroyed–or they’ll destroy us. We’ll see a great deal of each other, Peter.” The voice was smooth and sure now, with the finality of a decision tested and reached, with the certainty that never again would anything in Keating be a question mark to him. “For instance, I’ve been thinking for some time of getting together a few young architects–I know so many of them–just an informal little organization, to exchange ideas, you know, to develop a spirit of co-operation, to follow a common line of action for the common good of the profession if necessity arises. Nothing as stuffy as the A.G.A. Just a youth group. Think you’d be interested?”
    “Why, of course! And you’d be the chairman?”
    “Oh dear, no. I’m never chairman of anything, Peter. I dislike titles. No, I rather thought you’d make the right chairman for us, can’t think of anyone better.”
    “Me?”
    “You, Peter. Oh, well, it’s only a project–nothing definite–just an idea I’ve been toying with in odd moments. We’ll talk about it some other time. There’s something I’d like you to do–and that’s really one of the reasons why I wanted to meet you,”
    “Oh, sure, Mr. Too–sure, Ellsworth. Anything I can do for you…” “It’s not for me. Do you know Lois Cook?”
”Lois…who?”
    “Cook. You don’t. But you will. That young woman is the greatest literary genius since Goethe. You must read her, Peter. I don’t suggest that as a rule except to the discriminating. She’s so much above the heads of the middle-class who love the obvious. She’s planning to build a house. A little private residence on the Bowery. Yes, on the Bowery. Just like Lois. She’s asked me to recommend an architect. I’m certain that it will take a person like you to understand a person like Lois. I’m going to give her your name–if you’re interested in what is to be a small, though quite costly, residence.”
    “But of course! That’s…very kind of you, Ellsworth! You know, I thought when you said…and when I read your note, that you wanted–well, some favor from me, you know, a good turn for a good turn, and here you’re…”
    “My dear Peter, how naive you are!”
”Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t have said that! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, I…”
    “I don’t mind. You must learn to know me better. Strange as it may sound, a totally selfless interest in one’s fellow men is possible in this world, Peter.”
    Then they talked about Lois Cook and her three published works–“Novels? No, Peter, not exactly novels….No, not collections of stories either…that’s just it, just Lois Cook–a new form of literature entirely…”–about the fortune she had inherited from a long line of successful tradesmen, and about the house she planned to build.
    It was only when Toohey had risen to escort Keating to the door–and Keating noted how precariously erect he stood on his very small feet–that Toohey paused suddenly to say:
    “Incidentally, it seems to me as if I should remember some personal connection between us, though for the life of me I can’t quite place…oh, yes, of course. My niece. Little Catherine.”
    Keating felt his face tighten, and knew he must not allow this to be discussed, but smiled awkwardly instead of protesting.
    “I understand you’re engaged to her?” “Yes.”
    “Charming,” said Toohey. “Very charming. Should enjoy being your uncle. You love her very much?”
    “Yes,” said Keating. “Very much.”
    The absence of stress in his voice made the answer solemn. It was, laid before Toohey, the first bit of sincerity and of importance within Keating’s being.
    “How pretty,” said Toohey. “Young love. Spring and dawn and heaven and drugstore chocolates at a dollar and a quarter a box. The prerogative of the gods and of the movies….Oh, I do approve, Peter. I think it’s lovely. You couldn’t have made a better choice than Catherine. She’s just the kind for whom the world is well lost–the world with all its problems and all its opportunities for greatness–oh, yes, well lost because she’s innocent and sweet and pretty and anemic.”
    “If you’re going to…” Keating began, but Toohey smiled with a luminous sort of kindliness.
    “Oh, Peter, of course I understand. And I approve. I’m a realist. Man has always insisted on making an ass of himself. Oh, come now, we must never lose our sense of humor. Nothing’s really sacred but a sense of humor. Still, I’ve always loved the tale of Tristan and Isolde. It’s the most beautiful story ever told–next to that of Mickey and Minnie Mouse.”
    4.
    “…TOOTHBRUSH in the jaw toothbrush brush brush tooth jaw foam dome in the foam Roman dome come home home in the jaw Rome dome tooth toothbrush toothpick pickpocket socket rocket…”
    Peter Keating squinted his eyes, his glance unfocused as for a great distance, but put the book down. The book was thin and black, with scarlet letters forming: Clouds and Shrouds by Lois Cook. The jacket said that it was a record of Miss Cook’s travels around the world.
    Keating leaned back with a sense of warmth and well-being. He liked this book. It had made the routine of his Sunday morning breakfast a profound spiritual experience; he was certain that it was profound, because he didn’t understand it.
    Peter Keating had never felt the need to formulate abstract convictions. But he had a working substitute. “A thing is not high if one can reach it; it is not great if one can reason about it; it is not deep if one can see its bottom”–this had always been his credo, unstated and unquestioned. This spared him any attempt to reach, reason or see; and it cast a nice reflection of scorn on those who made the attempt. So he was able to enjoy the work of Lois Cook. He felt uplifted by the knowledge of his own capacity to respond to the abstract, the profound, the ideal. Toohey had said: “That’s just it, sound as sound, the poetry of words as words, style as a revolt against style. But only the fines’ spirit can appreciate it, Peter.” Keating thought he could talk of this book to his friends, and if they did not understand he would know that he was superior to them. He would not need to explain that superiority–that’s just it, “superiority as superiority”–automatically denied to those who asked for explanations. He
    loved the book.
    He reached for another piece of toast. He saw, at the end of the table, left there for him by his mother, the heavy pile of the Sunday paper. He picked it up, feeling strong enough, in this moment, in the confidence of his secret spiritual grandeur, to face the whole world contained in that pile. He pulled out the rotogravure section. He stopped. He saw the reproduction of a drawing: the Enright House by Howard Roark.
    He did not need to see the caption or the brusque signature in the corner of the sketch; he knew that no one else had conceived that house and he knew the manner of drawing, serene and violent at once, the pencil lines like high-tension wires on the paper, slender and innocent to see, but not to be touched. It was a structure on a broad space by the East River. He did not grasp it as a building, at first glance, but as a rising mass of rock crystal. There was the same severe, mathematical order holding together a free, fantastic growth; straight lines and clean angles, space slashed with a knife, yet in a harmony of formation as delicate as the work of a jeweler; an incredible variety of shapes, each separate unit unrepeated, but leading inevitably to the next one and to the whole; so that the future inhabitants were to have, not a square cage out of a square pile of cages, but each a single house held to the other houses like a single crystal to the side of a rock. Keating looked at the sketch. He had known for a long time that Howard Roark had been chosen to build the Enright House. He had seen a few mentions of Roark’s name in the papers; not much, all of it to be summed up only as “some young architect chosen by Mr. Enright for some reason, probably an interesting young architect.” The caption under the drawing announced that the construction of the project was to begin at once. Well, thought Keating, and dropped the paper, so what? The paper fell beside the black and scarlet book. He looked at both. He felt dimly as if Lois Cook were his defense against Howard Roark. “What’s that, Petey?” his mother’s voice asked behind him. He handed the paper to her over his shoulder. The paper fell past him back to the table in a second. “Oh,” shrugged Mrs. Keating. “Huh…” She stood beside him. Her trim silk dress was fitted too tightly, revealing the solid rigidity of her corset; a small pin glittered at her throat, small enough to display ostentatiously that it was made of real diamonds. She was like the new apartment into which they had moved: conspicuously expensive. The apartment’s decoration had been Keating’s first professional job for himself. It had been furnished in fresh, new mid-Victorian. It was conservative and stately. Over the fireplace in the drawing room hung a large old painting of what was not but looked like an illustrious ancestor.
    “Petey sweetheart, I do hate to rush you on a Sunday morning, but isn’t it time to dress up? I’ve got to run now and I’d hate you to forget the time and be late, it’s so nice of Mr. Toohey asking you to his house!”
    “Yes, Mother.”
”Any famous guests coming too?”
    “No. No guests. But there will be one other person there. Not famous.” She looked at him expectantly. He added: “Katie will be there.”
    The name seemed to have no effect on her whatever. A strange assurance had coated her lately, like a layer of fat through which that particular question could penetrate no longer.
    “Just a family tea,” he emphasized. “That’s what he said.”
    “Very nice of him. I’m sure Mr. Toohey is a very intelligent man.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    He rose impatiently and went to his room. #
    It was Keating’s first visit to the distinguished residential hotel where Catherine and her uncle had moved recently. He did not notice much about the apartment, beyond remembering that it was simple, very clean and smartly modest, that it contained a great number of books and very few pictures, but these authentic and precious. One never remembered the apartment of Ellsworth Toohey, only its host. The host, on this Sunday afternoon, wore a dark gray suit,
    correct as a uniform, and bedroom slippers of black patent leather trimmed with red; the slippers mocked the severe elegance of the suit, yet completed the elegance as an audacious anticlimax. He sat in a broad, low chair and his face wore an expression of cautious gentleness, so cautious that Keating and Catherine felt, at times, as if they were insignificant soap bubbles.
    Keating did not like the way Catherine sat on the edge of a chair, hunched, her legs drawn awkwardly together. He wished she would not wear the same suit for the third season, but she did. She kept her eyes on one point somewhere in the middle of the carpet. She seldom looked at Keating. She never looked at her uncle. Keating found no trace of that joyous admiration with which she had always spoken of Toohey, which he had expected to see her display in his presence. There was something heavy and colorless about Catherine, and very tired.
    Toohey’s valet brought in the tea tray.
    “You will pour, won’t you please, my dear?” said Toohey to Catherine. “Ah, there’s nothing like tea in the afternoon. When the British Empire collapses, historians will find that it had made but two invaluable contributions to civilization–this tea ritual and the detective novel. Catherine, my dear, do you have to grasp that pot handle as if it were a meat axe? But never mind, it’s charming, it’s really what we love you for, Peter and I, we wouldn’t love you if you were graceful as a duchess–who wants a duchess nowadays?”
    Catherine poured the tea and spilled it on the glass table top, which she had never done before.
    “I did want to see you two together for once,” said Toohey, holding a delicate cup balanced nonchalantly. “Perfectly silly of me, isn’t it? There’s really nothing to make an occasion of, but then I’m silly and sentimental at times, like all of us. My compliments on your choice, Catherine. I owe you an apology, I never suspected you of such good taste. You and Peter make a wonderful couple. You’ll do a great deal for him. You’ll cook his Cream of Wheat, launder his handkerchiefs and bear his children, though of course the children will all have measles at one time or another, which is a nuisance.”
    “But, after all, you…you do approve of it?” Keating asked anxiously. “Approve of it? Of what, Peter?”
”Of our marriage…eventually.”
    “What a superfluous question, Peter! Of course, I approve of it. But how young you are! That’s the way of young people–they make an issue where none exists. You asked that as if the whole thing were important enough to disapprove of.”
    “Katie and I met seven years ago,” said Keating defensively. “And it was love at first sight of course?”
    “Yes,” said Keating and felt himself being ridiculous. “It must have been spring,” said Toohey. “It usually is. There’s always a dark movie theater, and two people lost to the world, their hands clasped together–but hands do perspire when held too long, don’t they? Still, it’s beautiful to be in love. The sweetest story ever told–and the tritest. Don’t turn away like that, Catherine. We must never allow ourselves to lose our sense of humor.”
    He smiled. The kindliness of his smile embraced them both. The kindliness was so great that it made their love seem small and mean, because only something contemptible could evoke such immensity of compassion. He asked:
    “Incidentally, Peter, when do you intend to get married?”
    “Oh, well…we’ve never really set a definite date, you know how it’s been, all the things happening to me and now Katie has this work of hers and…And, by the way,” he added sharply, because that matter of Katie’s work irritated him without reason, “when we’re married, Katie will have to give that up. I don’t approve of it.”
    “But of course,” said Toohey, “I don’t approve of it either, if Catherine doesn’t like it.”
    Catherine was working as day nursery attendant at the Clifford Settlement House. It had been her own idea. She had visited the settlement often with her uncle, who conducted classes in economics there, and she had become interested in the work.
    “But I do like it!” she said with sudden excitement. “I don’t see why you resent it, Peter!” There was a harsh little note in her voice, defiant and unpleasant. “I’ve never enjoyed anything so much in my life. Helping people who’re helpless and unhappy. I went there this morning–I didn’t have to, but I wanted to–and then I rushed so on my way home, I didn’t have time to change my clothes, but that doesn’t matter, who cares what I look like? And”–the harsh note was gone, she was speaking eagerly and very fast–“Uncle Ellsworth, imagine! little Billy Hansen had a sore throat–you remember Billy? And the nurse wasn’t there, and I had to swab his throat with Argyrol, the poor thing! He had the most awful white mucus patches down in his throat!” Her voice seemed to shine, as if she were speaking of great beauty. She looked at her uncle. For the first time Keating saw the affection he had expected. She went on speaking about her work, the children, the settlement. Toohey listened gravely. He said nothing. But the earnest attention in his eyes changed him, his mocking gaiety vanished and he forgot his own advice, he was being serious, very serious indeed. When he noticed that Catherine’s plate was empty, he offered her the sandwich tray with a simple gesture and made it, somehow, a gracious gesture of respect.
    Keating waited impatiently till she paused for an instant. He wanted to change the subject. He glanced about the room and saw the Sunday papers. This was a question he had wanted to ask for a long time. He asked cautiously:
    “Ellsworth…what do you think of Roark?”
    “Roark? Roark?” asked Toohey. “Who is Roark?” The too innocent, too trifling manner in which he repeated the name, with the faint, contemptuous question mark quite audible at the end, made Keating certain that Toohey knew the name well. One did not stress total ignorance of a subject if one were in total ignorance of it. Keating said:
    “Howard Roark. You know, the architect. The one who’s doing the Enright House.” “Oh? Oh, yes, someone’s doing that Enright House at last, isn’t he?”
”There’s a picture of it in the Chronicle today.”
”Is there? I did glance through the Chronicle.”
    “And…what do you think of that building?”
”If it were important, I should have remembered it.”
    “Of course!” Keating’s syllables danced, as if his breath caught at each one in passing: “It’s an awful, crazy thing! Like nothing you ever saw or want to see!”
    He felt a sense of deliverance. It was as if he had spent his life believing that he carried a congenital disease, and suddenly the words of the greatest specialist on earth had pronounced him healthy. He wanted to laugh, freely, stupidly, without dignity. He wanted to talk.
    “Howard’s a friend of mine,” he said happily. “A friend of yours? You know him?”
    “Do I know him! Why, we went to school together–Stanton, you know–why, he lived at our house for three years, I can tell you the color of his underwear and how he takes a shower– I’ve seen him!”
    “He lived at your house in Stanton?” Toohey repeated. Toohey spoke with a kind of cautious precision. The sounds of his voice were small and dry and final, like the cracks of matches being broken.
    It was very peculiar, thought Keating. Toohey was asking him a great many questions about Howard Roark. But the questions did not make sense. They were not about buildings, they were not about architecture at all. They were pointless personal questions–strange to ask about a man of whom he had never heard before.
    “Does he laugh often?” “Very rarely.”
”Does he seem unhappy?” “Never.”
    “Did he have many friends at Stanton?” “He’s never had any friends anywhere.” “The boys didn’t like him?”
”Nobody can like him.”
    “Why?”
    “He makes you feel it would be an impertinence to like him.”
    “Did he go out, drink, have a good time?”
    “Never.”
    “Does he like money?”
    “No.”
    “Does he like to be admired?”
    “No.”
    “Does he believe in God?”
    “No.”
    “Does he talk much?”
    “Very little.”
    “Does he listen if others discuss any…ideas with him?”
    “He listens. It would be better if he didn’t.”
    “Why?”
    “It would be less insulting–if you know what I mean, when a man listens like that and you know it hasn’t made the slightest bit of difference to him.”
    “Did he always want to be an architect?” “He…”
”What’s the matter, Peter?”
    “Nothing. It just occurred to me how strange it is that I’ve never asked myself that about him before. Here’s what’s strange: you can’t ask that about him. He’s a maniac on the subject of
    architecture. It seems to mean so damn much to him that he’s lost all human perspective. He just has no sense of humor about himself at all–now there’s a man without a sense of humor, Ellsworth. You don’t ask what he’d do if he didn’t want to be an architect.”
    “No,” said Toohey. “You ask what he’d do if he couldn’t be an architect.”
”He’d walk over corpses. Any and all of them. All of us. But he’d be an architect.”
    Toohey folded his napkin, a crisp little square of cloth on his knee; he folded it accurately, once across each way, and he ran his fingernail along the edges to make a sharp crease.
    “Do you remember our little youth group of architects, Peter?” he asked. “I’m making arrangements for a first meeting soon. I’ve spoken to many of our future members and you’d be flattered by what they said about you as our prospective chairman.”
    They talked pleasantly for another half hour. When Keating rose to go, Toohey declared: “Oh, yes. I did speak to Lois Cook about you. You’ll hear from her shortly.”
”Thank you so much, Ellsworth. By the way, I’m reading Clouds and Shrouds.”
”And?”
    “Oh, it’s tremendous. You know, Ellsworth, it…it makes you think so differently about everything you’ve thought before.”
    “Yes,” said Toohey, “doesn’t it?”
    He stood at the window, looking out at the last sunshine of a cold, bright afternoon. Then he turned and said:
    “It’s a lovely day. Probably one of the last this year. Why don’t you take Catherine out for a little walk, Peter?”
    “Oh, I’d love to!” said Catherine eagerly.
    “Well, go ahead.” Toohey smiled gaily. “What’s the matter, Catherine? Do you have to wait for my permission?”
    When they walked out together, when they were alone in the cold brilliance of streets flooded with late sunlight, Keating felt himself recapturing everything Catherine had always meant to him, the strange emotion that he could not keep in the presence of others. He closed his hand over hers. She withdrew her hand, took off her glove and slipped her fingers into his. And then he thought suddenly that hands did perspire when held too long, and he walked faster in irritation. He thought that they were walking there like Mickey and Minnie Mouse and that they probably appeared ridiculous to the passers-by. To shake himself free of these thoughts he glanced down at her face. She was looking straight ahead at the gold light, he saw her delicate profile and the faint crease of a smile in the corner of her mouth, a smile of quiet happiness. But he noticed that the edge of her eyelid was pale and he began to wonder whether she was anemic.

    Lois Cook sat on the floor in the middle of her living room, her legs crossed Turkish fashion, showing large bare knees, gray stockings rolled over tight garters, and a piece of faded pink drawers. Peter Keating sat on the edge of a violet satin chaise lounge. Never before had he felt uncomfortable at a first interview with a client.
    Lois Cook was thirty-seven. She had stated insistently, in her publicity and in private conversation, that she was sixty-four. It was repeated as a whimsical joke and it created about
    her name a vague impression of eternal youth. She was tall, dry, narrow-shouldered and broad-hipped. She had a long, sallow face, and eyes set close together. Her hair hung about her ears in greasy strands. Her fingernails were broken. She looked offensively unkempt, with studied slovenliness as careful as grooming–and for the same purpose.
    She talked incessantly, rocking back and forth on her haunches:
    “…yes, on the Bowery. A private residence. The shrine on the Bowery. I have the site, I wanted it and I bought it, as simple as that, or my fool lawyer bought it for me, you must meet my lawyer, he has halitosis. I don’t know what you’ll cost me, but it’s unessential, money is commonplace. Cabbage is commonplace too. It must have three stories and a living room with a tile floor.”
    “Miss Cook, I’ve read Clouds and Shrouds and it was a spiritual revelation to me. Allow me to include myself among the few who understand the courage and significance of what you’re achieving single-handed while…”
    “Oh, can the crap,” said Lois Cook and winked at him.
”But I mean it!” he snapped angrily. “I loved your book. I…”
She looked bored.
”It is so commonplace,” she drawled, “to be understood by everybody.” “But Mr. Toohey said…”
    “Ah, yes. Mr. Toohey.” Her eyes were alert now, insolently guilty, like the eyes of a child who has just perpetrated some nasty little joke. “Mr. Toohey. I’m chairman of a little youth group of writers in which Mr. Toohey is very interested.”
    “You are?” he said happily. It seemed to be the first direct communication between them. “Isn’t that interesting! Mr. Toohey is getting together a little youth group of architects, too, and he’s kind enough to have me in mind for chairman.”
    “Oh,” she said and winked. “One of us?” “Of whom?”
    He did not know what he had done, but he knew that he had disappointed her in some way. She began to laugh. She sat there, looking up at him, laughing deliberately in his face, laughing ungraciously and not gaily.
    “What the…!” He controlled himself. “What’s the matter, Miss Cook?” “Oh my!” she said. “You’re such a sweet, sweet boy and so pretty!”
    “Mr. Toohey is a great man,” he said angrily. “He’s the most…the noblest personality I’ve ever…”
    “Oh, yes. Mr. Toohey is a wonderful man.” Her voice was strange by omission, it was flagrantly devoid of respect. “My best friend. The most wonderful man on earth. There’s the earth and there’s Mr. Toohey–a law of nature. Besides, think how nicely you can rhyme it: Toohey–gooey–phooey–hooey. Nevertheless, he’s a saint. That’s very rare. As rare as genius. I’m a genius. I want a living room without windows. No windows at all, remember that when you draw up the plans. No windows, a tile floor and a black ceiling. And no electricity. I want no electricity in my house, just kerosene lamps. Kerosene lamps with chimneys, and candles. To hell with Thomas Edison! Who was he anyway?”
    Her words did not disturb him as much as her smile. It was not a smile, it was a permanent smirk raising the corners of her long mouth, making her look like a sly, vicious imp.
    “And, Keating, I want the house to be ugly. Magnificently ugly. I want it to be the ugliest house
    in New York.”
”The…ugliest. Miss Cook?”
”Sweetheart, the beautiful is so commonplace!”
”Yes, but…but I…well, I don’t see how I could permit myself to…”
    “Keating, where’s your courage? Aren’t you capable of a sublime gesture on occasion? They all work so hard and struggle and suffer, trying to achieve beauty, trying to surpass one another in beauty. Let’s surpass them all! Let’s throw their sweat in their face. Let’s destroy them at one stroke. Let’s be gods. Let’s be ugly.”
    He accepted the commission. After a few weeks he stopped feeling uneasy about it. Wherever he mentioned this new job, he met a respectful curiosity. It was an amused curiosity, but it was respectful. The name of Lois Cook was well known in the best drawing rooms he visited. The titles of her books were flashed in conversation like the diamonds in the speaker’s intellectual crown. There was always a note of challenge in the voices pronouncing them. It sounded as if the speaker were being very brave. It was a satisfying bravery; it never aroused antagonism. For an author who did not sell, her name seemed strangely famous and honored. She was the standard-bearer of a vanguard of intellect and revolt. Only it was not quite clear to him just exactly what the revolt was against. Somehow, he preferred not to know.
    He designed the house as she wished it. It was a three-floor edifice, part marble, part stucco, adorned with gargoyles and carriage lanterns. It looked like a structure from an amusement park.
    His sketch of it was reproduced in more publications than any other drawing he had ever made, with the exception of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. One commentator expressed the opinion that “Peter Keating is showing a promise of being more than just a bright young man with a knack for pleasing stuffy moguls of big business. He is venturing into the field of intellectual experimentation with a client such as Lois Cook.” Toohey referred to the house as “a cosmic joke.”
    But a peculiar sensation remained in Keating’s mind: the feeling of an aftertaste. He would experience a dim flash of it while working on some important structure he liked; he would experience it in the moments when he felt proud of his work. He could not identify the quality of the feeling; but he knew that part of it was a sense of shame.
    Once, he confessed it to Ellsworth Toohey. Toohey laughed. “That’s good for you, Peter. One must never allow oneself to acquire an exaggerated sense of one’s own importance. There’s no necessity to burden oneself with absolutes.”
    5.
    DOMINIQUE had returned to New York. She returned without purpose, merely because she could not stay in her country house longer than three days after her last visit to the quarry. She had to be in the city, it was a sudden necessity, irresistible and senseless. She expected nothing of the city. But she wanted the feeling of the streets and the buildings holding her there. In the morning, when she awakened and heard the muffled roar of traffic far below, the sound was a humiliation, a reminder of where she was and why. She stood at the window, her arms spread wide, holding on to each side of the frame; it was as if she held a piece of the city, all the streets and rooftops outlined on the glass between her two hands.
    She went out alone for long walks. She walked fast, her hands in the pockets of an old coat, its collar raised. She had told herself that she was not hoping to meet him. She was not looking for him. But she had to be out in the streets, blank, purposeless, for hours at a time.
    She had always hated the streets of a city. She saw the faces streaming past her, the faces made alike by fear–fear as a common denominator, fear of themselves, fear of all and of one another, fear making them ready to pounce upon whatever was held sacred by any single one
    they met. She could not define the nature or the reason of that fear. But she had always felt its presence. She had kept herself clean and free in a single passion–to touch nothing. She had liked facing them in the streets, she had liked the impotence of their hatred, because she offered them nothing to be hurt.
    She was not free any longer. Each step through the streets hurt her now. She was tied to him–as he was tied to every part of the city. He was a nameless worker doing some nameless job, lost in these crowds, dependent on them, to be hurt by any one of them, to be shared by her with the whole city. She hated the thought of him on the sidewalks people had used. She hated the thought of a clerk handing to him a package of cigarettes across a counter. She hated the elbows touching his elbows in a subway train. She came home, after these walks, shaking with fever. She went out again the next day.
    When the term of her vacation expired, she went to the office of the Banner in order to resign. Her work and her column did not seem amusing to her any longer. She stopped Alvah Scarret’s effusive greetings. She said: “I just came back to tell you that I’m quitting, Alvah.” He looked at her stupidly. He uttered only: “Why?”
    It was the first sound from the outside world to reach her in a long time. She had always acted on the impulse of the moment, proud of the freedom to need no reasons for her actions. Now she had to face a “why?” that carried an answer she could not escape. She thought: Because of him, because she was letting him change the course of her life. It would be another violation; she could see him smiling as he had smiled on the path in the woods. She had no choice. Either course taken would be taken under compulsion: she could leave her work, because he had made her want to leave it, or she could remain, hating it, in order to keep her life unchanged, in defiance of him. The last was harder.
    She raised her head. She said: “Just a joke, Alvah. Just wanted to see what you’d say. I’m not quitting.”
#
    She had been back at work for a few days when Ellsworth Toohey walked into her office.
    “Hello, Dominique,” he said. “Just heard you’re back.”
    “Hello, Ellsworth.”
    “I’m glad. You know, I’ve always had the feeling that you’ll walk out on us some morning without any reason.”
    “The feeling, Ellsworth? Or the hope?”
    He was looking at her, his eyes as kindly, his smile as charming as ever; but there was a tinge of self-mockery in the charm, as if he knew that she did not approve of it, and a tinge of assurance, as if he were showing that he would look kindly and charming just the same.
    “You know, you’re wrong there,” he said, smiling peacefully. “You’ve always been wrong about that.”
    “No. I don’t fit, Ellsworth. Do I?”
    “I could, of course, ask: Into what? But supposing I don’t ask it. Supposing I just say that people who don’t fit have their uses also, as well as those who do? Would you like that better? Of course, the simplest thing to say is that I’ve always been a great admirer of yours and always will be.”
    “That’s not a compliment.”
”Somehow, I don’t think we’ll ever be enemies, Dominique, if that’s what you’d like.”
”No, I don’t think we’ll ever be enemies, Ellsworth. You’re the most comforting person I know.” “Of course.”
    “In the sense I mean?”
    “In any sense you wish.”
    On the desk before her lay the rotogravure section of the Sunday Chronicle. It was folded on the page that bore the drawing of the Enright House. She picked it up and held it out to him, her eyes narrowed in a silent question. He looked at the drawing, then his glance moved to her face and returned to the drawing. He let the paper drop back on the desk.
    “As independent as an insult, isn’t it?” he said.
    “You know, Ellsworth, I think the man who designed this should have committed suicide. A man who can conceive a thing as beautiful as this should never allow it to be erected. He should not want to exist. But he will let it be built, so that women will hang out diapers on his terraces, so that men will spit on his stairways and draw dirty pictures on his walls. He’s given it to them and he’s made it part of them, part of everything. He shouldn’t have offered it for men like you to look at. For men like you to talk about. He’s defiled his own work by the first word you’ll utter about it. He’s made himself worse than you are. You’ll be committing only a mean little indecency, but he’s committed a sacrilege. A man who knows what he must have known to produce this should not have been able to remain alive.”
    “Going to write a piece about this?” he asked.
    “No. That would be repeating his crime.”
    “And talking to me about it?”
    She looked at him. He was smiling pleasantly.
    “Yes of course,” she said, “that’s part of the same crime also.”
    “Let’s have dinner together one of these days, Dominique,” he said. “You really don’t let me see enough of you.”
    “All right,” she said. “Anytime you wish.” #
    At his trial for the assault on Ellsworth Toohey, Steven Mallory refused to disclose his motive. He made no statement. He seemed indifferent to any possible sentence. But Ellsworth Toohey created a minor sensation when he appeared, unsolicited, in Mallory’s defense. He pleaded with the judge for leniency; he explained that he had no desire to see Mallory’s future and career destroyed. Everybody in the courtroom was touched–except Steven Mallory. Steven Mallory listened and looked as if he were enduring some special process of cruelty. The judge gave him two years and suspended the sentence.
    There was a great deal of comment on Toohey’s extraordinary generosity. Toohey dismissed all praise, gaily and modestly. “My friends,” was his remark–the one to appear in all the papers–“I refuse to be an accomplice in the manufacturing of martyrs.”
#
    At the first meeting of the proposed organization of young architects Keating concluded that Toohey had a wonderful ability for choosing people who fitted well together. There was an air about the eighteen persons present which he could not define, but which gave him a sense of comfort, a security he had not experienced in solitude or in any other gathering; and part of the comfort was the knowledge that all the others felt the same way for the same unaccountable reason. It was a feeling of brotherhood, but somehow not of a sainted or noble brotherhood; yet this precisely was the comfort–that one felt, among them, no necessity for being sainted or noble.
    Were it not for this kinship, Keating would have been disappointed in the gathering. Of the eighteen seated about Toohey’s living room, none was an architect of distinction, except himself and Gordon L. Prescott, who wore a beige turtle-neck sweater and looked faintly
    patronizing, but eager. Keating had never heard the names of the others. Most of them were beginners, young, poorly dressed and belligerent. Some were only draftsmen. There was one woman architect who had built a few small private homes, mainly for wealthy widows; she had an aggressive manner, a tight mouth and a fresh petunia in her hair. There was a boy with pure, innocent eyes. There was an obscure contractor with a fat, expressionless face. There was a tall, dry woman who was an interior decorator, and another woman of no definite occupation at all.
    Keating could not understand what exactly was to be the purpose of the group, though there was a great deal of talk. None of the talk was too coherent, but all of it seemed to have the same undercurrent. He felt that the undercurrent was the one thing clear among all the vague generalities, even though nobody would mention it. It held him there, as it held the others, and he had no desire to define it.
    The young men talked a great deal about injustice, unfairness, the cruelty of society toward youth, and suggested that everyone should have his future commissions guaranteed when he left college. The woman architect shrieked briefly something about the iniquity of the rich. The contractor barked that it was a hard world and that “fellows gotta help one another.” The boy with the innocent eyes pleaded that “we could do so much good…” His voice had a note of desperate sincerity which seemed embarrassing and out of place. Gordon L. Prescott declared that the A.G.A. was a bunch of old fogies with no conception of social responsibility and not a drop of virile blood in the lot of them, and that it was time to kick them in the pants anyway. The woman of indefinite occupation spoke about ideals and causes, though nobody could gather just what these were.
    Peter Keating was elected chairman, unanimously. Gordon L. Prescott was elected vice- chairman and treasurer. Toohey declined all nominations. He declared that he would act only as an unofficial advisor. It was decided that the organization would be named the “Council of American Builders.” It was decided that membership would not be restricted to architects, but would be open to “allied crafts” and to “all those holding the interests of the great profession of building at heart.”
    Then Toohey spoke. He spoke at some length, standing up, leaning on the knuckles of one hand against a table. His great voice was soft and persuasive. It filled the room, but it made his listeners realize that it could have filled a Roman amphitheater; there was something subtly flattering in this realization, in the sound of the powerful voice being held in check for their benefit.
    “…and thus, my friends, what the architectural profession lacks is an understanding of its own social importance. This lack is due to a double cause: to the anti-social nature of our entire society and to your own inherent modesty. You have been conditioned to think of yourselves merely as breadwinners with no higher purpose than to earn your fees and the means of your own existence. Isn’t it time, my friends, to pause and to redefine your position in society? Of all the crafts, yours is the most important. Important, not in the amount of money you might make, not in the degree of artistic skill you might exhibit, but in the service you render to your fellow men. You are those who provide mankind’s shelter. Remember this and then look at our cities, at our slums, to realize the gigantic task awaiting you. But to meet this challenge you must be armed with a broader vision of yourselves and of your work. You are not hired lackeys of the rich. You are crusaders in the cause of the underprivileged and the unsheltered. Not by what we are shall we be judged, but by those we serve. Let us stand united in this spirit. Let us–in all matters–be faithful to this new, broader, higher perspective. Let us organize–well, my friends, shall I say–a nobler dream?”
    Keating listened avidly. He had always thought of himself as a breadwinner bent upon earning his fees, in a profession he had chosen because his mother had wanted him to choose it. It was gratifying to discover that he was much more than this; that his daily activity carried a nobler significance. It was pleasant and it was drugging. He knew that all the others in the room felt it also.
    “…and when our system of society collapses, the craft of builders will not be swept under, it will be swept up to greater prominence and greater recognition…”
    The doorbell rang. Then Toohey’s valet appeared for an instant, holding the door of the living
    room open to admit Dominique Francon.
    By the manner in which Toohey stopped, on a half-uttered word, Keating knew that Dominique had not been invited or expected. She smiled at Toohey, shook her head and moved one hand in a gesture telling him to continue. He managed a faint bow in her direction, barely more than a movement of his eyebrows, and went on with his speech. It was a pleasant greeting and its informality included the guest in the intimate brotherhood of the occasion, but it seemed to Keating that it had come just one beat too late. He had never before seen Toohey miss the right moment.
    Dominique sat down in a corner, behind the others. Keating forgot to listen for a while, trying to attract her attention. He had to wait until her eyes had traveled thoughtfully about the room, from face to face, and stopped on his. He bowed and nodded vigorously, with the smile of greeting a private possession. She inclined her head, he saw her lashes touching her cheeks for an instant as her eyes closed, and then she looked at him again. She sat looking at him for a long moment, without smiling, as if she were rediscovering something in his face. He had not seen her since spring. He thought that she looked a little tired and lovelier than his memory of her.
    Then he turned to Ellsworth Toohey once more and he listened. The words he heard were as stirring as ever, but his pleasure in them had an edge of uneasiness. He looked at Dominique. She did not belong in this room, at this meeting. He could not say why, but the certainty of it was enormous and oppressive. It was not her beauty, it was not her insolent elegance. But something made her an outsider. It was as if they had all been comfortably naked, and a person had entered fully clothed, suddenly making them self-conscious and indecent. Yet she did nothing. She sat listening attentively. Once, she leaned back, crossing her legs, and lighted a cigarette. She shook the flame off the match with a brusque little jerk of her wrist and she dropped the match into an ash tray on a table beside her. He saw her drop the match into the ash tray; he felt as if that movement of her wrist had tossed the match into all their faces. He thought that he was being preposterous. But he noticed that Ellsworth Toohey never looked at her as he spoke.
    When the meeting ended, Toohey rushed over to her.
    “Dominique, my dear!” he said brightly. “Shall I consider myself flattered?”
    “If you wish.”
    “Had I known that you were interested, I would have sent you a very special invitation.”
    “But you didn’t think I’d be interested?”
    “No, frankly, I…”
    “That was a mistake, Ellsworth. You discounted my newspaperwoman’s instinct. Never miss a scoop. It’s not often that one has the chance to witness the birth of a felony.”
    “Just exactly what do you mean, Dominique?” asked Keating, his voice sharp. She turned to him. “Hello, Peter.”
”You know Peter Keating, of course?” Toohey smiled at her.
”Oh, yes. Peter was in love with me once.”
    “You’re using the wrong tense, Dominique,” said Keating.
    “You must never take seriously anything Dominique chooses to say, Peter. She does not intend us to take it seriously. Would you like to join our little group, Dominique? Your professional qualifications make you eminently eligible.”
    “No, Ellsworth. I wouldn’t like to join your little group. I really don’t hate you enough to do that.”
    “Just why do you disapprove of it?” snapped Keating.
    “Why, Peter!” she drawled. “Whatever gave you that idea? I don’t disapprove of it at all. Do I, Ellsworth? I think it’s a proper undertaking in answer to an obvious necessity. It’s just what we all need–and deserve.”
    “Can we count on your presence at our next meeting?” Toohey asked. “It is pleasant to have so understanding a listener who will not be in the way at all–at our next meeting, I mean.”
    “No, Ellsworth. Thank you. It was merely curiosity. Though you do have an interesting group of people here. Young builders. By the way, why didn’t you invite that man who designed the Enright House–what’s his name?–Howard Roark?”
    Keating felt his jaw snap tight. But she looked at them innocently, she had said it lightly, in the tone of a casual remark–surely, he thought, she did not mean…what? he asked himself and added: she did not mean whatever it was he’d thought for a moment she meant, whatever had terrified him in that moment.
    “I have never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Roark,” Toohey answered gravely. “Do you know him?” Keating asked her.
”No,” she answered. “I’ve merely seen a sketch of the Enright House.”
”And?” Keating insisted. “What do you think of it?”
    “I don’t think of it,” she answered.
    When she turned to leave, Keating accompanied her. He looked at her in the elevator, on their way down. He saw her hand, in a tight black glove, holding the flat corner of a pocket-book. The limp carelessness of her fingers was insolent and inviting at once. He felt himself surrendering to her again. “Dominique, why did you actually come here today?”
    “Oh, I haven’t been anywhere for a long time and I decided to start in with that. You know, when I go swimming I don’t like to torture myself getting into cold water by degrees. I dive right in and it’s a nasty shock, but after that the rest is not so hard to take.”
    “What do you mean? What do you really see that’s so wrong with that meeting? After all, we’re not planning to do anything definite. We don’t have any actual program. I don’t even know what we were there for.”
    “That’s it, Peter. You don’t even know what you were there for.”
    “It’s only a group for fellows to get together. Mostly to talk. What harm is there in that?”
    “Peter, I’m tired.”
    “Well, did your appearance tonight mean at least that you’re coming out of your seclusion?”
    “Yes. Just that…My seclusion?”
    “I’ve tried and tried to get in touch with you, you know.”
    “Have you?”
    “Shall I begin to tell you how happy I am to see you again?”
    “No. Let’s consider that you’ve told me.”
    “You know, you’ve changed, Dominique. I don’t know exactly in what way, but you’ve changed.”
    “Have I?”
    “Let’s consider that I’ve told you how lovely you are, because I can’t find words to say it.”
    The streets were dark. He called a cab. Sitting close to her, he turned and looked at her directly, his glance compelling like an open hint, hoping to make the silence significant between them. She did not turn away. She sat studying his face. She seemed to be wondering, attentive to some thought of her own which he could not guess. He reached over slowly and took her hand. He felt an effort in her hand, he could feel through her rigid fingers the effort of her whole arm, not an effort to withdraw her hand, but to let him hold it. He raised the hand, turned it over and pressed his lips to her wrist.
    Then he looked at her face. He dropped her hand and it remained suspended in the air for an instant, the fingers stiff, half closed. This was not the indifference he remembered. This was revulsion, so great that it became impersonal, it could not offend him, it seemed to include more than his person. He was suddenly aware of her body; not in desire or resentment, but just aware of its presence close to him, under her dress. He whispered involuntarily:
    “Dominique, who was he?”
    She whirled to face him. Then he saw her eyes narrowing. He saw her lips relaxing, growing fuller, softer, her mouth lengthening slowly into a faint smile, without opening. She answered, looking straight at him:
    “A workman in the granite quarry.”
She succeeded; he laughed aloud.
”Serves me right, Dominique. I shouldn’t suspect the impossible.”
”Peter, isn’t it strange? It was you that I thought I could make myself want, at one time.” “Why is that strange?”
    “Only in thinking how little we know about ourselves. Some day you’ll know the truth about yourself too, Peter, and it will be worse for you than for most of us. But you don’t have to think about it. It won’t come for a long time.”
    “You did want me, Dominique?”
”I thought I could never want anything and you suited that so well.”
    “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what you ever think you’re saying. I know that I’ll always love you. And I won’t let you disappear again. Now that you’re back…”
    “Now that I’m back, Peter, I don’t want to see you again. Oh, I’ll have to see you when we run into each other, as we will, but don’t call on me. Don’t come to see me. I’m not trying to offend you, Peter. It’s not that. You’ve done nothing to make me angry. It’s something in myself that I don’t want to face again. I’m sorry to choose you as the example. But you suit so well. You– Peter, you’re everything I despise in the world and I don’t want to remember how much I despise it. If I let myself remember–I’ll return to it. This is not an insult to you, Peter. Try to understand that. You’re not the worst of the world. You’re its best. That’s what’s frightening. If I ever come back to you–don’t let me come. I’m saying this now because I can, but if I come back to you, you won’t be able to stop me, and now is the only time when I can warn you.”
    “I don’t know,” he said in cold fury, his lips stiff, “what you’re talking about.”
”Don’t try to know. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just stay away from each other. Shall we?”
”I’ll never give you up.”
She shrugged. “All right, Peter. This is the only time I’ve ever been kind to you. Or to anyone.”
    6.
    ROGER ENRIGHT had started life as a coal miner in Pennsylvania. On his way to the millions he now owned, no one had ever helped him. “That,” he explained, “is why no one has ever stood in my way.” A great many things and people had stood in his way, however; but he had never noticed them. Many incidents of his long career were not admired; none was whispered about. His career had been glaring and public like a billboard. He made a poor subject for blackmailers or debunking biographers. Among the wealthy he was disliked for having become wealthy so crudely.
    He hated bankers, labor unions, women, evangelists and the stock exchange. He had never bought a share of stock nor sold a share in any of his enterprises, and he owned his fortune single-handed, as simply as if he carried all his cash in his pocket. Besides his oil business he owned a publishing house, a restaurant, a radio shop, a garage, a plant manufacturing electric refrigerators. Before each new venture he studied the field for a long time, then proceeded to act as if he had never heard of it, upsetting all precedent. Some of his ventures were successful, others failed. He continued running them all with ferocious energy. He worked twelve hours a day.
    When he decided to erect a building, he spent six months looking for an architect. Then he hired Roark at the end of their first interview, which lasted half an hour. Later, when the drawings were made, he gave orders to proceed with construction at once. When Roark began to speak about the drawings, Enright interrupted him: “Don’t explain. It’s no use explaining abstract ideals to me. I’ve never had any ideals. People say I’m completely immoral. I go only by what I like. But I do know what I like.”
    Roark never mentioned the attempt he had made to reach Enright, nor his interview with the bored secretary. Enright learned of it somehow. Within five minutes the secretary was discharged, and within ten minutes he was walking out of the office, as ordered, in the middle of a busy day, a letter left half typed in his machine.
    Roark reopened his office, the same big room on the top of an old building. He enlarged it by the addition of an adjoining room–for the draftsmen he hired in order to keep up with the planned lightning schedule of construction. The draftsmen were young and without much experience. He had never heard of them before and he did not ask for letters of recommendation. He chose them from among many applicants, merely by glancing at their drawings for a few minutes.
    In the crowded tension of the days that followed he never spoke to them, except of their work. They felt, entering the office in the morning, that they had no private lives, no significance and no reality save the overwhelming reality of the broad sheets of paper on their tables. The place seemed cold and soulless like a factory, until they looked at him; then they thought that it was not a factory, but a furnace fed on their bodies, his own first.
    There were times when he remained in the office all night. They found him still working when they returned in the morning. He did not seem tired. Once he stayed there for two days and two nights in succession. On the afternoon of the third day he fell asleep, half lying across his table. He awakened in a few hours, made no comment and walked from one table to another, to see what had been done. He made corrections, his words sounding as if nothing had interrupted a thought begun some hours ago.
    “You’re unbearable when you’re working, Howard,” Austen Heller told him one evening, even though he had not spoken of his work at all.
    “Why?” he asked, astonished.
”It’s uncomfortable to be in the same room with you. Tension is contagious, you know.” “What tension? I feel completely natural only when I’m working.”
    “That’s it. You’re completely natural only when you’re one inch from bursting into pieces. What in hell are you really made of, Howard? After all, it’s only a building. It’s not the combination of
    holy sacrament, Indian torture and sexual ecstasy that you seem to make of it.”
    “Isn’t it?” #
    He did not think of Dominique often, but when he did, the thought was not a sudden recollection, it was the acknowledgment of a continuous presence that needed no acknowledgment. He wanted her. He knew where to find her. He waited. It amused him to wait, because he knew that the waiting was unbearable to her. He knew that his absence bound her to him in a manner more complete and humiliating than his presence could enforce. He was giving her time to attempt an escape, in order to let her know her own helplessness when he chose to see her again. She would know that the attempt itself had been of his choice, that it had been only another form of mastery. Then she would be ready either to kill him or to come to him of her own will. The two acts would be equal in her mind. He wanted her brought to this. He waited.

    The construction of the Enright House was about to begin, when Roark was summoned to the office of Joel Sutton. Joel Sutton, a successful businessman, was planning the erection of a huge office building. Joel Sutton had based his success on the faculty of understanding nothing about people. He loved everybody. His love admitted no distinctions. It was a great leveler; it could hold no peaks and no hollows, as the surface of a bowl of molasses could not hold them.
    Joe Sutton met Roark at a dinner given by Enright. Joel Sutton liked Roark. He admired Roark. He saw no difference between Roark and anyone else. When Roark came to his office, Joel Sutton declared:
    “Now I’m not sure, I’m not sure, I’m not sure at all, but I thought that I might consider you for that little building I have in mind. Your Enright House is sort of…peculiar, but it’s attractive, all buildings are attractive, love buildings, don’t you?–and Rog Enright is a very smart man, an exceedingly smart man, he coins money where nobody else’d think it grew. I’ll take a tip from Rog Enright any time, what’s good enough for Rog Enright is good enough for me.”
    Roark waited for weeks after that first interview. Joel Sutton never made up his mind in a hurry.
    On an evening in December Austen Heller called on Roark without warning and declared that he must accompany him next Friday to a formal party given by Mrs. Ralston Holcombe.
    “Hell, no, Austen,” said Roark.
    “Listen, Howard, just exactly why not? Oh, I know, you hate that sort of thing, but that’s not a good reason. On the other hand, I can give you many excellent ones for going. The place is a kind of house of assignation for architects and, of course, you’d sell anything there is to you for a building–oh, I know, for your kind of building, but still you’d sell the soul you haven’t got, so can’t you stand a few hours of boredom for the sake of future possibilities?”
    “Certainly. Only I don’t believe that this sort of thing ever leads to any possibilities.” “Will you go this time?”
”Why particularly this time?”
    “Well, in the first place, that infernal pest Kiki Holcombe demands it. She spent two hours yesterday demanding it and made me miss a luncheon date. It spoils her reputation to have a building like the Enright House going up in town and not be able to display its architect in her salon. It’s a hobby. She collects architects. She insisted that I must bring you and I promised I would.”
    “What for?”
”Specifically, she’s going to have Joel Sutton there next Friday. Try, if it kills you, to be nice to
    him. He’s practically decided to give you that building, from what I hear. A little personal contact might be all that’s needed to set it. He’s got a lot of others after him. They’ll all be there. I want you there. I want you to get that building. I don’t want to hear anything about granite quarries for the next ten years. I don’t like granite quarries.”
    Roark sat on a table, his hands clasping the table’s edge to keep himself still. He was exhausted after fourteen hours spent in his office, he thought he should be exhausted, but he could not feel it. He made his shoulders sag in an effort to achieve a relaxation that would not come; his arms were tense, drawn, and one elbow shuddered in a thin, continuous quiver. His long legs were spread apart, one bent and still, with the knee resting on the table, the other hanging down straight from the hip over the table’s edge, swinging impatiently. It was so difficult these days to force himself to rest.
    His new home was one large room in a small, modern apartment house on a quiet street. He had chosen the house because it had no cornices over the windows and no paneling on the walls inside. His room contained a few pieces of simple furniture; it looked clean, vast and empty; one expected to hear echoes from its corners.
    “Why not go, just once?” said Heller. “It won’t be too awful. It might even amuse you. You’ll see a lot of your old friends there. John Erik Snyte, Peter Keating, Guy Francon and his daughter–you should meet his daughter. Have you ever read her stuff?”
    “I’ll go,” said Roark abruptly.
    “You’re unpredictable enough even to be sensible at times. I’ll call for you at eight-thirty Friday. Black tie. Do you own a tux, by the way?”
    “Enright made me get one.”
    “Enright is a very sensible man.”
    When Heller left, Roark remained sitting on the table for a long time. He had decided to go to the party, because he knew that it would be the last of all places where Dominique could wish to meet him again.
#
    “There is nothing as useless, my dear Kiki,” said Ellsworth Toohey, “as a rich woman who makes herself a profession of entertaining. But then, all useless things have charm. Like aristocracy, for instance, the most useless conception of all.”
    Kiki Holcombe wrinkled her nose in a cute little pout of reproach, but she liked the comparison to aristocracy. Three crystal chandeliers blazed over her Florentine ballroom, and when she looked up at Toohey the lights stood reflected in her eyes, making them a moist collection of sparks between heavy, beaded lashes.
    “You say disgusting things, Ellsworth. I don’t know why I keep on inviting you.” “That is precisely why, my dear. I think I shall be invited here as often as I wish.” “What can a mere woman do against that?”
    “Never start an argument with Mr. Toohey,” said Mrs. Gillespie, a tall woman wearing a necklace of large diamonds, the size of the teeth she bared when she smiled. “It’s no use. We’re beaten in advance.”
    “Argument, Mrs. Gillespie,” he said, “is one of the things that has neither use nor charm. Leave it to the men of brains. Brains, of course, are a dangerous confession of weakness. It has been said that men develop brains when they have failed in everything else.”
    “Now you don’t mean that at all,” said Mrs. Gillespie, while her smile accepted it as a pleasant truth. She took possession of him triumphantly and led him away as a prize stolen from Mrs. Holcombe who had turned aside for a moment to greet new guests. “But you men of intellect are such children. You’re so sensitive. One must pamper you.”
    “I wouldn’t do that, Mrs. Gillespie. We’ll take advantage of it. And to display one’s brain is so vulgar. It’s even more vulgar than to display one’s wealth.”
    “Oh dear, you would get that in, wouldn’t you? Now of course I’ve heard that you’re some sort of a radical, but I won’t take it seriously. Not one bit. How do you like that?”
    “I like it very much,” said Toohey.
    “You can’t kid me. You can’t make me think that you’re one of the dangerous kind. The dangerous kind are all dirty and use bad grammar. And you have such a beautiful voice!”
    “Whatever made you think that I aspired to be dangerous, Mrs. Gillespie? I’m merely–well, shall we say? that mildest of all things, a conscience. Your own conscience, conveniently personified in the body of another person and attending to your concern for the less fortunate of this world, thus leaving you free not to attend to.”
    “Well, what a quaint idea! I don’t know whether it’s horrible or very wise indeed.” “Both, Mrs. Gillespie. As all wisdom.”
    Kiki Holcombe surveyed her ballroom with satisfaction. She looked up at the twilight of the ceiling, left untouched above the chandeliers, and she noted how far it was above the guests, how dominant and undisturbed. The huge crowd of guests did not dwarf her hall; it stood over them like a square box of space, grotesquely out of scale; and it was this wasted expanse of air imprisoned above them that gave the occasion an aspect of regal luxury; it was like the lid of a jewel case, unnecessarily large over a flat bottom holding a single small gem.
    The guests moved in two broad, changing currents that drew them all, sooner or later, toward two whirlpools; at the center of one stood Ellsworth Toohey, of the other–Peter Keating. Evening clothes were not becoming to Ellsworth Toohey; the rectangle of white shirt front prolonged his face, stretching him out into two dimensions; the wings of his tie made his thin neck look like that of a plucked chicken, pale, bluish and ready to be twisted by a single movement of some strong fist. But he wore his clothes better than any man present. He wore them with the careless impertinence of utter ease in the unbecoming, and the very grotesqueness of his appearance became a declaration of his superiority, a superiority great enough to warrant disregard of so much ungainliness.
    He was saying to a somber young female who wore glasses and a low-cut evening gown: “My dear, you will never be more than a dilettante of the intellect, unless you submerge yourself in some cause greater than yourself.”
    He was saying to an obese gentlemen with a face turning purple in the heat of an argument: “But, my friend, I might not like it either. I merely said that such happens to be the inevitable course of history. And who are you or I to oppose the course of history?”
    He was saying to an unhappy young architect: “No, my boy, what I have against you is not the bad building you designed, but the bad taste you exhibited in whining about my criticism of it. You should be careful. Someone might say that you can neither dish it out nor take it.”
    He was saying to a millionaire’s widow: “Yes, I do think it would be a good idea if you made a contribution to the Workshop of Social Study. It would be a way of taking part in the great human stream of cultural achievement, without upsetting your routine or your digestion.”
    Those around him were saying: “Isn’t he witty? And such courage!”
    Peter Keating smiled radiantly. He felt the attention and admiration flowing toward him from every part of the ballroom. He looked at the people, all these trim, perfumed, silk-rustling people lacquered with light, dripping with light, as they had all been dripping with shower water a few hours ago, getting ready to come here and stand in homage before a man named Peter Keating. There were moments when he forgot that he was Peter Keating and he glanced at a mirror, at his own figure, he wanted to join in the general admiration for it.
    Once the current left him face to face with Ellsworth Toohey. Keating smiled like a boy emerging from a stream on a summer day, glowing, invigorated, restless with energy. Toohey stood looking at him; Toohey’s hands had slipped negligently into his trouser pockets, making his jacket flare out over his thin hips; he seemed to teeter faintly on his small feet; his eyes were attentive in enigmatic appraisal.
    “Now this, Ellsworth…this…isn’t it a wonderful evening?” said Keating, like a child to a mother who would understand, and a little like a drunk.
    “Being happy, Peter? You’re quite the sensation tonight. Little Peter seems to have crossed the line into a big celebrity. It happens like this, one can never tell exactly when or why…There’s someone here, though, who seems to be ignoring you quite flagrantly, doesn’t she?”
    Keating winced. He wondered when and how Toohey had had the time to notice that.
    “Oh, well,” said Toohey, “the exception proves the rule. Regrettable, however. I’ve always had the absurd idea that it would take a most unusual man to attract Dominique Francon. So of course I thought of you. Just an idle thought. Still, you know, the man who’ll get her will have something you won’t be able to match. He’ll beat you there.”
    “No one’s got her,” snapped Keating.
    “No, undoubtedly not. Not yet. That’s rather astonishing. Oh, I suppose it will take an extraordinary kind of man.”
    “Look here, what in hell are you doing? You don’t like Dominique Francon. Do you?” “I never said I did.”
    A little later Keating heard Toohey saying solemnly in the midst of some earnest discussion: “Happiness? But that is so middle-class. What is happiness? There are so many things in life so much more important than happiness.”
    Keating made his way slowly toward Dominique. She stood leaning back, as if the air were a support solid enough for her thin, naked shoulder blades. Her evening gown was the color of glass. He had the feeling that he should be able to see the wall behind her, through her body. She seemed too fragile to exist; and that very fragility spoke of some frightening strength which held her anchored to existence with a body insufficient for reality.
    When he approached, she made no effort to ignore him; she turned to him, she answered; but the monotonous precision of her answers stopped him, made him helpless, made him leave her in a few moments.
    When Roark and Heller entered, Kiki Holcombe met them at the door. Heller presented Roark to her, and she spoke as she always did, her voice like a shrill rocket sweeping all opposition aside by sheer speed.
    “Oh, Mr. Roark, I’ve been so eager to meet you! We’ve all heard so much about you! Now I must warn you that my husband doesn’t approve of you–oh, purely on artistic grounds, you understand–but don’t let that worry you, you have an ally in this household, an enthusiastic ally!”
    “It’s very kind, Mrs. Holcombe,” said Roark. “And perhaps unnecessary.”
    “Oh, I adore your Enright House! Of course, I can’t say that it represents my own esthetic convictions, but people of culture must keep their minds open to anything, I mean, to include any viewpoint in creative art, we must be broad-minded above all, don’t you think so?”
    “I don’t know,” said Roark. “I’ve never been broad-minded.”
    She was certain that he intended no insolence; it was not in his voice nor his manner; but insolence had been her first impression of him. He wore evening clothes and they looked well
    on his tall, thin figure, but somehow it seemed that he did not belong in them; the orange hair looked preposterous with formal dress; besides, she did not like his face; that face suited a work gang or an army, it had no place in her drawing room. She said:
    “We’ve all been so interested in your work. Your first building?”
”My fifth.”
”Oh, indeed? Of course. How interesting.”
She clasped her hands, and turned to greet a new arrival. Heller said:
”Whom do you want to meet first?…There’s Dominique Francon looking at us. Come on.”
    Roark turned; he saw Dominique standing alone across the room. There was no expression on her face, not even an effort to avoid expression; it was strange to see a human face presenting a bone structure and an arrangement of muscles, but no meaning, a face as a simple anatomical feature, like a shoulder or an arm, not a mirror of sensate perception any longer. She looked at them as they approached. Her feet stood posed oddly, two small triangles pointed straight and parallel, as if there were no floor around her but the few square inches under her soles and she were safe so long as she did not move or look down. He felt a violent pleasure, because she seemed too fragile to stand the brutality of what he was doing; and because she stood it so well.
    “Miss Francon, may I present Howard Roark?” said Heller.
    He had not raised his voice to pronounce the name; he wondered why it had sounded so stressed; then he thought that the silence had caught the name and held it still; but there had been no silence: Roark’s face was politely blank and Dominique was saying correctly:
    “How do you do, Mr. Roark.”
    Roark bowed: “How do you do, Miss Francon.”
    She said: “The Enright House…”
    She said it as if she had not wanted to pronounce these three words; and as if they named, not a house, but many things beyond it.
    Roark said: “Yes, Miss Francon.”
    Then she smiled, the correct, perfunctory smile with which one greets an introduction. She said:
    “I know Roger Enright. He is almost a friend of the family.”
”I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting many friends of Mr. Enright.”
    “I remember once Father invited him to dinner. It was a miserable dinner. Father is called a brilliant conversationalist, but he couldn’t bring a sound out of Mr. Enright. Roger just sat there. One must know Father to realize what a defeat it was for him.”
    “I have worked for your father”–her hand had been moving and it stopped in midair–“a few years ago, as a draftsman.”
    Her hand dropped. “Then you can see that Father couldn’t possibly get along with Roger Enright.”
    “No. He couldn’t.”
    “I think Roger almost liked me, though, but he’s never forgiven me for working on a Wynand paper.”
    Standing between them, Heller thought that he had been mistaken; there was nothing strange in this meeting; in fact, there simply was nothing. He felt annoyed that Dominique did not speak of architecture, as one would have expected her to do; he concluded regretfully that she disliked this man, as she disliked most people she met.
    Then Mrs. Gillespie caught hold of Heller and led him away. Roark and Dominique were left alone. Roark said:
    “Mr. Enright reads every paper in town. They are all brought to his office–with the editorial pages cut out.”
    “He’s always done that. Roger missed his real vocation. He should have been a scientist. He has such a love for facts and such contempt for commentaries.”
    “On the other hand, do you know Mr. Fleming?” he asked. “No.”
    “He’s a friend of Heller’s. Mr. Fleming never reads anything but editorial pages. People like to hear him talk.”
    She watched him. He was looking straight at her, very politely, as any man would have looked, meeting her for the first time. She wished she could find some hint in his face, if only a hint of his old derisive smile; even mockery would be an acknowledgment and a tie; she found nothing. He spoke as a stranger. He allowed no reality but that of a man introduced to her in a drawing room, flawlessly obedient to every convention of deference. She faced this respectful formality, thinking that her dress had nothing to hide from him, that he had used her for a need more intimate than the use of the food he ate–while he stood now at a distance of a few feet from her, like a man who could not possibly permit himself to come closer. She thought that this was his form of mockery, after what he had not forgotten and would not acknowledge. She thought that he wanted her to be first to name it, he would bring her to the humiliation of accepting the past–by being first to utter the word recalling it to reality; because he knew that she could not leave it unrecalled.
    “And what does Mr. Fleming do for a living?” she asked. “He’s a manufacturer of pencil sharpeners.”
”Really? A friend of Austen’s?”
”Austen knows many people. He says that’s his business.” “Is he successful?”
    “Who, Miss Francon? I’m not sure about Austen, but Mr. Fleming is very successful. He has branch factories in New Jersey, Connecticut and Rhode Island.”
    “You’re wrong about Austen, Mr. Roark. He’s very successful. In his profession and mine you’re successful if it leaves you untouched.”
    “How does one achieve that?”
”In one of two ways: by not looking at people at all or by looking at everything about them.” “Which is preferable, Miss Francon?”
”Whichever is hardest.”
”But a desire to choose the hardest might be a confession of weakness in itself.”
”Of course, Mr. Roark. But it’s the least offensive form of confession.”
”If the weakness is there to be confessed at all.”
    Then someone came flying through the crowd, and an arm fell about Roark’s shoulders. It was John Erik Snyte.
    “Roark, well of all people to see here!” he cried. “So glad, so glad! Ages, hasn’t it been? Listen, I want to talk to you! Let me have him for a moment, Dominique.”
    Roark bowed to her, his arms at his sides, a strand of hair falling forward, so that she did not see his face, but only the orange head bowed courteously for a moment, and he followed Snyte into the crowd.
    Snyte was saying: “God, how you’ve come up these last few years! Listen, do you know whether Enright’s planning to go into real estate in a big way, I mean, any other buildings up his sleeve?”
    It was Heller who forced Snyte away and brought Roark to Joel Sutton. Joel Sutton was delighted. He felt that Roark’s presence here removed the last of his doubts; it was a stamp of safety on Roark’s person. Joel Sutton’s hand closed about Roark’s elbow, five pink, stubby fingers on the black sleeve. Joel Sutton gulped confidentially:
    “Listen, kid, it’s all settled. You’re it. Now don’t squeeze the last pennies out of me, all you architects are cutthroats and highway robbers, but I’ll take a chance on you, you’re a smart boy, snared old Rog, didn’t you? So here you’ve got me swindled too, just about almost, that is, I’ll give you a ring in a few days and we’ll have a dogfight over the contract!”
    Heller looked at them and thought that it was almost indecent to see them together: Roark’s tall, ascetic figure, with that proud cleanliness peculiar to long-lined bodies, and beside him the smiling ball of meat whose decision could mean so much.
    Then Roark began to speak about the future building, but Joel Sutton looked up at him, astonished and hurt. Joel Sutton had not come here to talk about buildings; parties were given for the purpose of enjoying oneself, and what greater joy could there be but to forget the important things of one’s life? So Joel Sutton talked about badminton; that was his hobby; it was a patrician hobby, he explained, he was not being common like other men who wasted time on golf. Roark listened politely. He had nothing to say.
    “You do play badminton, don’t you?” Joel Sutton asked suddenly. “No,” said Roark.
    “You don’t?” gulped Joel Sutton. “You don’t? Well, what a pity, oh what a rotten pity! I thought sure you did, with that lanky frame of yours you’d be good, you’d be a wow, I thought sure we’d beat the pants off of old Tompkins anytime while that building’s being put up.”
    “While that building’s being put up, Mr. Sutton, I wouldn’t have the time to play anyway.”
    “What d’you mean, wouldn’t have the time? What’ve you got draftsmen for? Hire a couple extra, let them worry, I’ll be paying you enough, won’t I? But then, you don’t play, what a rotten shame, I thought sure…The architect who did my building down on Canal Street was a whiz at badminton, but he died last year, got himself cracked up in an auto accident, damn him, was a fine architect, too. And here you don’t play.”
    “Mr. Sutton, you’re not really upset about it, are you?” “I’m very seriously disappointed, my boy.”
”But what are you actually hiring me for?”
”What am I what?”
    “Hiring me for?”
”Why, to do a building of course.”
    “Do you really think it would be a better building if I played badminton?”
    “Well, there’s business and there’s fun, there’s the practical and there’s the human end of it, oh, I don’t mind, still I thought with a skinny frame like yours you’d surely…but all right, all right, we can’t have everything….”
    When Joel Sutton left him, Roark heard a bright voice saying: “Congratulations, Howard,” and turned to find Peter Keating smiling at him radiantly and derisively.
    “Hello, Peter. What did you say?”
    “I said, congratulations on landing Joel Sutton. Only, you know, you didn’t handle that very well.”
    “W hat?”
    “Old Joel. Oh, of course, I heard most of it–why shouldn’t I?–it was very entertaining. That’s no way to go about it, Howard. You know what I would have done? I’d have sworn I’d played badminton since I was two years old and how it’s the game of kings and earls and it takes a soul of rare distinction to appreciate it and by the time he’d put me to the test I’d have made it my business to play like an earl, too. What would it cost you?”
    “I didn’t think of it.”
    “It’s a secret, Howard. A rare one. I’ll give it to you free of charge with my compliments: always be what people want you to be. Then you’ve got them where you want them. I’m giving it free because you’ll never make use of it. You’ll never know how. You’re brilliant in some respects, Howard, I’ve always said that–and terribly stupid in others.”
    “Possibly.”
    “You ought to try and learn a few things, if you’re going in for playing the game through the Kiki Holcombe salon. Are you? Growing up, Howard? Though it did give me a shock to see you here of all places. Oh, and yes, congratulations on the Enright job, beautiful job as usual– where have you been all summer?–remind me to give you a lesson on how to wear a tux, God, but it looks silly on you! That’s what I like, I like to see you looking silly, we’re old friends, aren’t we, Howard?”
    “You’re drunk, Peter.”
    “Of course I am. But I haven’t touched a drop tonight, not a drop. What I’m drunk on–you’ll never learn, never, it’s not for you, and that’s also part of what I’m drunk on, that it’s not for you. You know, Howard, I love you. I really do. I do–tonight.”
    “Yes, Peter. You always will, you know.”
    Roark was introduced to many people and many people spoke to him. They smiled and seemed sincere in their efforts to approach him as a friend, to express appreciation, to display good will and cordial interest. But what he heard was: “The Enright House is magnificent. It’s almost as good as the Cosmo-Slotnick Building.”
    “I’m sure you have a great future, Mr. Roark, believe me, I know the signs, you’ll be another Ralston Holcombe.” He was accustomed to hostility; this kind of benevolence was more offensive than hostility. He shrugged; he thought that he would be out of here soon and back in the simple, clean reality of his own office.
    He did not look at Dominique again for the rest of the evening. She watched him in the crowd. She watched those who stopped him and spoke to him. She watched his shoulders stooped courteously as he listened. She thought that this, too, was his manner of laughing at her; he let her see him being delivered to the crowd before her eyes, being surrendered to any person who wished to own him for a few moments. He knew that this was harder for her to watch than the sun and the drill in the quarry. She stood obediently, watching. She did not expect
    him to notice her again; she had to remain there as long as he was in this room.
    There was another person, that night, abnormally aware of Roark’s presence, aware from the moment Roark had entered the room. Ellsworth Toohey had seen him enter. Toohey had never set eyes on him before and did not know him. But Toohey stood looking at him for a long time.
    Then Toohey moved through the crowd, and smiled at his friends. But between smiles and sentences, his eyes went back to the man with the orange hair. He looked at the man as he looked occasionally at the pavement from a window on the thirtieth floor, wondering about his own body were it to be hurled down and what would happen when he struck against that pavement. He did not know the man’s name, his profession or his past; he had no need to know; it was not a man to him, but only a force; Toohey never saw men. Perhaps it was the fascination of seeing that particular force so explicitly personified in a human body.
    After a while he asked John Erik Snyte, pointing:
”Who is that man?”
”That?” said Snyte. “Howard Roark. You know, the Enright House.” “Oh,” said Toohey.
”W hat?”
”Of course. It would be.”
”Want to meet him?”
”No,” said Toohey. “No, I don’t want to meet him.”
    For the rest of the evening whenever some figure obstructed Toohey’s view of the hall, his head would jerk impatiently to find Roark again. He did not want to look at Roark; he had to look; just as he always had to look down at that distant pavement, dreading the sight.
    That evening, Ellsworth Toohey was conscious of no one but Roark. Roark did not know that Toohey existed in the room.
    When Roark left, Dominique stood counting the minutes, to be certain that he would be lost to sight in the streets before she could trust herself to go out. Then she moved to leave.
    Kiki Holcombe’s thin, moist fingers clasped her hand in parting, clasped it vaguely and slipped up to hold her wrist for a moment.
    “And, my dear,” asked Kiki Holcombe, “what did you think of that new one, you know, I saw you talking to him, that Howard Roark?”
    “I think,” said Dominique firmly, “that he is the most revolting person I’ve ever met.” “Oh, now, really?”
    “Do you care for that sort of unbridled arrogance? I don’t know what one could say for him, unless it’s that he’s terribly good-looking, if that matters.”
    “Good-looking! Are you being funny, Dominique?”
    Kiki Holcombe saw Dominique being stupidly puzzled for once. And Dominique realized that what she saw in his face, what made it the face of a god to her, was not seen by others; that it could leave them indifferent; that what she had thought to be the most obvious, inconsequential remark was, instead, a confession of something within her, some quality not shared by others.
    “Why, my dear,” said Kiki, “he’s not good-looking at all, but extremely masculine.”
    “Don’t let it astonish you, Dominique,” said a voice behind her. “Kiki’s esthetic judgment is not yours–nor mine.”
    Dominique turned. Ellsworth Toohey stood there, smiling, watching her face attentively. “You…” she began and stopped.
    “Of course,” said Toohey, bowing faintly in understanding affirmative of what she had not said. “Do give me credit for discernment, Dominique, somewhat equal to yours. Though not for esthetic enjoyment. I’ll leave that part of it to you. But we do see things, at times, which are not obvious, don’t we–you and I?”
    “What things?”
    “My dear, what a long philosophical discussion that would take, and how involved, and how– unnecessary. I’ve always told you that we should be good friends. We have so much in common intellectually. We start from opposite poles, but that makes no difference, because you see, we meet in the same point. It was a very interesting evening, Dominique.”
    “What are you driving at?”
    “For instance, it was interesting to discover what sort of thing appears good-looking to you. It’s nice to have you classified firmly, concretely. Without words–just with the aid of a certain face.”
    “If…if you can see what you’re talking about, you can’t be what you are.”
    “No, my dear. I must be what I am, precisely because of what I see.”
    “You know, Ellsworth, I think you’re much worse than I thought you were.”
    “And perhaps much worse than you’re thinking now. But useful. We’re all useful to one another. As you will be to me. As, I think, you will want to be.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “That’s bad, Dominique. Very bad. So pointless. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I couldn’t possibly explain it. If you do–I have you, already, without saying anything further.”
    “What kind of a conversation is this?” asked Kiki, bewildered.
    “Just our way of kidding each other,” said Toohey brightly. “Don’t let it bother you, Kiki. Dominique and I are always kidding each other. Not very well, though, because you see–we can’t.”
    “Some day, Ellsworth,” said Dominique, “you’ll make a mistake.” “Quite possible. And you, my dear, have made yours already.” “Good night, Ellsworth.”
”Good night, Dominique.”
    Kiki turned to him when Dominique had gone.
    “What’s the matter with both of you, Ellsworth? Why such talk–over nothing at all? People’s faces and first impressions don’t mean a thing.”
    “That, my dear Kiki,” he answered, his voice soft and distant, as if he were giving an answer, not to her, but to a thought of his own, “is one of our greatest common fallacies. There’s nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even
    though we’re not always wise enough to unravel the knowledge. Have you ever thought about the style of a soul, Kiki?”
    “The…what?”
    “The style of a soul. Do you remember the famous philosopher who spoke of the style of a civilization? He called it ‘style.’ He said it was the nearest word he could find for it. He said that every civilization has its one basic principle, one single, supreme, determining conception, and every endeavor of men within that civilization is true, unconsciously and irrevocably, to that one principle….I think, Kiki, that every human soul has a style of its own, also. Its one basic theme. You’ll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living creature. Years of studying a man won’t show it to you. His face will. You’d have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing else.”
    “That sounds fantastic, Ellsworth. And unfair, if true. It would leave people naked before you.”
    “It’s worse than that. It also leaves you naked before them. You betray yourself by the manner in which you react to a certain face. To a certain kind of face….The style of your soul…There’s nothing important on earth, except human beings. There’s nothing as important about human beings as their relations to one another….”
    “Well, what do you see in my face?”
    He looked at her, as if he had just noticed her presence.
    “What did you say?”
    “I said, what do you see in my face?”
    “Oh…yes…well, tell me the movie stars you like and I’ll tell you what you are.”
    “You know, I just love to be analyzed. Now let’s see. My greatest favorite has always been…”
    But he was not listening. He had turned his back on her, he was walking away without apology. He looked tired. She had never seen him being rude before–except by intention.
    A little later, from among a group of friends, she heard his rich, vibrant voice saying: “…and, therefore, the noblest conception on earth is that of men’s absolute equality.”
    7.
    “…AND there it will stand, as a monument to nothing but the egotism of Mr. Enright and of Mr. Roark. It will stand between a row of brownstone tenements on one side and the tanks of a gashouse on the other. This, perhaps, is not an accident, but a testimonial to fate’s sense of fitness. No other setting could bring out so eloquently the essential insolence of this building. It will rise as a mockery to all the structures of the city and to the men who built them. Our structures are meaningless and false; this building will make them more so. But the contrast will not be to its advantage. By creating the contrast it will have made itself a part of the great ineptitude, its most ludicrous part. If a ray of light falls into a pigsty, it is the ray that shows us the muck and it is the ray that is offensive. Our structures have the great advantage of obscurity and timidity. Besides, they suit us. The Enright House is bright and bold. So is a feather boa. It will attract attention–but only to the immense audacity of Mr. Roark’s conceit. When this building is erected, it will be a wound on the face of our city. A wound, too, is colorful.”
    This appeared in the column “Your House” by Dominique Francon, a week after the party at the home of Kiki Holcombe.
    On the morning of its appearance Ellsworth Toohey walked into Dominique’s office. He held a
    copy of the Banner, with the page bearing her column turned toward her. He stood silently, rocking a little on his small feet. It seemed as if the expression of his eyes had to be heard, not seen: it was a visual roar of laughter. His lips were folded primly, innocently.
    “Well?” she asked.
    “Where did you meet Roark before that party?”
    She sat looking at him, one arm flung over the back of her chair, a pencil dangling precariously between the tips of her fingers. She seemed to be smiling. She said:
    “I had never met Roark before that party.”
    “My mistake. I was just wondering about…” he made the paper rustle, “…the change of sentiment.”
    “Oh, that? Well, I didn’t like him when I met him–at the party.” “So I noticed.”
”Sit down, Ellsworth. You don’t look your best standing up.” “Do you mind? Not busy?”
    “Not particularly.”
    He sat down on the corner of her desk. He sat, thoughtfully tapping his knee with the folded paper.
    “You know, Dominique,” he said, “it’s not well done. Not well at all.” “Why?”
    “Don’t you see what can be read between the lines? Of course, not many will notice that. He will. I do.”
    “It’s not written for him or for you.”
”But for the others?”
”For the others.”
”Then it’s a rotten trick on him and me.” “You see? I thought it was well done.” “Well, everyone to his own methods.” “What are you going to write about it?” “About what?”
    “About the Enright House.” “Nothing.”
”Nothing?”
”Nothing.”
    He threw the paper down on the desk, without moving, just flicking his wrist forward. He said: “Speaking of architecture, Dominique, why haven’t you ever written anything about the
    Cosmo-Slotnick Building?”
”Is it worth writing about?”
”Oh, decidedly. There are people whom it would annoy very much.” “And are those people worth annoying?”
”So it seems.”
”What people?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. How can we know who reads our stuff? That’s what makes it so interesting. All those strangers we’ve never seen before, have never spoken to, or can’t speak to–and here’s this paper where they can read our answer, if we want to give an answer. I really think you should dash off a few nice things about the Cosmo-Slotnick Building.”
    “You do seem to like Peter Keating very much.”
    “I? I’m awfully fond of Peter. You will be, too–eventually, when you know him better. Peter is a useful person to know. Why don’t you take time, one of these days, to get him to tell you the story of his life? You’ll learn many interesting things.”
    “For instance?”
”For instance, that he went to Stanton.” “I know that.”
    “You don’t think it’s interesting? I do, Wonderful place, Stanton. Remarkable example of Gothic architecture. The stained-glass window in the Chapel is really one of the finest in this country. And then, think, so many young students. All so different. Some graduating with high honors. Others being expelled.”
    “W ell?”
    “Did you know that Peter Keating is an old friend of Howard Roark?”
    “No. Is he?”
    “He is.”
    “Peter Keating is an old friend of everybody.”
    “Quite true. A remarkable boy. But this is different. You didn’t know that Roark went to Stanton?”
    “No.”
”You don’t seem to know very much about Mr. Roark.”
”I don’t know anything about Mr. Roark. We weren’t discussing Mr. Roark.”
    “Weren’t we? No, of course, we were discussing Peter Keating. Well, you see, one can make one’s point best by contrast, by comparison. As you did in your pretty little article today. To appreciate Peter as he should be appreciated, let’s follow up a comparison. Let’s take two parallel lines. I’m inclined to agree with Euclid, I don’t think these two parallels will ever meet. Well, they both went to Stanton. Peter’s mother ran a sort of boardinghouse and Roark lived with them for three years. This doesn’t really matter, except that it makes the contrast more eloquent and–well–more personal, later on. Peter graduated with high honors, the highest of his class. Roark was expelled. Don’t look like that. I don’t have to explain why he was expelled, we understand, you and I. Peter went to work for your father and he’s a partner now. Roark worked for your father and got kicked out. Yes, he did. Isn’t that funny, by the way?–he
    did, without any help from you at all–that time. Peter has the Cosmo-Slotnick Building to his credit–and Roark has a hot-dog stand in Connecticut. Peter signs autographs–and Roark is not known even to all the bathroom fixtures manufacturers. Now Roark’s got an apartment house to do and it’s precious to him like an only son–while Peter wouldn’t even have noticed it had he got the Enright House, he gets them every day. Now, I don’t think that Roark thinks very much of Peter’s work. He never has and he never will, no matter what happens. Follow this a step further. No man likes to be beaten. But to be beaten by the man who has always stood as the particular example of mediocrity in his eyes, to start by the side of this mediocrity and to watch it shoot up, while he struggles and gets nothing but a boot in his face, to see the mediocrity snatch from him, one after another, the chances he’d give his life for, to see the mediocrity worshipped, to miss the place he wants and to see the mediocrity enshrined upon it, to lose, to be sacrificed, to be ignored, to be beaten, beaten, beaten–not by a greater genius, not by a god, but by a Peter Keating–well, my little amateur, do you think the Spanish Inquisition ever thought of a torture to equal this?”
    “Ellsworth!” she screamed. “Get out of here!”
    She had shot to her feet. She stood straight for a moment, then she slumped forward, her two palms flat on the desk, and she stood, bent over; he saw her smooth mass of hair swinging heavily, then hanging still, hiding her face.
    “But, Dominique,” he said pleasantly, “I was only telling you why Peter Keating is such an interesting person.”
    Her hair flew back like a mop, and her face followed, she dropped down on her chair, looking at him, her mouth loose and very ugly.
    “Dominique,” he said softly, “you’re obvious. Much too obvious.” “Get out of here.”
    “Well, I’ve always said that you underestimated me. Call on me next time you need some help.”
    At the door, he turned to add:
    “Of course, personally, I think Peter Keating is the greatest architect we’ve got.” #
    That evening, when she came home, the telephone rang.
”Dominique, my dear,” a voice gulped anxiously over the wire, “did you really mean all that?” “Who is this?”
”Joel Sutton. I…”
”Hello, Joel. Did I mean what?”
    “Hello, dear, how are you? How is your charming father? I mean, did you mean all that about the Enright House and that fellow Roark? I mean, what you said in your column today. I’m quite a bit upset, quite a bit. You know about my building? Well, we’re all ready to go ahead and it’s such a bit of money, I thought I was very careful about deciding, but I trust you of all people, I’ve always trusted you, you’re a smart kid, plenty smart, if you work for a fellow like Wynand I guess you know your stuff. Wynand knows buildings, why, that man’s made more in real estate than on all his papers, you bet he did, it’s not supposed to be known, but I know it. And you working for him, and now I don’t know what to think. Because, you see, I had decided, yes, I had absolutely and definitely decided–almost–to have this fellow Roark, in fact I told him so, in fact he’s coming over tomorrow afternoon to sign the contract, and now…Do you really think it will look like a feather boa?”
    “Listen, Joel,” she said, her teeth set tight together, “can you have lunch with me tomorrow?”
    She met Joel Sutton in the vast, deserted dining room of a distinguished hotel. There were few, solitary guests among the white tables, so that each stood out, the empty tables serving as an elegant setting that proclaimed the guest’s exclusiveness. Joel Sutton smiled broadly. He had never escorted a woman as decorative as Dominique.
    “You know, Joel,” she said, facing him across a table, her voice quiet, set, unsmiling, “it was a brilliant idea, your choosing Roark.”
    “Oh, do you think so?”
    “I think so. You’ll have a building that will be beautiful, like an anthem. A building that will take your breath away–also your tenants. A hundred years from now they will write about you in history–and search for your grave in Potter’s Field.”
    “Good heavens, Dominique, what are you talking about?”
    “About your building. About the kind of building that Roark will design for you. It will be a great building, Joel.”
    “You mean, good?”
”I don’t mean good. I mean great.” “It’s not the same thing.”
”No, Joel, no, it’s not the same thing.” “I don’t like this ‘great’ stuff.”
    “No. You don’t. I didn’t think you would. Then what do you want with Roark? You want a building that won’t shock anybody. A building that will be folksy and comfortable and safe, like the old parlor back home that smells of clam chowder. A building that everybody will like, everybody and anybody. It’s very uncomfortable to be a hero, Joel, and you don’t have the figure for it.”
    “Well, of course I want a building that people will like. What do you think I’m putting it up for, for my health?”
    “No, Joel. Nor for your soul.” “You mean, Roark’s no good?”
    She sat straight and stiff, as if all her muscles were drawn tight against pain. But her eyes were heavy, half closed, as if a hand were caressing her body. She said:
    “Do you see many buildings that he’s done? Do you see many people hiring him? There are six million people in the city of New York. Six million people can’t be wrong. Can they?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Of course.”
    “But I thought Enright…”
    “You’re not Enright, Joel. For one thing, he doesn’t smile so much. Then, you see, Enright wouldn’t have asked my opinion. You did. That’s what I like you for.”
    “Do you really like me, Dominique?”
”Didn’t you know that you’ve always been one of my great favorites?”
”I…I’ve always trusted you. I’ll take your word anytime. What do you really think I should do?”
    “It’s simple. You want the best that money can buy–of what money can buy. You want a building that will be–what it deserves to be. You want an architect whom other people have employed, so that you can show them that you’re just as good as they are.”
    “That’s right. That’s exactly right….Look, Dominique, you’ve hardly touched your food.” “I’m not hungry.”
”Well, what architect would you recommend?”
    “Think, Joel. Who is there, at the moment, that everybody’s talking about? Who gets the pick of all commissions? Who makes the most money for himself and his clients? Who’s young and famous and safe and popular?”
    “Why, I guess…I guess Peter Keating.”
    “Yes, Joel. Peter Keating.” #
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. Roark, so terribly sorry, believe me, but after all, I’m not in business for my health…not for my health nor for my soul…that is, I mean, well, I’m sure you can understand my position. And it’s not that I have anything against you, quite the contrary, I think you’re a great architect. You see that’s just the trouble, greatness is fine but it’s not practical. That’s the trouble, Mr. Roark, not practical, and after all you must admit that Mr. Keating has much the better name and he’s got that…that popular touch which you haven’t been able to achieve.”
    It disturbed Mr. Sutton that Roark did not protest. He wished Roark would try to argue; then he could bring forth the unanswerable justifications which Dominique had taught him a few hours ago. But Roark said nothing; he had merely inclined his head when he heard the decision. Mr. Sutton wanted desperately to utter the justifications, but it seemed pointless to try to convince a man who seemed convinced. Still, Mr. Sutton loved people and did not want to hurt anyone.
    “As a matter of fact, Mr. Roark, I’m not alone in this decision. As a matter of fact, I did want you, I had decided on you, honestly I had, but it was Miss Dominique Francon, whose judgment I value most highly, who convinced me that you were not the right choice for this commission–and she was fair enough to allow me to tell you that she did.”
    He saw Roark looking at him suddenly. Then he saw the hollows of Roark’s cheeks twisted, as if drawn in deeper, and his mouth open: he was laughing, without sound but for one sharp intake of breath.
    “What on earth are you laughing at, Mr. Roark?”
    “So Miss Francon wanted you to tell me this?”
    “She didn’t want me to, why should she?–she merely said that I could tell you if I wished.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Which only shows her honesty and that she had good reasons for her convictions and will stand by them openly.”
    “Yes.”
”Well, what’s the matter?”
”Nothing, Mr. Sutton.”
”Look, it’s not decent to laugh like that.”
    “No.” #
    His room was half dark around him. A sketch of the Heller house was tacked, unframed, on a long, blank wall; it made the room seem emptier and the wall longer. He did not feel the minutes passing, but he felt time as a solid thing enclosed and kept apart within the room; time clear of all meaning save the unmoving reality of his body.
    When he heard the knock at the door, he said: “Come in,” without rising.
    Dominique came in. She entered as if she had entered this room before. She wore a black suit of heavy cloth, simple like a child’s garment, worn as mere protection, not as ornament; she had a high masculine collar raised to her cheeks, and a hat cutting half her face out of sight. He sat looking at her. She waited to see the derisive smile, but it did not come. The smile seemed implicit in the room itself, in her standing there, halfway across that room. She took her hat off, like a man entering a house, she pulled it off by the brim with the tips of stiff fingers and held it hanging down at the end of her arm. She waited, her face stern and cold; but her smooth pale hair looked defenseless and humble. She said:
    “You are not surprised to see me.” “I expected you tonight.”
    She raised her hand, bending her elbow with a tight economy of motion, the bare minimum needed, and flung her hat across to a table. The hat’s long flight showed the violence in that controlled jerk of her wrist.
    He asked: “What do you want?”
She answered: “You know what I want,” her voice heavy and flat. “Yes. But I want to hear you say it. All of it.”
    “If you wish.” Her voice had the sound of efficiency, obeying an order with metallic precision. “I want to sleep with you. Now, tonight, and at any time you may care to call me. I want your naked body, your skin, your mouth, your hands. I want you–like this–not hysterical with desire–but coldly and consciously–without dignity and without regrets–I want you–I have no self-respect to bargain with me and divide me–I want you–I want you like an animal, or a cat on a fence, or a whore.”
    She spoke on a single, level tone, as if she were reciting an austere catechism of faith. She stood without moving, her feet in flat shoes planted apart, her shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. She looked impersonal, untouched by the words she pronounced, chaste like a young boy.
    “You know that I hate you, Roark. I hate you for what you are, for wanting you, for having to want you. I’m going to fight you–and I’m going to destroy you–and I tell you this as calmly as I told you mat I’m a begging animal. I’m going to pray that you can’t be destroyed–I tell you this, too–even though I believe in nothing and have nothing to pray to. But I will fight to block every step you take. I will fight to tear every chance you want away from you. I will hurt you through the only thing that can hurt you–through your work. I will fight to starve you, to strangle you on the things you won’t be able to reach. I have done it to you today–and that is why I shall sleep with you tonight.”
    He sat deep in his chair, stretched out, his body relaxed, and taut in relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the violence of future motion.
    “I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have beaten you–whenever I know that I have hurt you–and I’ll let you own me. I want to be owned, not by a lover, but by an adversary who will destroy my victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?”
    “Take your clothes off.”
She stood still for a moment; two hard spots swelled and grew white under the corners of her
    mouth. Then she saw a movement in the cloth of his shirt, one jolt of controlled breath–and she smiled in her turn, derisively, as he had always smiled at her.
    She lifted her two hands to her collar and unfastened the buttons of her jacket, simply, precisely, one after another. She threw the jacket down on the floor, she took off a thin white blouse, and she noticed the tight black gloves on the wrists of her naked arms. She took the gloves off, pulling at each finger in turn. She undressed indifferently, as if she were alone in her own bedroom.
    Then she looked at him. She stood naked, waiting, feeling the space between them like a pressure against her stomach, knowing that it was torture for him also and that it was as they both wanted it. Then he got up, he walked to her, and when he held her, her arms rose willingly and she felt the shape of his body imprinted into the skin on the inside of her arm as it encircled him, his ribs, his armpit, his back, his shoulder blade under her fingers, her mouth on his, in a surrender more violent than her struggle had been.
    Afterward, she lay in bed by his side, under his blanket, looking at his room, and she asked: “Roark, why were you working in that quarry?”
”You know it.”
”Yes. Anyone else would have taken a job in an architect’s office.”
    “And then you’d have no desire at all to destroy me.”
”You understand that?”
”Yes. Keep still. It doesn’t matter now.”
”Do you know that the Enright House is the most beautiful building in New York?”
    “I know
    “Roark, Enright
    that you know it.”
    you worked in that quarry when you had the Enright House in you, and many other Houses, and you were drilling granite like a…”
    “You’re
”Yes.”
”You’re
”Don’t.”
”You’re
”Roark,
”Do you think I would want you if you didn’t?” “Roark…”
    “You want to hear that again? Part of it? I want you, Dominique. I want you. I want you.” “I…” She stopped, the word on which she stopped almost audible in her breath.
”No,” he said. “Not yet. You won’t say that yet. Go to sleep.
”Here? With you?”
    “Here. With me. I’ll fix breakfast for you in the morning. Did you know that I fix my own breakfast? You’ll like seeing that. Like the work in the quarry. Then you’ll go home and think
    going to weaken in a moment, Dominique, and then you’ll regret it tomorrow.”
    very lovely, Dominique.”
    lovely.”
I…I’ll still want to destroy you.”
    about destroying me. Good night, Dominique.”
    8.
    THE BLINDS raised over the windows of her living room, the lights of the city rising to a black horizon halfway up the glass panes, Dominique sat at her desk, correcting the last sheets of an article, when she heard the doorbell. Guests did not disturb her without warning–and she looked up, the pencil held in midair, angry and curious. She heard the steps of the maid in the hall, then the maid came in, saying: “A gentleman to see you, madam,” a faint hostility in her voice explaining that the gentleman had refused to give his name.
    A man with orange hair?–Dominique wanted to ask, but didn’t; the pencil jerked stiffly and she said: “Have him come
    Then the door opened; against the light of the hall she saw a long neck and sloping shoulders, like the silhouette of a bottle; a rich, creamy voice said, “Good evening, Dominique,” and she recognized Ellsworth Toohey whom she had never asked to her house. ,
    She smiled. She said: “Good evening, Ellsworth. I haven’t seen you for such a long time.”
    “You should have expected me now, don’t you think so?” He turned to the maid: “Cointreau, please, if you have it, and I’m sure you do.”
    The maid glanced at Dominique, wide-eyed; Dominique nodded silently, and the maid went out, closing the door.
    “Busy, of course?” said Toohey, glancing at the littered desk. “Very becoming, Dominique. Gets results, too. You’ve been writing much better lately.”
    She let the pencil fall, and threw an arm over the back of her chair, half turning to him, watching him placidly. “What do you want, Ellsworth?”
    He did not sit down, but stood examining the place with the unhurried curiosity of an expert.
    “Not bad, Dominique. Just about as I’d expect you to have it. A little cold. You know, I wouldn’t have that ice-blue chair over there. Too obvious. Fits in too well. Just what people would expect in just that spot. I’d have it carrot red. An ugly, glaring, outrageous red. Like Mr. Howard Roark’s hair. That’s quite en passant–merely a convenient figure of speech–nothing personal at all. Just one touch of the wrong color would make the whole room. The sort of thing that gives a place elegance. Your flower arrangements are nice. The pictures, too–not bad.”
    “All right, Ellsworth, all right, what is it?”
    “But don’t you know that I’ve never been here before? Somehow, you’ve never asked me. I don’t know why.” He sat down comfortably, resting an ankle on a knee, one thin leg stretched horizontally across the other, the full length of a tight, gunmetal sock exposed under the trouser cuff, and a patch of skin showing above the sock, bluish-white with a few black hairs. “But then, you’ve been so unsociable. The past tense, my dear, the past tense. Did you say that we haven’t seen each other for a long time? That’s true. You’ve been so busy–in such an unusual way. Visits, dinners, speakeasies and giving tea parties. Haven’t you?”
    “I have.”
    “Tea parties–I thought that was tops. This is a good room for parties–large–plenty of space to stuff people into–particularly if you’re not particular whom you stuff it with–and you’re not. Not now. What do you serve them? Anchovy paste and minced egg cut out like hearts?”
    “Caviar and minced onion cut out like stars.” “What about the old ladies?”
    “Cream cheese and chopped walnuts–in spirals.”
    “I’d like to have seen you taking care of things like that. It’s wonderful how thoughtful you’ve become of old ladies. Particularly the filthy rich–with sons-in-law in real estate. Though I don’t think that’s as bad as going to see Knock Me Flat with Commodore Higbee who has false teeth and a nice vacant lot on the corner of Broadway and Chambers.”
    The maid came in with the tray. Toohey took a glass and held it delicately, inhaling, while the maid went out.
    “Will you tell me why the secret service department–I won’t ask who–and why the detailed reports on ray activities?” Dominique said indifferently.
    “You can ask who. Anyone and everyone. Don’t you suppose people are talking about Miss Dominique Francon in the role of a famous hostess–so suddenly? Miss Dominique Francon as a sort of second Kiki Holcombe, but much better–oh much!–much subtler, much abler, and then, just think, how much more beautiful. It’s about time you made some use of that superlative appearance of yours that any woman would cut your throat for. It’s still being wasted, of course, if one thinks of form in relation to its proper function, but at least some people are getting some good out of it. Your father, for instance. I’m sure he’s delighted with this new life of yours. Little Dominique being friendly to people. Little Dominique who’s become normal at last. He’s wrong, of course, but it’s nice to make him happy. A few others, too. Me, for instance. Though you’d never do anything just to make me happy, but then, you see, that’s my lucky faculty–to extract joy from what was not intended for me at all, in a purely selfless way.”
    “You’re not answering my question.”
    “But I am. You asked why the interest in your activities–and I answer: because they make me happy. Besides, look, one could be astonished–though shortsightedly–if I were gathering information on the activities of my enemies. But not to be informed about the actions of my own side–really, you know, you didn’t think I’d be so unskilled a general, and whatever else you might think of me, you’ve never thought me unskilled.”
    “Your side, Ellsworth?”
    “Look, Dominique, that’s the trouble with your written–and spoken–style: you use too many question marks. Bad, in any case. Particularly bad when unnecessary. Let’s drop the quiz technique–and just talk. Since we both understand and there aren’t any questions to be asked between us. If there were–you’d have thrown me out. Instead, you gave me a very expensive liqueur.”
    He held the rim of the glass under his nose and inhaled with a loose kind of sensual relish, which, at a dinner table, would have been equivalent to a loud lipsmacking, vulgar there, superlatively elegant here, over a cut-crystal edge pressed to a neat little mustache.
    “All right,” she said. “Talk.”
    “That’s what I’ve been doing. Which is considerate of me–since you’re not ready to talk. Not yet, for a while. Well, let’s talk–in a purely contemplative manner–about how interesting it is to see people welcoming you into their midst so eagerly, accepting you, flocking to you. Why is it, do you suppose? They do plenty of snubbing on their own, but just let someone who’s snubbed them all her life suddenly break down and turn gregarious–and they all come rolling on their backs with their paws folded, for you to rub their bellies. Why? There could be two explanations, I think. The nice one would be that they are generous and wish to honor you with their friendship. Only the nice explanations are never the true ones. The other one is that they know you’re degrading yourself by needing them, you’re coming down off a pinnacle– every loneliness is a pinnacle–and they’re delighted to drag you down through their friendship. Though, of course, none of them knows it consciously, except yourself. That’s why you go through agonies, doing it, and you’d never do it for a noble cause, you’d never do it except for the end you’ve chosen, an end viler than the means and making the means endurable.”
    “You know, Ellsworth, you’ve said a sentence there that you’d never use in your column.”
    “Did I? Undoubtedly. I can say a great many things to you that I’d never use in my column. Which one?”
    “Every loneliness is a pinnacle.”
    “That? Yes, quite right. I wouldn’t. You’re welcome to it–though it’s not too good. Fairly crude. I’ll give you better ones some day, if you wish. Sorry, however, that that’s all you picked out of my little speech.”
    “What did you want me to pick?”
    “Well, my two explanations, for instance. There’s an interesting question there. What is kinder–to believe the best of people and burden them with a nobility beyond their endurance– or to see them as they are, and accept it because it makes them comfortable? Kindness being more important than justice, of course.”
    “I don’t give a damn, Ellsworth.”
    “Not in a mood for abstract speculation? Interested only in concrete results? All right. How many commissions have you landed for Peter Keating in the last three months?”
    She rose, walked to the tray which the maid had left, poured herself a drink, and said: “Four,” raising the glass to her mouth. Then she turned to look at him, standing, glass in hand, and added: “And that was the famous Toohey technique. Never place your punch at the beginning of a column nor at the end. Sneak it in where it’s least expected. Fill a whole column with drivel, just to get in that one important line.”
    He bowed courteously. “Quite. That’s why I like to talk to you. It’s such a waste to be subtle and vicious with people who don’t even know that you’re being subtle and vicious. But the drivel is never accidental, Dominique. Also, I didn’t know that the technique of my column was becoming obvious. I will have to think of a new one.”
    “Don’t bother. They love it.”
”Of course. They’ll love anything I write. So it’s four? I missed one. I counted three.”
    “I can’t understand why you had to come here if that’s all you wanted to know. You’re so fond of Peter Keating, and I’m helping him along beautifully, better than you could, so if you wanted to give me a pep talk about Petey–it wasn’t necessary, was it?”
    “You’re wrong there twice in one sentence, Dominique. One honest error and one lie. The honest error is the assumption that I wish to help Petey Keating–and, incidentally, I can help him much better than you can, and I have and will, but that’s long-range contemplation. The lie is that I came here to talk about Peter Keating–you knew what I came here to talk about when you saw me enter. And–oh my!–you’d allow someone more obnoxious than myself to barge in on you, just to talk about that subject. Though I don’t know who could be more obnoxious to you than myself, at the moment.”
    “Peter Keating,” she said.
    He made a grimace, wrinkling his nose: “Oh, no. He’s not big enough for that. But let’s talk about Peter Keating. It’s such a convenient coincidence that he happens to be your father’s partner. You’re merely working your head off to procure commissions for your father, like a dutiful daughter, nothing more natural. You’ve done wonders for the firm of Francon & Keating in these last three months. Just by smiling at a few dowagers and wearing stunning models at some of our better gatherings. Wonder what you’d accomplish if you decided to go all the way and sell your matchless body for purposes other than esthetic contemplation–in exchange for commissions for Peter Keating.” He paused, she said nothing, and he added: “My compliments, Dominique, you’ve lived up to my best opinion of you–by not being shocked at this.”
    “What was that intended for, Ellsworth? Shock value or hint value?”
    “Oh, it could have been a number of things–a preliminary feeler, for instance. But, as a matter of fact, it was nothing at all. Just a touch of vulgarity. Also the Toohey technique–you know, I always advise the wrong touch at the right time. I am–essentially–such an earnest, single- toned Puritan that I must allow myself another color occasionally–to relieve the monotony.”
    “Are you, Ellsworth? I wonder what you are–essentially. I don’t know.”
    “I dare say nobody does,” he said pleasantly. “Although really, there’s no mystery about it at all. It’s very simple. All things are simple when you reduce them to fundamentals. You’d be surprised if you knew how few fundamentals there are. Only two, perhaps. To explain all of us. It’s the untangling, the reducing that’s difficult–that’s why people don’t like to bother. I don’t think they’d like the results, either.”
    “I don’t mind. I know what I am. Go ahead and say it. I’m just a bitch.”
    “Don’t fool yourself, my dear. You’re much worse than a bitch. You’re a saint. Which shows why saints are dangerous and undesirable.”
    “And you?”
    “As a matter of fact, I know exactly what I am. That alone can explain a great deal about me. I’m giving you a helpful hint–if you care to use it. You don’t, of course. You might, though–in the future.”
    “Why should I?”
    “You need me, Dominique. You might as well understand me a little. You see, I’m not afraid of being understood. Not by you.”
    “I need you?”
”Oh, come on, show a little courage, too.”
    She sat up and waited coldly, silently. He smiled, obviously with pleasure, making no effort to hide the pleasure.
    “Let’s see,” he said, studying the ceiling with casual attention, “those commissions you got for Peter Keating. The Cryon office building was mere nuisance value–Howard Roark never had a chance at that. The Lindsay home was better–Roark was definitely considered, I think he would have got it but for you. The Stonebrook Clubhouse also–he had a chance at that, which you ruined.” He looked at her and chuckled softly. “No comments on techniques and punches, Dominique?” The smile was like cold grease floating over the fluid sounds of his voice. “You slipped up on the Norris country house–he got that last week, you know. Well, you can’t be a hundred per cent successful. After all, the Enright House is a big job; it’s creating a lot of talk, and quite a few people are beginning to show interest in Mr. Howard Roark. But you’ve done remarkably well. My congratulations. Now don’t you think I’m being nice to you? Every artist needs appreciation–and there’s nobody to compliment you, since nobody knows what you’re doing, but Roark and me, and he won’t thank you. On second thought, I don’t think Roark knows what you’re doing, and that spoils the fun, doesn’t it?”
    She asked: “How do you know what I’m doing?”–her voice tired.
    “My dear, surely you haven’t forgotten that it was I who gave you the idea in the first place?”
    “Oh, yes,” she said absently. “Yes.”
    “And now you know why I came here. Now you know what I meant when I spoke about my side.”
    “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
    “This is a pact, my dear. An alliance. Allies never trust each other, but that doesn’t spoil their effectiveness. Our motives might be quite opposite. In fact, they are. But it doesn’t matter. The result will be the same. It is not necessary to have a noble aim in common. It is necessary only to have a common enemy. We have.”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s why you need me. I’ve been helpful once.”
    “Yes.”
    “I can hurt your Mr. Roark much better than any tea party you’ll ever give.”
    “What for?”
    “Omit the what-fors. I don’t inquire into yours.”
    “All right.”
    “Then it’s to be understood between us? We’re allies in this?”
    She looked at him, she slouched forward, attentive, her face empty. Then she said: “We’re allies.”
    “Fine, my dear. Now listen. Stop mentioning him in your column every other day or so. I know, you take vicious cracks at him each time, but it’s too much. You’re keeping his name in print, and you don’t want to do that. Further, you’d better invite me to those parties of yours. There are things I can do which you can’t. Another tip: Mr. Gilbert Colton–you know, the California pottery Coltons–is planning a branch factory in the east. He’s thinking of a good modernist. In fact, he’s thinking of Mr. Roark. Don’t let Roark get it. It’s a huge job–with lots of publicity. Go and invent a new tea sandwich for Mrs. Colton. Do anything you wish. But don’t let Roark get it.”
    She got up, dragged her feet to a table, her arms swinging loosely, and took a cigarette. She lighted it, turned to him, and said indifferently: “You can talk very briefly and to the point–when you want to.”
    “When I find it necessary.”
    She stood at the window, looking out over the city. She said: “You’ve never actually done anything against Roark. I didn’t know you cared quite so much.”
    “Oh, my dear. Haven’t I”
”You’ve never mentioned him in print.”
”That, my dear, is what I’ve done against Mr. Roark. So far.”
”When did you first hear of him?”
”When I saw drawings of the Heller house. You didn’t think I’d miss that, did you? And you?” “When I saw drawings of the Enright House.”
”Not before?”
”Not before.”
She smoked in silence; then she said, without turning to him:
    “Ellsworth, if one of us tried to repeat what we said here tonight, the other would deny it and it could never be proved. So it doesn’t matter if we’re sincere with each other, does it? It’s quite safe. Why do you hate him?”
    “I never said I hated him.”
She shrugged.
”As for the rest,” he added, “I think you can answer that yourself.”
She nodded slowly to the bright little point of her cigarette’s reflection on the glass plane.
    He got up, walked over to her, and stood looking at the lights of the city below them, at the angular shapes of buildings, at the dark walls made translucent by the glow of the windows, as if the walls were only a checkered veil of thin black gauze over a solid mass of radiance. And Ellsworth Toohey said softly:
    “Look at it. A sublime achievement, isn’t it? A heroic achievement. Think of the thousands who worked to create this and of the millions who profit by it. And it is said that but for the spirit of a dozen men, here and there down the ages, but for a dozen men–less, perhaps–none of this would have been possible. And that might be true. If so, there are–again–two possible attitudes to take. We can say that these twelve were great benefactors, that we are all fed by the overflow of the magnificent wealth of their spirit, and that we are glad to accept it in gratitude and brotherhood. Or, we can say that by the splendor of their achievement which we can neither equal nor keep, these twelve have shown us what we are, that we do not want the free gifts of their grandeur, that a cave by an oozing swamp and a fire of sticks rubbed together are preferable to skyscrapers and neon lights–if the cave and the sticks are the limit of your own creative capacities. Of the two attitudes, Dominique, which would you call the truly humanitarian one? Because, you see, I’m a humanitarian.”

    After a while Dominique found it easier to associate with people. She learned to accept self- torture as an endurance test, urged on by the curiosity to discover how much she could endure. She moved through formal receptions, theater parties, dinners, dances–gracious and smiling, a smile that made her face brighter and colder, like the sun on a winter day. She listened emptily to empty words uttered as if the speaker would be insulted by any sign of enthusiastic interest from his listener, as if only boredom were the only bond possible between people, the only preservative of their precarious dignity. She nodded to everything and accepted everything.
    “Yes, Mr. Holt, I think Peter Keating is the man of the century–our century.”
    “No, Mr. Inskip, not Howard Roark, you don’t want Howard Roark….A phony? Of course, he’s a phony–it takes your sensitive honesty to evaluate the integrity of a man….Nothing much? No, Mr. Inskip, of course, Howard Roark is nothing much. It’s all a matter of size and distance–and distance….No, I don’t think very much, Mr. Inskip–I’m glad you like my eyes– yes, they always look like that when I’m enjoying myself–and it made me so happy to hear you say that Howard Roark is nothing much.”
    “You’ve met Mr. Roark, Mrs. Jones? And you didn’t like him?…Oh, he’s the type of man for whom one can feel no compassion? How true. Compassion is a wonderful thing. It’s what one feels when one looks at a squashed caterpillar. An elevating experience. One can let oneself go and spread–you know, like taking a girdle off. You don’t have to hold your stomach, your heart or your spirit up–when you feel compassion. All you have to do is look down. It’s much easier. When you look up, you get a pain in the neck. Compassion is the greatest virtue. It justifies suffering. There’s got to be suffering in the world, else how would we be virtuous and feel compassion?…Oh, it has an antithesis–but such a hard, demanding one….Admiration, Mrs. Jones, admiration. But that takes more than a girdle….So I say that anyone for whom we can’t feel sorry is a vicious person. Like Howard Roark.”
    Late at night, often, she came to Roark’s room. She came unannounced, certain of finding him there and alone. In his room, there was no necessity to spare, lie, agree and erase herself out of being. Here she was free to resist, to see her resistance welcomed by an adversary too strong to fear a contest, strong enough to need it; she found a will granting her the recognition of her own entity, untouched and not to be touched except in clean battle, to win or to be defeated, but to be preserved in victory or defeat, not ground into the meaningless pulp of the
    impersonal.
    When they lay in bed together it was–as it had to be, as the nature of the act demanded–an act of violence. It was surrender, made the more complete by the force of their resistance. It was an act of tension, as the great things on earth are things of tension. It was tense as electricity, the force fed on resistance, rushing through wires of metal stretched tight; it was tense as water made into power by the restraining violence of a dam. The touch of his skin against hers was not a caress, but a wave of pain, it became pain by being wanted too much, by releasing in fulfillment all the past hours of desire and denial. It was an act of clenched teeth and hatred, it was the unendurable, the agony, an act of passion–the word born to mean suffering–it was the moment made of hatred, tension, pain–the moment that broke its own elements, inverted them, triumphed, swept into a denial of all suffering, into its antithesis, into ecstasy.
    She came to his room from a party, wearing an evening gown expensive and fragile like a coating of ice over her body–and she leaned against the wall, feeling the rough plaster under her skin, glancing slowly at every object around her, at the crude kitchen table loaded with sheets of paper, at the steel rulers, at the towels smudged by the black prints of five fingers, at the bare boards of the floor–and she let her glance slide down the length of her shining satin, down to the small triangle of a silver sandal, thinking of how she would be undressed here. She liked to wander about the room, to throw her gloves down among a litter of pencils, rubber erasers and rags, to put her small silver bag on a stained, discarded shirt, to snap open the catch of a diamond bracelet and drop it on a plate with the remnant of a sandwich, by an unfinished drawing.
    “Roark,” she said, standing behind his chair, her arms over his shoulders, her hand under his shirt, fingers spread and pressed flat against his chest, “I made Mr. Symons promise his job to Peter Keating today. Thirty-five floors, and anything he’ll wish to make it cost, money no objective, just art, free art.” She heard the sound of his soft chuckle, but he did not turn to look at her, only his fingers closed over her wrist and he pushed her hand farther down under his shirt, pressing it hard against his skin. Then she pulled his head back, and she bent down to cover his mouth with hers.
    She came in and found a copy of the Banner spread out on his table, open at the page bearing “Your House” by Dominique Francon. Her column contained the line: “Howard Roark is the Marquis de Sade of architecture. He’s in love with his buildings–and look at them.” She knew that he disliked the Banner, that he put it there only for her sake, that he watched her noticing it, with the half-smile she dreaded on his face. She was angry; she wanted him to read everything she wrote, yet she would have preferred to think that it hurt him enough to make him avoid it. Later, lying across the bed, with his mouth on her breast, she looked past the orange tangle of his head, at that sheet of newspaper on the table, and he felt her trembling with pleasure.
    She sat on the floor, at his feet, her head pressed to his knees, holding his hand, closing her fist in turn over each of his fingers, closing it tight and letting it slide slowly down the length of his finger, feeling the hard, small stops at the joints, and she asked softly: “Roark, you wanted
    to get the Colton factory? You wanted it
    “Yes, very badly,” he answered, without her lips and held it there for a long time.
    very badly?Ӊ۬smiling and without pain. Then she raised his hand to
    walked naked across his room to take a cigarette match, her flat stomach rounded faintly in the and she put a cigarette between his lips; then she
    She got out of bed in the darkness, and
from the table. She bent to the light of a
movement. He said: “Light one for me,”
wandered through the dark room, smoking, while he lay in bed, propped up on his elbow, watching her.
    Once she came in and found him working at his table. He said: “I’ve got to finish this. Sit down. Wait.” He did not look at her again. She waited silently, huddled in a chair at the farthest end of the room. She watched the straight lines of his eyebrows drawn in concentration, the set of his mouth, the vein beating under the tight skin of his neck, the sharp, surgical assurance of his hand. He did not look like an artist, he looked like the quarry worker, like a wrecker demolishing walls, and like a monk. Then she did not want him to stop or glance at
    her, because she wanted to watch the ascetic purity of his person, the absence of all sensuality; to watch that–and to think of what she remembered.
    There were nights when he came to her apartment, as she came to his, without warning. If she had guests, he said: “Get rid of them,” and walked into the bedroom while she obeyed. They had a silent agreement, understood without mention, never to be seen together. Her bedroom was an exquisite place of glass and pale ice-green. He liked to come in wearing clothes stained by a day spent on the construction site. He liked to throw back the covers of her bed, then to sit talking quietly for an hour or two, not looking at the bed, not mentioning her writing or buildings or the latest commission she had obtained for Peter Keating, the simplicity of being at ease, here, like this, making the hours more sensual than the moments they delayed.
    There were evenings when they sat together in her living room, at the huge window high over the city. She liked to see him at that window. He would stand, half turned to her, smoking, looking at the city below. She would move away from him and sit down on the floor in the middle of the room and watch him.
    Once, when he got out of bed, she switched the light on and saw him standing there, naked; she looked at him, then she said, her voice quiet and desperate with the simple despair of complete sincerity: “Roark, everything I’ve done all my life is because it’s the kind of a world that made you work in a quarry last summer.”
    “I know that.”
    He sat down at the foot of the bed. She moved over, she pressed her face against his thigh, curled up, her feet on the pillow, her arm hanging down, letting her palm move slowly up the length of his leg, from the ankle to the knee and back again. She said: “But, of course, if it had been up to me, last spring, when you were broke and jobless, I would have sent you precisely to that kind of a job in that particular quarry.”
    “I know that too. But maybe you wouldn’t have. Maybe you’d have had me as washroom attendant in the clubhouse of the A.G.A.”
    “Yes. Possibly. Put your hand on my back, Roark. Just hold it there. Like that.” She lay still, her face buried against his knees, her arm hanging down over the side of the bed, not moving, as if nothing in her were alive but the skin between her shoulder blades under his hand.
    In the drawing rooms she visited, in the restaurants, in the offices of the A.G.A. people talked about the dislike of Miss Dominique Francon of the Banner for Howard Roark, that architectural freak of Roger Enright’s. It gave him a sort of scandalous fame. It was said: “Roark? You know, the guy Dominique Francon can’t stand the guts of.”
    “The Francon girl knows her architecture all right, and if she says he’s no good, he must be worse than I thought he was.”
    “God, but these two must hate each other! Though I understand they haven’t even met.” She liked to hear these things. It pleased her when Athelstan Beasely wrote in his column in the A.G.A. Bulletin, discussing the architecture of medieval castles: “To understand the grim ferocity of these structures, we must remember that the wars between feudal lords were a savage business–something like the feud between Miss Dominique Francon and Mr. Howard Roark.”
    Austen Heller, who had been her friend, spoke to her about it. He was angrier than she had ever seen him; his face lost all the charm of his usual sarcastic poise.
    “What in hell do you think you’re doing, Dominique?” he snapped. “This is the greatest exhibition of journalistic hooliganism I’ve ever seen swilled out in public print. Why don’t you leave that sort of thing to Ellsworth Toohey?”
    “Ellsworth is good, isn’t he?” she said.
”At least, he’s had the decency to keep his unsanitary trap shut about Roark–though, of
    course, that too is an indecency. But what’s happened to you? Do you realize who and what you’re talking about? It was all right when you amused yourself by praising some horrible abortion of Grandpaw Holcombe’s or panning the pants off your own father and that pretty butcher’s-calendar boy that he’s got himself for a partner. It didn’t matter one way or another. But to bring that same intellectual manner to the appraisal of someone like Roark….You know, I really thought you had integrity and judgment–if ever given a chance to exercise them. In fact, I thought you were behaving like a tramp only to emphasize the mediocrity of the saps whose works you had to write about. I didn’t think that you were just an irresponsible bitch.”
    “You were wrong,” she said.
    Roger Enright entered her office, one morning, and said, without greeting: “Get your hat. You’re coming to see it with me.”
    “Good morning, Roger,” she said. “To see what?”
”The Enright House. As much of it as we’ve got put up.”
”Why, certainly, Roger,” she smiled, rising, “I’d love to see the Enright House.” On their way, she asked: “What’s the matter, Roger? Trying to bribe me?”
    He sat stiffly on the vast, gray cushions of his limousine, not looking at her. He answered: “I can understand stupid malice. I can understand ignorant malice. I can’t understand deliberate rottenness. You are free, of course, to write anything you wish–afterward. But it won’t be stupidity and it won’t be ignorance.”
    “You overestimate me, Roger,” she shrugged, and said nothing else for the rest of the ride.
    They walked together past the wooden fence, into the jungle of naked steel and planks that was to be the Enright House. Her high heels stepped lightly over lime-spattered boards and she walked, leaning back, in careless, insolent elegance. She stopped and looked at the sky held in a frame of steel, the sky that seemed more distant than usual, thrust back by the sweeping length of beams. She looked at the steel cages of future projections, at the insolent angles, at the incredible complexity of this shape coming to life as a simple, logical whole, a naked skeleton with planes of air to form the walls, a naked skeleton on a cold winter day, with a sense of birth and promise, like a bare tree with a first touch of green.
    “Oh, Roger!”
He looked at her and saw the kind of face one should expect to see in church at Easter. “I didn’t underestimate either one,” he said dryly. “Neither you nor the building.”
”Good morning,” said a low, hard voice beside them.
    She was not shocked to see Roark. She had not heard him approaching, but it would have been unnatural to think of this building without him. She felt that he simply was there, that he had been there from the moment she crossed the outside fence, that this structure was he, in a manner more personal than his body. He stood before them, his hand thrust into the pockets of a loose coat, his hair hatless in the cold.
    “Miss Francon–Mr. Roark,” said Enright.
”We have met once,” she said, “at the Holcombes. If Mr. Roark remembers.” “Of course, Miss Francon,” said Roark.
”I wanted Miss Francon to see it,” said Enright.
”Shall I show you around?” Roark asked him.
”Yes, do please,” she answered first.
    The three of them walked together through the structure, and the workers stared curiously at Dominique. Roark explained the layout of future rooms, the system of elevators, the heating plant, the arrangement of windows–as he would have explained it to a contractor’s assistant. She asked questions and he answered. “How many cubic feet of space, Mr. Roark?”
    “How many tons of steel?”
    “Be careful of these pipes, Miss Francon. Step this way.” Enright walked along, his eyes on the ground, looking at nothing. But then he asked: “How’s it going, Howard?” and Roark smiled, answering: “Two days ahead of schedule,” and they stood talking about the job, like brothers, forgetting her for a moment, the clanging roar of machines around them drowning out their words.
    She thought, standing here in the heart of the building, that if she had nothing of him, nothing but his body, here it was, offered to her, the rest of him, to be seen and touched, open to all; the girders and the conduits and the sweeping reaches of space were his and could not have been anyone else’s in the world; his, as his face, as his soul; here was the shape he had made and the thing within him which had caused him to make it, the end and the cause together, the motive power eloquent in every line of steel, a man’s self, hers for this moment, hers by grace of her seeing it and understanding.
    “Are you tired, Miss Francon?” asked Roark, looking at her face.
    “No,” she said, “no, not at all. I have been thinking–what kind of plumbing fixtures are you going to use here, Mr. Roark?”
    A few days later, in his room, sitting on the edge of his drafting table, she looked at a newspaper, at her column and the lines: “I have visited the Enright construction site. I wish that in some future air raid a bomb would blast this house out of existence. It would be a worthy ending. So much better than to see it growing old and soot-stained, degraded by the family photographs, the dirty socks, the cocktail shakers and the grapefruit rinds of its inhabitants. There is not a person in New York City who should be allowed to live in this building.”
    Roark came to stand beside her, his legs pressed to her knees, and he looked down at the paper, smiling.
    “You have Roger completely bewildered by this,” he said.
    “Has he read it?”
    “I was in his office this morning when he read it. At first, he called you some names I’d never heard before. Then he said, Wait a minute, and he read it again, he looked up, very puzzled, but not angry at all, and he said, if you read it one way…but on the other hand…”
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing. You know, Dominique, I’m very grateful, but when are you going to stop handing me all that extravagant praise? Someone else might see it. And you won’t like that.”
    “Someone else?”
    “You know that I got it, from that first article of yours about the Enright House. You wanted me to get it. But don’t you think someone else might understand your way of doing things?”
    “Oh yes. But the effect–for you–will be worse than if they didn’t. They’ll like you the less for it. However, I don’t know who’ll even bother to understand. Unless it’s…Roark, what do you think of Ellsworth Toohey?”
    “Good God, why should anyone think of Ellsworth Toohey?”
She liked the rare occasions when she met Roark at some gathering where Heller or Enright
    had brought him. She liked the polite, impersonal “Miss Francon” pronounced by his voice. She enjoyed the nervous concern of the hostess and her efforts not to let them come together. She knew that the people around them expected some explosion, some shocking sign of hostility which never came. She did not seek Roark out and she did not avoid him. They spoke to each other if they happened to be included in the same group, as they would have spoken to anyone else. It required no effort; it was real and right; it made everything right, even this gathering. She found a deep sense of fitness in the fact that here, among people, they should be strangers; strangers and enemies. She thought, these people can think of many things he and I are to each other–except what we are. It made the moments she remembered greater, the moments not touched by the sight of others, by the words of others, not even by their knowledge. She thought, it has no existence here, except in me and in him. She felt a sense of possession, such as she could feel nowhere else. She could never own him as she owned him in a room among strangers when she seldom looked in his direction. If she glanced at him across the room and saw him in conversation with blank, indifferent faces, she turned away, unconcerned; if the faces were hostile, she watched for a second, pleased; she was angry when she saw a smile, a sign of warmth or approval on a face turned to him. It was not jealousy; she did not care whether the face was a man’s or a woman’s; she resented the approval as an impertinence.
    She was tortured by peculiar things: by the street where he lived, by the doorstep of his house, by the cars that turned the corner of his block. She resented the cars in particular; she wished she could make them drive on to the next street. She looked at the garbage pail by the stoop next door, and she wondered whether it had stood there when he passed by, on his way to his office this morning, whether he had looked at that crumpled cigarette package on top. Once, in the lobby of his house, she saw a man stepping out of the elevator; she was shocked for a second; she had always felt as if he were the only inhabitant of that house. When she rode up in the small, self-operating elevator, she stood leaning against the wall, her arms crossed over her breast, her hands hugging her shoulders, feeling huddled and intimate, as in a stall under a warm shower. She thought of that, while some gentleman was telling her about the latest show on Broadway, while Roark was sipping a cocktail at the other end of the room, while she heard the hostess whispering to somebody: “My Lord, I didn’t think Gordon would bring Dominique–I know Austen will be furious at me, because of his friend Roark being here, you know.”
    Later, lying across his bed, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips wet, losing the sense of the rules she herself had imposed, losing the sense of her words, she whispered: “Roark, there was a man talking to you out there today, and he was smiling at you, the fool, the terrible fool, last week he was looking at a pair of movie comedians and loving them, I wanted to tell that man: don’t look at him, you’ll have no right to want to look at anything else, don’t like him, you’ll have to hate the rest of the world, it’s like that, you damn fool, one or the other, not together, not with the same eyes, don’t look at him, don’t like him, don’t approve, that’s what I wanted to tell him, not you and the rest of it, I can’t bear to see that, I can’t stand it, anything to take you away from it, from their world, from all of them, anything, Roark…” She did not hear herself saying it, she did not see him smiling, she did not recognize the full understanding in his face, she saw only his face close over hers, and she had nothing to hide from him, nothing to keep unstated, everything was granted, answered, found.

    Peter Keating was bewildered. Dominique’s sudden devotion to his career seemed dazzling, flattering, enormously profitable; everybody told him so; but there were moments when he did not feel dazzled or flattered; he felt uneasy.
    He tried to avoid Guy Francon. “How did you do it, Peter? How did you do it?” Francon would ask. “She must be crazy about you! Who’d every think that Dominique of all people would…? And who’d think she could? She’d have made me a millionaire if she’d done her stuff five years ago. But then, of course, a father is not the same inspiration as a…” He caught an ominous look on Keating’s face and changed the end of his sentence to: “as her man, shall we say?”
    “Listen, Guy,” Keating began, and stopped, sighing, and muttered: “Please, Guy, we mustn’t…”
    “I know, I know, I know. We mustn’t be premature. But hell, Peter, entre nous, isn’t it all as
    public as an engagement? More so. And louder.” Then the smile vanished, and Francon’s face looked earnest, peaceful, frankly aged, in one of his rare flashes of genuine dignity. “And I’m glad, Peter,” he said simply. “That’s what I wanted to happen. I guess I always did love Dominique, after all. It makes me happy. I know I’ll be leaving her in good hands. Her and everything else eventually…”
    “Look, old man, will you forgive me? I’m so terribly rushed–had two hours sleep last night, the Colton factory, you know, Jesus, what a job!–thanks to Dominique–it’s a killer, but wait till you see it! Wait till you see the check, too!”
    “Isn’t she wonderful? Will you tell me, why is she doing it? I’ve asked her and I can’t make head or tail of what she says, she gives me the craziest gibberish, you know how she talks.”
    “Oh well, we should worry, so long as she’s doing it!”
    He could not tell Francon that he had no answer; he couldn’t admit that he had not seen Dominique alone for months; that she refused to see him.
    He remembered his last private conversation with her–in the cab on their way from Toohey’s meeting. He remembered the indifferent calm of her insults to him–the utter contempt of insults delivered without anger. He could have expected anything after that–except to see her turn into his champion, his press agent, almost–his pimp. That’s what’s wrong, he thought, that I can think of words like that when I think about it.
    He had seen her often since she started on her unrequested campaign; he had been invited to her parties–and introduced to his future clients; he had never been allowed a moment alone with her. He had tried to thank her and to question her. But he could not force a conversation she did not want continued, with a curious mob of guests pressing all around them. So he went on smiling blandly–her hand resting casually on the black sleeve of his dinner jacket, her thigh against his as she stood beside him, her pose possessive and intimate, made flagrantly intimate by her air of not noticing it, while she told an admiring circle what she thought of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. He heard envious comments from all his friends. He was, he thought bitterly, the only man in New York City who did not think that Dominique Francon was in love with him.
    But he knew the dangerous instability of her whims, and this was too valuable a whim to disturb. He stayed away from her and sent her flowers; he rode along and tried not to think of it; the little edge remained–a thin edge of uneasiness.
    One day, he met her by chance in a restaurant. He saw her lunching alone and grasped the opportunity. He walked straight to her table, determined to act like an old friend who remembered nothing but her incredible benevolence. After many bright comments on his luck, he asked: “Dominique, why have you been refusing to see me?”
    “What should I have wanted to see you for?”
    “But good Lord Almighty!…” That came out involuntarily, with too sharp a sound of long- suppressed anger, and he corrected it hastily, smiling: “Well, don’t you think you owed me a chance to thank you?”
    “You’ve thanked me. Many times.”
    “Yes, but didn’t you think we really had to meet alone? Didn’t you think that I’d be a little…bewildered?”
    “I haven’t thought of it. Yes, I suppose you could be.” “W ell?”
”Well what?”
”What is it all about?”
    “About…fifty thousand dollars by now, I think.” “You’re being nasty.”
”Want me to stop?”
”Oh no! That is, not…”
    “Not the commissions. Fine. I won’t stop them. You see? What was there for us to talk about? I’m doing things for you and you’re glad to have me do them–so we’re in perfect agreement.”
    “You do say the funniest things! In perfect agreement. That’s sort of a redundancy and an understatement at the same time, isn’t it? What else could we be under the circumstances? You wouldn’t expect me to object to what you’re doing, would you?” “No. I wouldn’t.”
    “But agreeing is not the word for what I feel. I’m so terribly grateful to you that I’m simply dizzy–I was bowled over–don’t let me get silly now–I know you don’t like that–but I’m so grateful I don’t know what to do with myself.”
    “Fine, Peter. Now you’ve thanked me.”
    “You see, I’ve never flattered myself by thinking that you thought very much of my work or cared or took any notice. And then you…That’s what makes me so happy and…Dominique,” he asked, and his voice jerked a little, because the question was like a nook pulling at a line, long and hidden, and he knew that this was the core of his uneasiness, “do you really think that I’m a great architect?”
    She smiled slowly. She said: “Peter, if people heard you asking that, they’d laugh. Particularly, asking that of me.”
    “Yes, I know, but…but do you really mean them, all those things you say about me?” “They work.”
”Yes, but is that why you picked me? Because you think I’m good?”
”You sell like hot cakes. Isn’t that proof?”
    “Yes…No…I mean…in a different way…I mean…Dominique, I’d like to hear you say once, just once, that I…”
    “Listen, Peter, I’ll have to run along in a moment, but before I go I must tell you that you’ll probably hear from Mrs. Lonsdale tomorrow or the next day. Now remember that she’s a prohibitionist, loves dogs, hates women who smoke, and believes in reincarnation. She wants her house to be better than Mrs. Purdee’s–Holcombe did Purdee’s–so if you tell her that Mrs. Purdee’s house looks ostentatious and that true simplicity costs much more money, you’ll get along fine. You might discuss petit point too. That’s her hobby.”
    He went away, thinking happily about Mrs. Lonsdale’s house, and he forgot his question. Later, he remembered it resentfully, and shrugged, and told himself that the best part of Dominique’s help was her desire not to see him.
    As a compensation, he found pleasure in attending the meetings of Toohey’s Council of American Builders. He did not know why he should think of it as compensation, but he did and it was comforting. He listened attentively when Gordon L. Prescott made a speech on the meaning of architecture.
    “And thus the intrinsic significance of our craft lies in the philosophical fact that we deal in nothing. We create emptiness through which certain physical bodies are to move–we shall designate them for convenience as humans. By emptiness I mean what is commonly known as rooms. Thus it is only the crass layman who thinks that we put up stone walls. We do nothing of the kind. We put up emptiness, as I have proved. This leads us to a corollary of astronomical importance: to the unconditional acceptance of the premise that ‘absence’ is superior to ‘presence.’ That is, to the acceptance of non-acceptance. I shall state this in simpler terms–for the sake of clarity: ‘nothing’ is superior to ‘something.’ Thus it is clear that the architect is more than a bricklayer–since the fact of bricks is a secondary illusion anyway. The architect is a metaphysical priest dealing in basic essentials, who has the courage to face the primal conception of reality as nonreality–since there is nothing and he creates nothingness. If this sounds like a contradiction, it is not a proof of bad logic, but of a higher logic, the dialectics of all life and art. Should you wish to make the inevitable deductions from this basic conception, you may come to conclusions of vast sociological importance. You may see that a beautiful woman is inferior to a non-beautiful one, that the literate is inferior to the illiterate, that the rich is inferior to the poor, and the able to the incompetent. The architect is the concrete illustration of a cosmic paradox. Let us be modest in the vast pride of this realization. Everything else is twaddle.”
    One could not worry about one’s value or greatness when listening to this. It made self- respect unnecessary.
    Keating listened in thick contentment. He glanced at the others. There was an attentive silence in the audience; they all liked it as he liked it. He saw a boy chewing gum, a man cleaning his fingernails with the corner of a match folder, a youth stretched out loutishly. That, too, pleased Keating; it was as if they said: We are glad to listen to the sublime, but it’s not necessary to be too damn reverent about the sublime.
    The Council of American Builders met once a month and engaged in no tangible activity, beyond listening to speeches and sipping an inferior brand of root beer. Its membership did not grow fast either in quantity or in quality. There were no concrete results achieved.
    The meetings of the Council were held in a huge, empty room over a garage on the West Side. A long, narrow, unventilated stairway led to a door bearing the Council’s name; there were folding chairs inside, a table for the chairman, and a wastebasket. The A.G.A. considered the Council of American Builders a silly joke. “Why do you want to waste time on those cranks for?”
    Francon asked Keating in the rose-lit satin-stuffed rooms of the A.G.A., wrinkling his nose with fastidious amusement. “Damned if I know,” Keating answered gaily. “I like them.” Ellsworth Toohey attended every meeting of the Council, but did not speak. He sat in a corner and listened.
    One night Keating and Toohey walked home together after the meeting, down the dark, shabby streets of the West Side, and stopped for a cup of coffee at a seedy drugstore. “Why not a drugstore?” Toohey laughed when Keating reminded him of the distinguished restaurants made famous by Toohey’s patronage. “At least, no one will recognize us here and bother us.”
    He sent a jet of smoke from his Egyptian cigarette at a faded Coca-Cola sign over their booth, he ordered a sandwich, he nibbled daintily a slice of pickle which was not flyspecked but looked it, and he talked to Keating. He talked at random. What he said did not matter, at first; it was his voice, the matchless voice of Ellsworth Toohey. Keating felt as if he were standing in the middle of a vast plain, under the stars, held and owned, in assurance, in security.
    “Kindness, Peter,” said the voice softly, “kindness. That is the first commandment, perhaps the only one. That is why I had to pan that new play, in my column yesterday. That play lacked essential kindness. We must be kind, Peter, to everybody around us. We must accept and forgive–there is so much to be forgiven in each one of us. If you learn to love everything, the humblest, the least, the meanest, then the meanest in you will be loved. Then we’ll find the sense of universal equality, the great peace of brotherhood, a new world, Peter, a beautiful new world….”
    9.
    ELLSWORTH MONKTON TOOHEY was seven years old when he turned the hose upon Johnny Stokes, as Johnny was passing by the Toohey lawn, dressed in his best Sunday suit. Johnny had waited for that suit a year and a half, his mother being very poor. Ellsworth did not sneak or hide, but committed his act openly, with systematic deliberation: he walked to the tap, turned it on, stood in the middle of the lawn and directed the hose at Johnny, his aim faultless–with Johnny’s mother just a few steps behind him down the street, with his own mother and father and the visiting minister in full view on the Toohey porch. Johnny Stokes was a bright kid with dimples and golden curls; people always turned to look at Johnny Stokes. Nobody had ever turned to look at Ellsworth Toohey.
    The shock and amazement of the grownups present were such that nobody rushed to stop Ellsworth for a long moment. He stood, bracing his thin little body against the violence of the nozzle jerking in his hands, never allowing it to leave its objective until he felt satisfied; then he let it drop, the water hissing through the grass, and made two steps toward the porch, and stopped, waiting, his head high, delivering himself for punishment. The punishment would have come from Johnny if Mrs. Stokes had not seized her boy and held him. Ellsworth did not turn to the Stokeses behind him, but said, slowly, distinctly, looking at his mother and the minister: “Johnny is a dirty bully. He beats up all the boys in school.” This was true.
    The question of punishment became an ethical problem. It was difficult to punish Ellsworth under any circumstances, because of his fragile body and delicate health; besides, it seemed wrong to chastise a boy who had sacrificed himself to avenge injustice, and done it bravely, in the open, ignoring his own physical weakness; somehow, he looked like a martyr. Ellsworth did not say so; he said nothing further; but his mother said it. The minister was inclined to agree with her. Ellsworth was sent to his room without supper. He did not complain. He remained there meekly–and refused the food his mother sneaked up to him, late at night, disobeying her husband. Mr. Toohey insisted on paying Mrs. Stokes for Johnny’s suit. Mrs. Toohey let him do it, sullenly; she did not like Mrs. Stokes.
    Ellsworth’s father managed the Boston branch of a national chain of shoe stores. He earned a modest, comfortable salary and owned a modest, comfortable home in an undistinguished suburb of Boston. The secret sorrow of his life was that he did not head a business of his own. But he was a quiet, conscientious, unimaginative man, and an early marriage had ended all his ambition. Ellsworth’s mother was a thin, restless woman who adopted and discarded five religions in nine years. She had delicate features, the kind that made her look beautiful for a few years of her life, at the one period of full flower, never before and never afterward. Ellsworth was her idol. His sister Helen, five years older, was a good-natured, unremarkable girl, not beautiful but pretty and healthy; she presented no problem. Ellsworth, however, had been born puny in health. His mother adored him from the moment the doctor pronounced him unfit to survive; it made her grow in spiritual stature–to know the extent of her own magnanimity in her love for so uninspiring an object; the bluer and uglier baby Ellsworth looked, the more passionate grew her love for him. She was almost disappointed when he survived without becoming an actual cripple. She took little interest in Helen; there was no martyrdom in loving Helen. The girl was so obviously more deserving of love that it seemed just to deny it to her.
    Mr. Toohey, for reasons which he could not explain, was not too fond of his son. Ellsworth, however, was the ruler of the household, by a tacit, voluntary submission of both parents, though his father could never understand the cause of his own share in that submission.
    In the evenings, under the lamp of the family sitting room, Mrs. Toohey would begin, in a tense, challenging voice, angry and defeated in advance: “Horace, I want a bicycle. A bicycle for Ellsworth. All the boys his age have them, Willie Lovett just got a new one the other day, Horace. Horace, I want a bicycle for Ellsworth.”
    “Not right now, Mary,” Mr. Toohey would answer wearily. “Maybe next summer….Just now we can’t afford…”
    Mrs. Toohey would argue, her voice rising in jerks toward a shriek.
    “Mother, what for?” said Ellsworth, his voice soft, rich and clear, lower than the voices of his parents, yet cutting across them, commanding, strangely persuasive. “There’s many things we need more than a bicycle. What do you care about Willie Lovett? I don’t like Willie. Willie’s a dumbbell. Willie can afford it, because his pa’s got his own dry-goods store. His pa’s a showoff. I don’t want a bicycle.”
    Every word of this was true, and Ellsworth did not want a bicycle. But Mr. Toohey looked at him strangely, wondering what had made him say that. He saw his son’s eyes looking at him blankly from behind the small glasses; the eyes were not ostentatiously sweet, not reproachful, not malicious; just blank. Mr. Toohey felt that he should be grateful for his son’s understanding–and wished to hell the boy had not mentioned that part about the private store.
    Ellsworth did not get the bicycle. But he got a polite attention in the house, a respectful solicitude–tender and guilty, from his mother, uneasy and suspicious from his father. Mr. Toohey would do anything rather than be forced into a conversation with Ellsworth–feeling, at the same time, foolish and angry at himself for his fear.
    “Horace, I want a new suit. A new suit for Ellsworth. I saw one in a window today and I’ve…”
    “Mother, I’ve got four suits. What do I need another one for? I don’t want to look silly like Pat Noonan who changes them every day. That’s because his pa’s got his own ice-cream parlor. Pat’s stuck up like a girl about his clothes. I don’t want to be a sissy.”
    Ellsworth, thought Mrs. Toohey at times, happy and frightened, is going to be a saint; he doesn’t care about material things at all; not one bit. This was true. Ellsworth did not care about material things.
    He was a thin, pale boy with a bad stomach, and his mother had to watch his diet, as well as his tendency to frequent colds in the head. His sonorous voice was astonishing in his puny frame. He sang in the choir, where he had no rivals. At school he was a model pupil. He always knew his lessons, had the neatest copybooks, the cleanest fingernails, loved Sunday school and preferred reading to athletic games, in which he had no chance. He was not too good at mathematics–which he disliked–but excellent at history. English, civics and penmanship; later, at psychology and sociology.
    He studied conscientiously and hard. He was not like Johnny Stokes, who never listened in class, seldom opened a book at home, yet knew everything almost before the teacher had explained it. Learning came to Johnny automatically, as did all things: his able little fists, his healthy body, his startling good looks, his overexuberant vitality. But Johnny did the shocking and the unexpected: Ellsworth did the expected, better than anyone had ever seen it done. When they came to compositions, Johnny would stun the class by some brilliant display of rebellion. Given the theme of “School Days–The Golden Age,” Johnny came through with a masterly essay on how he hated school and why. Ellsworth delivered a prose poem on the glory of school days, which was reprinted in a local newspaper.
    Besides, Ellsworth had Johnny beaten hollow when it came to names and dates; Ellsworth’s memory was like a spread of liquid cement: it held anything that fell upon it. Johnny was a shooting geyser; Ellsworth was a sponge.
    The children called him “Elsie Toohey.” They usually let him have his way, and avoided him when possible, but not openly; they could not figure him out. He was helpful and dependable when they needed assistance with their lessons; he had a sharp wit and could ruin any child by the apt nickname he coined, the kind that hurt; he drew devastating cartoons on fences; he had all the earmarks of a sissy, but somehow he could not be classified as one; he had too much self-assurance and quiet, disturbingly wise contempt for everybody. He was afraid of nothing.
    He would march right up to the strongest boys, in the middle of the street, and state, not yell, in a clear voice that carried for blocks, state without anger–no one had ever seen Ellsworth Toohey angry–“Johnny Stokes’s got a patch on his ass. Johnny Stokes lives in a rented flat. Willie Lovett is a dunce. Pat Noonan is a fish eater.” Johnny never gave him a beating, and neither did the other boys, because Ellsworth wore glasses.
    He could not take part in ball games, and was the only child who boasted about it, instead of feeling frustrated or ashamed like the other boys with substandard bodies. He considered athletics vulgar and said so; the brain, he said, was mightier than the brawn; he meant it.
    He had no close personal friends. He was considered impartial and incorruptible. There were two incidents in his childhood of which his mother was very proud.
    It happened that the wealthy, popular Willie Lovett gave a birthday party on the same day as Drippy Munn, son of a widowed seamstress, a whining boy whose nose was always running. Nobody accepted Drippy’s invitation, except the children who were never invited anywhere. Of those asked for both occasions, Ellsworth Toohey was the only one who snubbed Willie Lovett and went to Drippy Munn’s party, a miserable affair from which he expected and received no pleasure. Willie Lovett’s enemies howled and taunted Willie for months afterward–about being passed up in favor of Drippy Munn.
    It happened that Pat Noonan offered Ellsworth a bag of jelly beans in exchange for a surreptitious peek at his test paper. Ellsworth took the jelly beans and allowed Pat to copy his test. A week later, Ellsworth marched up to the teacher, laid the jelly beans, untouched, upon her desk and confessed his crime, without naming the other culprit. All her efforts to extract that name could not budge him; Ellsworth remained silent; he explained only that the guilty boy was one of the best students, and he could not sacrifice the boy’s record to the demands of his own conscience. He was the only one punished–kept after school for two hours. Then the teacher had to drop the matter and let the test marks remain as they were. But it threw suspicion on the grades of Johnny Stokes, Pat Noonan, and all the best pupils of the class, except Ellsworth Toohey.
    Ellsworth was eleven years old when his mother died. Aunt Adeline, his father’s maiden sister, came to live with them and run the Toohey household. Aunt Adeline was a tall, capable woman to whom the word “horse” clung in conjunction with the words “sense” and “face.” The secret sorrow of her life was that she had never inspired romance. Helen became her immediate favorite. She considered Ellsworth an imp out of hell. But Ellsworth never wavered in his manner of grave courtesy toward Aunt Adeline. He leaped to pick up her handkerchief, to move her chair, when they had company, particularly masculine company. He sent her beautiful Valentines on the appropriate day–with paper lace, rosebuds and love poems. He sang “Sweet Adeline” at the top of his town crier’s voice. “You’re a maggot, Elsie,” she told him once. “You feed on sores.”
    “Then I’ll never starve,” he answered. After a while they reached a state of armed neutrality. Ellsworth was left to grow up as he pleased.
    In high school Ellsworth became a local celebrity–the star orator. For years the school did not refer to a promising boy as a good speaker, but as “a Toohey.” He won every contest. Afterward, members of the audience spoke about “that beautiful boy”; they did not remember the sorry little figure with the sunken chest, inadequate legs and glasses; they remembered the voice. He won every debate. He could prove anything. Once, after beating Willie Lovett with the affirmative of “The Pen Is Mightier than the Sword,” he challenged Willie to reverse their positions, took the negative and won again.,
    Until the age of sixteen Ellsworth felt himself drawn to the career of a minister. He thought a great deal about religion. He talked about God and the spirit. He read extensively on the subject. He read more books on the history of the church than on the substance of faith. He brought his audience to tears in one of his greatest oratorical triumphs with the theme of “The meek shall inherit the earth.”
    At this period he began to acquire friends. He liked to speak of faith and he found those who liked to listen. Only, he discovered that the bright, the strong, the able boys of his class felt no need of listening, felt no need of him at all. But the suffering and ill-endowed came to him. Drippy Munn began to follow him about with the silent devotion of a dog. Billy Wilson lost his mother, and came wandering to the Toohey house in the evenings, to sit with Ellsworth on the porch, listening, shivering once in a while, saying nothing, his eyes wide, dry and pleading. Skinny Dix got infantile paralysis–and would lie in bed, watching the street corner beyond the window, waiting for Ellsworth. Rusty Hazelton failed to pass in his grades, and sat for many
    hours, crying, with Ellsworth’s cold, steady hand on his shoulder. It was never clear whether they all discovered Ellsworth or Ellsworth discovered them. It seemed to work more like a law of nature: as nature allows no vacuum, so pain and Ellsworth Toohey drew each other. His rich, beautiful voice said to them: “It’s good to suffer. Don’t complain. Bear, bow, accept–and be grateful that God has made you suffer. For this makes you better than the people who are laughing and happy. If you don’t understand this, don’t try to understand. Everything bad comes from the mind, because the mind asks too many questions. It is blessed to believe, not to understand. So if you didn’t get passing grades, be glad of it. It means that you are better than the smart boys who think too much and too easily.”
    People said it was touching, the way Ellsworth’s friends clung to him. After they had taken him for a while, they could not do without him. It was like a drug habit.
    Ellsworth was fifteen, when he astonished the Bible-class teacher by an odd question. The teacher had been elaborating upon the text: “What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” Ellsworth asked: “Then in order to be truly wealthy, a man should collect souls?” The teacher was about to ask him what the hell did he mean, but controlled himself and asked what did he mean. Ellsworth would not elucidate.
    At the age of sixteen, Ellsworth lost interest in religion. He discovered socialism. His transition shocked Aunt Adeline. “In the first place, it is blasphemous and drivel,” she said. “In the second place, it doesn’t make sense. I’m surprised at you, Elsie. ‘The poor in spirit’–that was fine, but just ‘the poor’–that doesn’t sound respectable at all. Besides it’s not like you. You’re not cut out to make big trouble–only little trouble. Something’s crazy somewhere, Elsie. It just don’t fit. It’s not like you at all.”
    “In the first place, my dear aunt,” he answered, “don’t call me Elsie. In the second place, you’re wrong.”
    The change seemed good for Ellsworth. He did not become an aggressive zealot. He became gentler, quieter, milder. He became more attentively considerate of people. It was as if something had taken the nervous edges off his personality and given him new confidence. Those around him began to like him. Aunt Adeline stopped worrying. Nothing actual seemed to come of his preoccupation with revolutionary theories. He joined no political party. He read a great deal and he attended a few dubious meetings, where he spoke once or twice, not too well, but mostly sat in a corner, listening, watching, thinking.
    Ellsworth went to Harvard. His mother had willed her life insurance for that specific purpose. At Harvard his scholastic record was superlative. He majored in history. Aunt Adeline had expected to see him go in for economics and sociology; she half feared that he would end up as a social worker. He didn’t. He became absorbed in literature and the fine arts. It baffled her a little; it was a new trait in him; he had never shown any particular tendency in that direction. “You’re not the arty kind, Elsie,” she stated. “It don’t fit.”
    “You’re wrong, auntie,” he said.
    Ellsworth’s relations with his fellow students were the most unusual of his achievements at Harvard. He made himself accepted. Among the proud young descendants of proud old names, he did not hide the fact of his humble background; he exaggerated it. He did not tell them that his father was the manager of a shoe store; “he said that his father was a shoe cobbler. He said it without defiance, bitterness or proletarian arrogance; he said it as if it were a joke on him and–if one looked closely into his smile–on them. He acted like a snob; not a flagrant snob, but a natural, innocent one who tries very hard not to be snobbish. He was polite, not in the manner of one seeking favor, but in the manner of one granting it. His attitude was contagious. People did not question the reasons of his superiority; they took it for granted that such reasons existed. It became amusing, at first, to accept “Monk” Toohey; then it became distinctive and progressive. If this was a victory Ellsworth did not seem conscious of it as such; he did not seem to care. He moved among all these unformed youths, with the assurance of a man who has a plan, a long-range plan set in every detail, and who can spare nothing but amusement for the small incidentals on his way. His smile had a secret, closed quality, the smile of a shopkeeper counting profits–even though nothing in particular seemed to be happening.
    He did not talk about God and the nobility of suffering. He talked about the masses. He proved to a rapt audience, at bull sessions lasting till dawn, that religion bred selfishness; because, he stated, religion overemphasized the importance of the individual spirit; religion preached nothing but a single concern–the salvation of one’s own soul.
    “To achieve virtue in the absolute sense,” said Ellsworth Toohey, “a man must be willing to take the foulest crimes upon his soul–for the sake of his brothers. To mortify the flesh is nothing. To mortify the soul is the only act of virtue. So you think you love the broad mass of mankind? You know nothing of love. You give two bucks to a strike fund and you think you’ve done your duty? You poor fools! No gift is worth a damn, unless it’s the most precious thing you’ve got. Give your soul. To a lie? Yes, if others believe it. To deceit? Yes, if others need it. To treachery, knavery, crime? Yes! To whatever it is that seems lowest and vilest in your eyes. Only when you can feel contempt for your own priceless little ego, only then can you achieve the true, broad peace of selflessness, the merging of your spirit with the vast collective spirit of mankind. There is no room for the love of others within the tight, crowded miser’s hole of a private ego. Be empty in order to be filled. ‘He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.’ The opium peddlers of the church had something there, but they didn’t know what they had. Self-abnegation? Yes, my friends, by all means. But one doesn’t abnegate by keeping one’s self pure and proud of its own purity. The sacrifice that includes the destruction of one’s soul–ah, but what am I talking about? This is only for heroes to grasp and to achieve.”
    He did not have much success among the poor boys working their way through college. He acquired a sizable following among the young heirs, the second and third generation millionaires. He offered them an achievement of which they felt capable.
    He graduated with high honors. When he came to New York, he was preceded by a small, private fame; a few trickles of rumor had seeped down from Harvard about an unusual person named Ellsworth Toohey; a few people, among the extreme intellectuals and the extremely wealthy, heard these rumors and promptly forgot what they heard, but remembered the name; it remained in their minds with a vague connotation of such things as brilliance, courage, idealism.
    People began to ooze toward Ellsworth Toohey; the right kind of people, those who soon found him to be a spiritual necessity. The other kind did not come; there seemed to be an instinct about it. When someone commented on the loyalty of Toohey’s following–he had no title, program or organization, but somehow his circle was called a following from the first–an envious rival remarked: “Toohey draws the sticky kind. You know the two things that stick best: mud and glue.” Toohey overheard it and shrugged, smiling, and said: “Oh, come, come, come, there are many more: adhesive plaster, leeches, taffy, wet socks, rubber girdles, chewing gum and tapioca pudding.” Moving away, he added over his shoulder, without smiling: “And cement.”
    He took his Master’s degree from a New York university and wrote a thesis on “Collective Patterns in the City Architecture of the XlVth Century.” He earned his living in a busy, varied, scattered way: no one could keep track of all his activities. He held the post of vocational adviser at the university, he reviewed books, plays, art exhibitions, he wrote articles, gave a few lectures to small, obscure audiences. Certain tendencies were apparent in his work. When reviewing books, he leaned toward novels about the soil rather than the city, about the average rather than the gifted, about the sick rather than the healthy; there was a special glow in his writing when he referred to stories about “little people”; “human” was his favorite adjective; he preferred character study to action, and description to character study; he preferred novels without a plot and, above all, novels without a hero.
    He was considered outstanding as a vocational adviser. His tiny office at the university became an informal confessional where students brought all their problems, academic as well as personal. He was willing to discuss–with the same gentle, earnest concentration–the choice of classes, or love affairs, or–most particularly–the selection of a future career.
    When consulted on love affairs, Toohey counseled surrender, if it concerned a romance with a charming little pushover, good for a few drunken parties–“let us be modern”; and renunciation, if it concerned a deep, emotional passion–“let us be grownup.” When a boy came to confess a feeling of shame after some unsavory sexual experience, Toohey told him to snap out of it:
    “It was damn good for you. There are two things we must get rid of early in life: a feeling of personal superiority and an exaggerated reverence for the sexual act.”
    People noticed that Ellsworth Toohey seldom let a boy pursue the career he had chosen. “No, I wouldn’t go in for law if I were you. You’re much too tense and passionate about it. A hysterical devotion to one’s career does not make for happiness or success. It is wiser to select a profession about which you can be calm, sane and matter-of-fact. Yes, even if you hate it. It makes for down-to-earthness.”…”No, I wouldn’t advise you to continue with your music. The fact that it comes to you so easily is a sure sign that your talent is only a superficial one. That’s just the trouble–that you love it. Don’t you think that sounds like a childish reason? Give it up. Yes, even if it hurts like hell.”…”No, I’m sorry, I would like so much to say that I approve, but I don’t. When you thought of architecture, it was a purely selfish choice, wasn’t it? Have you considered anything but your own egotistical satisfaction? Yet a man’s career concerns all society. The question of where you could be most useful to your fellow men comes first. It’s not what you can get out of society, it’s what you can give. And where opportunities for service are concerned, there’s no endeavor comparable to that of a surgeon. Think it over.”
    After leaving college some of his protégés did quite well, others failed. Only one committed suicide. It was said that Ellsworth Toohey had exercised a beneficent influence upon them–for they never forgot him: they came to consult him on many things, years later, they wrote him, they clung to him. They were like machines without a self-starter, that had to be cranked up by an outside hand. He was never too busy to give them his full attention.
    His life was crowded, public and impersonal as a city square. The friend of humanity had no single private friend. People came to him; he came close to no one. He accepted all. His affection was golden, smooth and even, like a great expanse of sand; there was no wind of discrimination to raise dunes; the sands lay still and the sun stood high.
    Out of his meager income he donated money to many organizations. He was never known to have loaned a dollar to an individual. He never asked his rich friends to assist a person in need; but he obtained from them large sums and endowments for charitable institutions: for settlement houses, recreation centers, homes for fallen girls, schools for defective children. He served on the boards of all these institutions–without salary. A great many philanthropic undertakings and radical publications, run by all sorts of people, had a single connecting link among them, one common denominator: the name of Ellsworth M. Toohey on their stationery. He was a sort of one-man holding company of altruism.
    Women played no part in his life. Sex had never interested him. His furtive, infrequent urges drew him to the young, slim, full-bosomed, brainless girls–the giggling little waitresses, the lisping manicurists, the less efficient stenographers, the kind who wore pink or orchid dresses and little hats on the back of their heads with gobs of blond curls in front. He was indifferent to women of intellect.
    He contended that the family was a bourgeois institution; but he made no issue of it and did not crusade for free love. The subject of sex bored him. There was, he felt, too much fuss made over the damn thing; it was of no importance; there were too many weightier problems in the world.
    The years passed, with each busy day of his life like a small, neat coin dropped patiently into a gigantic slot machine, without a glance at the combination of symbols, without return. Gradually, one of his many activities began to stand out among the others: he became known as an eminent critic of architecture. He wrote about buildings for three successive magazines that limped on noisily for a few years and failed, one after the other: New Voices, New Pathways, New Horizons. The fourth, New Frontiers, survived. Ellsworth Toohey was the only thing salvaged from the successive wrecks. Architectural criticism seemed to be a neglected field of endeavor; few people bothered to write about buildings, fewer to read. Toohey acquired a reputation and an unofficial monopoly. The better magazines began calling upon him whenever they needed anything connected with architecture.
    In the year 1921 a small change occurred in Toohey’s private life; his niece Catherine Halsey, the daughter of his sister Helen, came to live with him. His father had long since died, and Aunt Adeline had vanished into the obscure poverty of some small town; at the death of
    Catherine’s parents there was no one else to take care of her. Toohey had not intended to keep her in his own home. But when she stepped off the train in New York, her plain little face looked beautiful for a moment, as if the future were opening before her and its glow were already upon her forehead, as if she were eager and proud and ready to meet it. It was one of those rare moments when the humblest person knows suddenly what it means to feel as the center of the universe, and is made beautiful by the knowledge, and the world–in the eyes of witnesses–looks like a better place for having such a center. Ellsworth Toohey saw this–and decided that Catherine would remain with him.
    In the year 1925 came Sermons in Stone–and fame.
    Ellsworth Toohey became a fashion. Intellectual hostesses fought over him. Some people disliked him and laughed at him. But there was little satisfaction in laughing at Ellsworth Toohey, because he was always first to make the most outrageous remarks about himself. Once, at a party, a smug, boorish businessman listened to Toohey’s earnest social theories for a while and said complacently: “Well, I wouldn’t know much about all that intellectual stuff. I play the stock market.”
    “I,” said Toohey, “play the stock market of the spirit. And I sell short.”
    The most important consequence of Sermons in Stone was Toohey’s contract to write a daily column for Gail Wynand’s New York Banner.
    The contract came as a surprise to the followers of both sides involved, and, at first, it made everybody angry. Toohey had referred to Wynand frequently and not respectfully; the Wynand papers had called Toohey every name fit to print. But the Wynand papers had no policy, save that of reflecting the greatest prejudices of the greatest number, and this made for an erratic direction, but a recognizable direction, nevertheless: toward the inconsistent, the irresponsible, the trite and the maudlin. The Wynand papers stood against Privilege and for the Common Man, but in a respectable manner that could shock nobody; they exposed monopolies, when they wished; they supported strikes, when they wished, and vice versa. They denounced Wall Street and they denounced socialism and they hollered for clean movies, all with the same gusto. They were strident and blatant–and, in essence, lifelessly mild. Ellsworth Toohey was a phenomenon much too extreme to fit behind the front page of the Banner.
    But the staff of the Banner was as unfastidious as its policy. It included everybody who could please the public or any large section thereof. It was said: “Gail Wynand is not a pig. He’ll eat anything.” Ellsworth Toohey was a great success and the public was suddenly interested in architecture; the Banner had no authority on architecture; the Banner would get Ellsworth Toohey. It was a simple syllogism.
    Thus “One Small Voice” came into existence.
    The Banner explained its appearance by announcing: “On Monday the Banner will present to you a new friend–ELLSWORTH M. TOOHEY–whose scintillating book Sermons in Stone you have all read and loved. The name of Mr. Toohey stands for the great profession of architecture. He will help you to understand everything you want to know about the wonders of modern building. Watch for ‘ONE SMALL VOICE’ on Monday. To appear exclusively in the Banner in New York City.” The rest of what Mr. Toohey stood for was ignored.
    Ellsworth Toohey made no announcement or explanation to anyone. He disregarded the friends who cried that he had sold himself. He simply went to work. He devoted “One Small Voice” to architecture–once a month. The rest of the time it was the voice of Ellsworth Toohey saying what he wished said–to syndicated millions.
    Toohey was the only Wynand employee who had a contract permitting him to write anything he pleased. He had insisted upon it. It was considered a great victory, by everybody except Ellsworth Toohey. He realized that it could mean one of two things: either Wynand had surrendered respectfully to the prestige of his name–or Wynand considered him too contemptible to be worth restraining.
    “One Small Voice” never seemed to say anything dangerously revolutionary, and seldom anything political. It merely preached sentiments with which most people felt in agreement:
    unselfishness, brotherhood, equality. “I’d rather be kind than right.”
”Mercy is superior to justice, the shallow-hearted to the contrary notwithstanding.”
    “Speaking anatomically–and perhaps otherwise–the heart is our most valuable organ. The brain is a superstition.”
    “In spiritual matters there is a simple, infallible test: everything that proceeds from the ego is evil; everything that proceeds from love for others is good.”
    “Service is the only badge of nobility. I see nothing offensive in the conception of fertilizer as the highest symbol of man’s destiny: it is fertilizer that produces wheat and roses.”
    “The worst folk song is superior to the best symphony.”
    “A man braver than his brothers insults them by implication. Let us aspire to no virtue which cannot be shared.”
    “I have yet to see a genius or a hero who, if stuck with a burning match, would feel less pain than his undistinguished average brother.”
    “Genius is an exaggeration of dimension. So is elephantiasis. Both may be only a disease.”
    “We are all brothers under the skin–and I, for one, would be willing to skin humanity to prove it.”
    In the offices of the Banner Ellsworth Toohey was treated respectfully and left alone. It was whispered that Gail Wynand did not like him–because Wynand was always polite to him. Alvah Scarret unbent to the point of cordiality, but kept a wary distance. There was a silent, watchful equilibrium between Toohey and Scarret: they understood each other.
    Toohey made no attempt to approach Wynand in any way. Toohey seemed indifferent to all the men who counted on the Banner. He concentrated on the others, instead.
    He organized a club of Wynand employees. It was not a labor union; it was just a club. It met once a month in the library of the Banner. It did not concern itself with wages, hours or working conditions; it had no concrete program at all. People got acquainted, talked, and listened to speeches. Ellsworth Toohey made most of the speeches. He spoke about new horizons and the press as the voice of the masses. Gail Wynand appeared at a meeting once, entering unexpectedly in the middle of a session. Toohey smiled and invited him to join the club, declaring that he was eligible. Wynand did not join. He sat listening for half an hour, yawned, got up, and left before the meeting was over.
    Alvah Scarret appreciated the fact that Toohey did not try to reach into his field, into the important matters of policy. As a kind of return courtesy, Scarret let Toohey recommend new employees, when there was a vacancy to fill, particularly if the position was not an important one; as a rule, Scarret did not care, while Toohey always cared, even when it was only the post of copy boy. Toohey’s selections got the jobs. Most of them were young, brash, competent, shifty-eyed and shook hands limply. They had other things in common, but these were not so apparent.
    There were several monthly meetings which Toohey attended regularly; the meetings of: the Council of American Builders, the Council of American Writers, the Council of American Artists. He had organized them all.
    Lois Cook was chairman of the Council of American Writers. It met in the drawing room of her home on the Bowery. She was the only famous member. The rest included a woman who never used capitals in her books, and a man who never used commas; a youth who had written a thousand-page novel without a single letter o, and another who wrote poems that neither rhymed nor scanned; a man with a beard who was sophisticated and proved it by using every unprintable four-letter word in every ten pages of his manuscript; a woman who imitated Lois Cook, except that her style was less clear; when asked for explanations she stated that this was the way life sounded to her, when broken by the prism of her
    subconscious–“You know what a prism does to a ray of light, don’t you?” she said. There was also a fierce young man known simply as Ike the Genius, though nobody knew just what he had done, except that he talked about loving all of life. The Council signed a declaration which stated that writers were servants of the proletariat–but the statement did not sound as simple as that; it was more involved and much longer. The declaration was sent to every newspaper in the country. It was never published anywhere, except on page 32 of New Frontiers. The Council of American Artists had, as chairman, a cadaverous youth who painted what he saw in his nightly dreams. There was a boy who used no canvas, but did something with bird cages and metronomes, and another who discovered a new technique of painting: he blackened a sheet of paper and then painted with a rubber eraser. There was a stout middle- aged lady who drew subconsciously, claiming that she never looked at her hand and had no idea of what the hand was doing; her hand, she said, was guided by the spirit of the departed lover whom she had never met on earth. Here they did not talk so much about the proletariat, but merely rebelled against the tyranny of reality and of the objective.
    A few friends pointed out to Ellsworth Toohey that he seemed guilty of inconsistency; he was so deeply opposed to individualism, they said, and here were all these writers and artists of his, and every one of them was a rabid individualist. “Do you really think so?” said Toohey, smiling blandly.
    Nobody took these Councils seriously. People talked about them, because they thought it made good conversation; it was such a huge joke, they said, certainly there was no harm in any of it. “Do you really think so?” said Toohey.
    Ellsworth Toohey was now forty-one years old. He lived in a distinguished apartment that seemed modest when compared to the size of the income he could have commanded if he wished. He liked to apply the adjective “conservative” to himself in one respect only: in his conservative good taste for clothes. No one had ever seen him lose his temper. His manner was immutable; it was the same in a drawing room, at a labor meeting, on a lecture platform, in the bathroom or during sexual intercourse: cool, self-possessed, amused, faintly patronizing.
    People admired his sense of humor. He was, they said, a man who could laugh at himself. “I’m a dangerous person. Somebody ought to warn you against me,” he said to people, in the tone of uttering the most preposterous thing in the world.
    Of all the many titles bestowed upon him, he preferred one: Ellsworth Toohey, the Humanitarian.
    10.
THE ENRIGHT HOUSE was opened in June of 1929.
    There was no formal ceremony. But Roger Enright wanted to mark the moment for his own satisfaction. He invited a few people he liked and he unlocked the great glass entrance door, throwing it open to the sun-filled air. Some press photographers had arrived, because the story concerned Roger Enright and because Roger Enright did not want to have them there. He ignored them. He stood in the middle of the street, looking at the building, then he walked through the lobby, stopping short without reason and resuming his pacing. He said nothing. He frowned fiercely, as if he were about to scream with rage. His friends knew that Roger Enright was happy.
    The building stood on the shore of the East River, a structure rapt as raised arms. The rock crystal forms mounted in such eloquent steps that the building did not seem stationary, but moving upward in a continuous flow–until one realized that it was only the movement of one’s glance and that one’s glance was forced to move in that particular rhythm. The walls of pale gray limestone looked silver against the sky, with the clean, dulled luster of metal, but a metal that had become a warm, living substance, carved by the most cutting of all instruments–a purposeful human will. It made the house alive in a strange, personal way of its own, so that in the minds of spectators five words ran dimly, without object or clear connection: “…in His
    image and likeness…”
    A young photographer from the Banner noticed Howard Roark standing alone across the street, at the parapet of the river. He was leaning back, his hands closed over the parapet, hatless, looking up at the building. It was an accidental, unconscious moment. The young photographer glanced at Roark’s face–and thought of something that had puzzled him for a long time: he had always wondered why the sensations one felt in dreams were so much more intense than anything one could experience in waking reality–why the horror was so total and the ecstasy so complete–and what was that extra quality which could never be recaptured afterward; the quality of what he felt when he walked down a path through tangled green leaves in a dream, in an air full of expectation, of causeless, utter rapture–and when he awakened he could not explain it, it had been just a path through some woods. He thought of that because he saw that extra quality for the first time in waking existence, he saw it in Roark’s face lifted to the building. The photographer was a young boy, new to his job; he did not know much about it; but he loved his work; he had been an amateur photographer since childhood. So he snapped a picture of Roark in that one moment.
    Later the Art Editor of the Banner saw the picture and barked: “What the hell’s that?” “Howard Roark,” said the photographer. “Who’s Howard Roark?”
”The architect.”
”Who the hell wants a picture of the architect?”
    “Well, I only thought…”
    “Besides, it’s crazy. What’s the matter with the man?” So the picture was thrown into the morgue.
    The Enright House rented promptly. The tenants who moved in were people who wanted to live in sane comfort and cared about nothing else. They did not discuss the value of the building; they merely liked living there. They were the sort who lead useful, active private lives in public silence.
    But others talked a great deal of the Enright House, for about three weeks. They said that it was preposterous, exhibitionist and phony. They said: “My dear, imagine inviting Mrs. Moreland if you lived in a place like that! And her home is in such good taste!” A few were beginning to appear who said: “You know, I rather like modern architecture, there are some mighty interesting things being done that way nowadays, there’s quite a school of it in Germany that’s rather remarkable–but this is not like it at all. This is a freak.”
    Ellsworth Toohey never mentioned the Enright House in his column. A reader of the Banner wrote to him: “Dear Mr. Toohey: What do you think of this place they call the Enright House? I have a friend who is an interior decorator and he talks a lot about it and he says it’s lousy. Architecture and such various arts being my hobby, I don’t know what to think. Will you tell us in your column?” Ellsworth Toohey answered in a private letter: “Dear friend: There are so many important buildings and great events going on in the world today that I cannot devote my column to trivialities.”
    But people came to Roark–the few he wanted. That winter, he had received a commission to build the Norris house, a modest country home. In May he signed another contract–for his first office building, a fifty-story skyscraper in the center of Manhattan. Anthony Cord, the owner, had come from nowhere and made a fortune in Wall Street within a few brilliant, violent years. He wanted a building of his own and he went to Roark. Roark’s office had grown to four rooms. His staff loved him. They did not realize it and would have been shocked to apply such a term as love to their cold, unapproachable, inhuman boss. These were the words they used to describe Roark, these were the words they had been trained to use by all the standards and conceptions of their past; only, working with him, they knew that he was none of these things, but they could not explain, neither what he was nor what they felt for him.
    He did not smile at his employees, he did not take them out for drinks, he never inquired about their families, their love lives or their church attendance. He responded only to the essence of
    a man: to his creative capacity. In this office one had to be competent. There were no alternatives, no mitigating considerations. But if a man worked well, he needed nothing else to win his employer’s benevolence: it was granted, not as a gift, but as a debt. It was granted, not as affection, but as recognition. It bred an immense feeling of self-respect within every man in that office.
    “Oh, but that’s not human,” said somebody when one of Roark’s draftsmen tried to explain this at home, “such a cold, intellectual approach!” One boy, a younger sort of Peter Keating, tried to introduce the human in preference to the intellectual in Roark’s office; he did not last two weeks. Roark made mistakes in choosing his employees occasionally, not often; those whom he kept for a month became his friends for life. They did not call themselves friends; they did not praise him to outsiders; they did not talk about him. They knew only, in a dim way, that it was not loyalty to him, but to the best within themselves.

    Dominique remained in the city all summer. She remembered, with bitter pleasure, her custom to travel; it made her angry to think that she could not go, could not want to go. She enjoyed the anger; it drove her to his room. On the nights which she did not spend with him she walked through the streets of the city. She walked to the Enright House or to the Fargo Store, and stood looking at the building for a long time. She drove alone out of town–to see the Heller house, the Sanborn house, the Gowan Service Station. She never spoke to him about that.
    Once, she took the Staten Island ferry at two o’clock in the morning; she rode to the island, standing alone at the rail of an empty deck. She watched the city moving away from her. In the vast emptiness of sky and ocean, the city was only a small, jagged solid. It seemed condensed, pressed tight together, not a place of streets and separate buildings, but a single sculptured form. A form of irregular steps that rose and dropped without ordered continuity, long ascensions and sudden drops, like the graph of a stubborn struggle. But it went on mounting–toward a few points, toward the triumphant masts of skyscrapers raised out of the struggle.
    The boat went past the Statue of Liberty–a figure in a green light, with an arm raised like the skyscrapers behind it.
    She stood at the rail, while the city diminished, and she felt the motion of growing distance as a growing tightness within her, the pull of a living cord that could not be stretched too far. She stood in quiet excitement when the boat sailed back and she saw the city growing again to meet her. She stretched her arms wide. The city expanded, to her elbows, to her wrists, beyond her fingertips. Then the skyscrapers rose over her head, and she was back.
    She came ashore. She knew where she had to go, and wanted to get there fast, but felt she must get there herself, like this, on her own feet. So she walked half the length of Manhattan, through long, empty, echoing streets. It was four-thirty when she knocked at his door. He had been asleep. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Go back to sleep. I just want to be here.” She did not touch him. She took off her hat and shoes, huddled into an armchair, and fell asleep, her arm hanging over the chair’s side, her head on her arm. In the morning he asked no questions. They fixed breakfast together, then he hurried away to his office. Before leaving, he took her in his arms and kissed her. He walked out, and she stood for a few moments, then left. They had not exchanged twenty words.
    There were week ends when they left the city together and drove in her car to some obscure point on the coast. They stretched out in the sun, on the sand of a deserted beach, they swam in the ocean. She liked to watch his body in the water. She would remain behind and stand, the waves hitting her knees, and watch him cutting a straight line through the breakers. She liked to lie with him at the edge of the water; she would lie on her stomach, a few feet away from him, facing the shore, her toes stretched to the waves; she would not touch him, but she would feel the waves coming up behind them, breaking against their bodies, and she would see the backwash running in mingled streams off her body and his.
    They spent the nights at some country inn, taking a single room. They never spoke of the things left behind them in the city. But it was the unstated that gave meaning to the relaxed simplicity of these hours; their eyes laughed silently at the preposterous contract whenever
    they looked at each other.
    She tried to demonstrate her power over him. She stayed away from his house; she waited for him to come to her. He spoiled it by coming too soon; by refusing her the satisfaction of knowing that he waited and struggled against his desire; by surrendering at once. She would say: “Kiss my hand, Roark.” He would kneel and kiss her ankle. He defeated her by admitting her power; she could not have the gratification of enforcing it. He would lie at her feet, he would say: “Of course I need you. I go insane when I see you. You can do almost anything you wish with me. Is that what you want to hear? Almost, Dominique. And the things you couldn’t make me do–you could put me through hell if you demanded them and I had to refuse you, as I would. Through utter hell, Dominique. Does that please you? Why do you want to know whether you own me? It’s so simple. Of course you do. All of me that can be owned. You’ll never demand anything else. But you want to know whether you could make me suffer. You could. What of it?” The words did not sound like surrender, because they were not torn out of him, but admitted simply and willingly. She felt no thrill of conquest; she felt herself owned more than ever, by a man who could say these things, know of them to be true, and still remain controlled and controlling–as she wanted him to remain.

    Late in June a man named Kent Lansing came to see Roark. He was forty years old, he was dressed like a fashion plate and looked like a prize fighter, though he was not burly, muscular or tough: he was thin and angular. He merely made one think of a boxer and of other things that did not fit his appearance: of a battering ram, of a tank, of a submarine torpedo. He was a member of a corporation formed for the purpose of erecting a luxurious hotel on Central Park South. There were many wealthy men involved and the corporation was ruled by a numerous board; they had purchased their site; they had not decided on an architect. But Kent Lansing had made up his mind that it would be Roark.
    “I won’t try to tell you how much I’d like to do it,” Roark said to him at the end of their first interview. “But there’s not a chance of my getting it. I can get along with people–when they’re alone. I can do nothing with them in groups. No board has ever hired me–and I don’t think one ever will.”
    Kent Lansing smiled. “Have you ever known a board to do. anything?” “What do you mean?”
”Just that: have you ever known a board to do anything at all?”
”Well, they seem to exist and function.”
    “Do they? You know, there was a time when everyone thought it self-evident that the earth was flat. It would be entertaining to speculate upon the nature and causes of humanity’s illusions. I’ll write a book about it some day. It won’t be popular. I’ll have a chapter on boards of directors. You see, they don’t exist.”
    “I’d like to believe you, but what’s the gag?”
    “No, you wouldn’t like to believe me. The causes of illusions are not pretty to discover. They’re either vicious or tragic. This one is both. Mainly vicious. And it’s not a gag. But we won’t go into that now. All I mean is that a board of directors is one or two ambitious men–and a lot of ballast. I mean that groups of men are vacuums. Great big empty nothings. They say we can’t visualize a total nothing. Hell, sit at any committee meeting. The point is only who chooses to fill that nothing. It’s a tough battle. The toughest. It’s simple enough to fight any enemy, so long as he’s there to be fought. But when he isn’t…Don’t look at me like that, as if I were crazy. You ought to know. You’ve fought a vacuum all your life.”
    “I’m looking at you like that because I like you.”
    “Of course you like me. As I knew I’d like you. Men are brothers, you know, and they have a great instinct for brotherhood–except in boards, unions, corporations and other chain gangs. But I talk too much. That’s why I’m a good salesman. However, I have nothing to sell you. You know. So we’ll just say that you’re going to build the Aquitania–that’s the name of our hotel–
    and we’ll let it go at that.”
    If the violence of the battles which people never hear about could be measured in material statistics, the battle of Kent Lansing against the board of directors of the Aquitania Corporation would have been listed among the greatest carnages of history. But the things he fought were not solid enough to leave anything as substantial as corpses on the battlefield.
    He had to fight phenomena such as: “Listen, Palmer, Lansing’s talking about somebody named Roark, how’re you going to vote, do the big boys approve of him or not?”
    “I’m not going to decide till I know who’s voted for or against.”
    “Lansing says…but on the other hand, Thorpe tells me…”Talbot’s putting up a swank hotel on Fifth up in the sixties–and he’s got Francon & Keating.” “Harper swears by this young fellow– Gordon Prescott.” “Listen, Betsy says we’re crazy.” “I don’t like Roark’s face–he doesn’t look co-operative.” “I know, I feel it, Roark’s the kind that don’t fit in. He’s not a regular fellow.”
    “What’s a regular fellow?”
”Aw hell, you know very well what I mean: regular.”
    “Thompson says that Mrs. Pritchett says that she knows for certain because Mr. Macy told her that if…”
    “Well, boys, I don’t give a damn what anybody says, I make up my own mind, and I’m here to tell you that I think this Roark is lousy. I don’t like the Enright House.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know why. I just don’t like it, and that’s that. Haven’t I got a right to an opinion of my own?”
    The battle lasted for weeks. Everybody had his say, except Roark. Lansing told him: “It’s all right. Lay off. Don’t do anything. Let me do the talking. There’s nothing you can do. When facing society, the man most concerned, the man who is to do the most and contribute the most, has the least say. It’s taken for granted that he has no voice and the reasons he could offer are rejected in advance as prejudiced–since no speech is ever considered, but only the speaker. It’s so much easier to pass judgment on a man than on an idea. Though how in hell one passes judgment on a man without considering the content of his brain is more than I’ll ever understand. However, that’s how it’s done. You see, reasons require scales to weigh them. And scales are not made of cotton. And cotton is what the human spirit is made of–you know, the stuff that keeps no shape and offers no resistance and can be twisted forward and backward and into a pretzel. You could tell them why they should hire you so very much better than I could. But they won’t listen to you and they’ll listen to me. Because I’m the middleman. The shortest distance between two points is not a straight line–it’s a middleman. And the more middlemen, the shorter. Such is the psychology of a pretzel.”
    “Why are you fighting for me like that?” Roark asked.
    “Why are you a good architect? Because you have certain standards of what is good, and they’re your own, and you stand by them. I want a good hotel, and I have certain standards of what is good, and they’re my own, and you’re the one who can give me what I want. And when I fight for you, I’m doing–on my side of it–just what you’re doing when you design a building. Do you think integrity is the monopoly of the artist? And what, incidentally, do you think integrity is? The ability not to pick a watch out of your neighbor’s pocket? No, it’s not as easy as that. If that were all, I’d say ninety-five percent of humanity were honest, upright men. Only, as you can see, they aren’t. Integrity is the ability to stand by an idea. That presupposes the ability to think. Thinking is something one doesn’t borrow or pawn. And yet, if I were asked to choose a symbol for humanity as we know it, I wouldn’t choose a cross nor an eagle nor a lion and unicorn. I’d choose three gilded balls.”
    And as Roark looked at him, he added: “Don’t worry. They’re all against me. But I have one advantage: they don’t know what they want. I do.”
    At the end of July, Roark signed a contract to build the Aquitania. #
    Ellsworth Toohey sat in his office, looking at a newspaper spread out on his desk, at the item announcing the Aquitania contract. He smoked, holding a cigarette propped in the corner of his mouth, supported by two straight fingers; one finger tapped against the cigarette, slowly, rhythmically, for a long time.
    He heard the sound of his door thrown open, and he glanced up to see Dominique standing there, leaning against the doorjamb, her arms crossed on her chest. Her face looked interested, nothing more, but it was alarming to see an expression of actual interest on her face.
    “My dear,” he said, rising, “this is the first time you’ve taken the trouble to enter my office–in the four years that we’ve worked in the same building. This is really an occasion.”
    She said nothing, but smiled gently, which was still more alarming. He added, his voice pleasant: “My little speech, of course, was the equivalent of a question. Or don’t we understand each other any longer?”
    “I suppose we don’t–if you find it necessary to ask what brought me here. But you know it, Ellsworth, you know it; there it is on your desk.” She walked to the desk and flipped a comer of the newspaper. She laughed. “Do you wish you had it hidden somewhere? Of course you didn’t expect me to come. Not that it makes any difference. But I just like to see you being obvious for once. Right on your desk, like that. Open at the real-estate page, too.”
    “You sound as if that little piece of news had made you happy.” “It did, Ellsworth. It does.”
”I thought you had worked hard to prevent that contract.”
”I had.”
    “If you think this is an act you’re putting on right now, Dominique, you’re fooling yourself. This isn’t an act.”
    “No, Ellsworth. This isn’t.” “You’re happy that Roark got it?”
    “I’m so happy. I could sleep with this Kent Lansing, whoever he is, if I ever met him and if he asked me.”
    “Then the pact is off?”
    “By no means. I shall try to stop any job that comes his way. I shall continue trying. It’s not going to be so easy as it was, though. The Enright House, the Cord Building–and this. Not so easy for me–and for you. He’s beating you, Ellsworth. Ellsworth, what if we were wrong about the world, you and I?”
    “You’ve always been, my dear. Do forgive me. I should have known better than to be astonished. It would make you happy, of course, that he got it. I don’t even mind admitting that it doesn’t make me happy at all. There, you see? Now your visit to my office has been a complete success. So we shall just write the Aquitania off as a major defeat, forget all about it and continue as we were.”
    “Certainly, Ellsworth. Just as we were. I’m cinching a beautiful new hospital for Peter Keating at a dinner party tonight.”
    Ellsworth Toohey went home and spent the evening thinking about Hopton Stoddard.
    Hopton Stoddard was a little man worth twenty million dollars. Three inheritances had contributed to that sum, and seventy-two years of a busy life devoted to the purpose of making money. Hopton Stoddard had a genius for investment; he invested in everything–houses of ill fame, Broadway spectacles on the grand scale, preferably of a religious nature, factories,
farm mortgages and contraceptives. He was small and bent. His face was not disfigured; people merely thought it was, because it had a single expression: he smiled. His little mouth was shaped like a v in eternal good cheer; his eyebrows were tiny v’s inverted over round, blue eyes; his hair, rich, white and waved, looked like a wig, but was real.
    Toohey had known Hopton Stoddard for many years and exercised a strong influence upon him. Hopton Stoddard had never married, had no relatives and no friends; he distrusted people, believing that they were always after his money. But he felt a tremendous respect for Ellsworth Toohey, because Toohey represented the exact opposite of his own life; Toohey had no concern whatever for worldly wealth; by the mere fact of this contrast, he considered Toohey the personification of virtue; what this estimate implied in regard to his own life never quite occurred to him. He was not easy in his mind about his life, and the uneasiness grew with the years, with the certainty of an approaching end. He found relief in religion–in the form of a bribe. He experimented with several different creeds, attended services, donated large sums and switched to another faith. As the years passed, the tempo of his quest accelerated; it had the tone of panic.
    Toohey’s indifference to religion was the only flaw that disturbed him in the person of his friend and mentor. But everything Toohey preached seemed in line with God’s law: charity, sacrifice, help to the poor. Hopton Stoddard felt safe whenever he followed Toohey’s advice. He donated handsomely to the institutions recommended by Toohey, without much prompting. In matters of the spirit he regarded Toohey upon earth somewhat as he expected to regard God in heaven.
    But this summer Toohey met defeat with Hopton Stoddard for the first time.
    Hopton Stoddard decided to realize a dream which he had been planning slyly and cautiously, like all his other investments, for several years: he decided to build a temple. It was not to be the temple of any particular creed, but an interdenominational, non-sectarian monument to religion, a cathedral of faith, open to all. Hopton Stoddard wanted to play safe.
    He felt crushed when Ellsworth Toohey advised him against the project. Toohey wanted a building to house a new home for subnormal children; he had an organization set up, a distinguished committee of sponsors, an endowment for operating expenses–but no building and no funds to erect one. If Hopton Stoddard wished a worthy memorial to his name, a grand climax of his generosity, to what nobler purpose could he dedicate his money than to the Hopton Stoddard Home for Subnormal Children, Toohey pointed out to him emphatically; to the poor little blighted ones for whom nobody cared. But Hopton Stoddard could not be aroused to any enthusiasm for a Home nor for any mundane institution. It had to be “The Hopton Stoddard Temple of the Human Spirit.”
    He could offer no arguments against Toohey’s brilliant array; he could say nothing except: “No, Ellsworth, no, it’s not right, not right.” The matter was left unsettled. Hopton Stoddard would not budge, but Toohey’s disapproval made him uncomfortable and he postponed his decision from day to day. He knew only that he would have to decide by the end of summer, because in the fall he was to depart on a long journey, a world tour of the holy shrines of all faiths, from Lourdes to Jerusalem to Mecca to Benares.
    A few days after the announcement of the Aquitania contract Toohey came to see Hopton Stoddard, in the evening, in the privacy of Stoddard’s vast, overstuffed apartment on Riverside Drive.
    “Hopton,” he said cheerfully, “I was wrong. You were right about that temple.” “No!” said Hopton Stoddard, aghast.
    “Yes,” said Toohey, “you were right. Nothing else would be quite fitting. You must build a temple. A Temple of the Human Spirit.”
    Hopton Stoddard swallowed, and his blue eyes became moist. He felt that he must have progressed far upon the path of righteousness if he had been able to teach a point of virtue to his teacher. After that, nothing else mattered; he sat, like a meek, wrinkled baby, listening to Ellsworth Toohey, nodding, agreeing to everything.
    “It’s an ambitious undertaking, Hopton, and if you do it, you must do it right. It’s a little presumptuous, you know–offering a present to God–and unless you do it in the best way possible, it will be offensive, not reverent.”
    “Yes, of course. It must be right. It must be right. It must be the best. You’ll help me, won’t you, Ellsworth? You know all about buildings and art and everything–it must be right.”
    “I’ll be glad to help you, if you really want me to.”
    “If I want you to! What do you mean–if I want…! Goodness gracious, what would I do without you? I don’t know anything about…about anything like that. And it must be right.”
    “If you want it right, will you do exactly as I say?” “Yes. Yes. Yes, of course.”
”First of all, the architect. That’s very important.” “Yes, indeed.”
    “You don’t want one of those satin-lined commercial boys with the dollar sign all over them. You want a man who believes in his work as–as you believe in God.”
    “That’s right. That’s absolutely right.” “You must take the one I name.” “Certainly. Who’s that?”
”Howard Roark.”
    “Huh?” Hopton Stoddard looked blank. “Who’s he?”
”He’s the man who’s going to build the Temple of the Human Spirit.” “Is he any good?”
Ellsworth Toohey turned and looked straight into his eyes.
”By my immortal soul, Hopton,” he said slowly, “he’s the best there is.” “Oh!…”
    “But he’s difficult to get. He doesn’t work except on certain conditions. You must observe them scrupulously. You must give him complete freedom. Tell him what you want and how much you want to spend, and leave the rest up to him. Let him design it and build it as he wishes. He won’t work otherwise. Just tell him frankly that you know nothing about architecture and that you chose him because you felt he was the only one who could be trusted to do it right without advice or interference.”
    “Okay, if you vouch for him.”
”I vouch for him.”
”That’s fine. And I don’t care how much it costs me.”
    “But you must be careful about approaching him. I think he will refuse to do it, at first. He will tell you that he doesn’t believe in God.”
    “What!”
    “Don’t believe him. He’s a profoundly religious man–in his own way. You can see that in his buildings.”
    “Oh.”
    “But he doesn’t belong to any established church. So you won’t appear partial. You won’t offend anyone.”
    “That’s good.”
”Now, when you deal in matters of faith, you must be the first one to have faith. Is that right?” “That’s right.”
    “Don’t wait to see his drawings. They will take some time–and you mustn’t delay your trip. Just hire him–don’t sign a contract, it’s not necessary–make arrangements for your bank to take care of the financial end and let him do the rest. You don’t have to pay him his fee until you return. In a year or so, when you come back after seeing all those great temples, you’ll have a better one of your own, waiting here for you.”
    “That’s just what I wanted.”
    “But you must think of the proper unveiling to the public, the proper dedication, the right publicity.”
    “Of course…That is, publicity?”
    “Certainly. Do you know of any great event that’s not accompanied by a good publicity campaign? One that isn’t, can’t be much. If you skimp on that, it will be downright disrespectful.”
    “That’s true.”
    “Now if you want the proper publicity, you must plan it carefully, well in advance. What you want, when you unveil it, is one grand fanfare, like an opera overture, like a blast on Gabriel’s horn.”
    “That’s beautiful, the way you put it.”
    “Well, to do that you mustn’t allow a lot of newspaper punks to dissipate your effect by dribbling out premature stories. Don’t release the drawings of the temple. Keep them secret. Tell Roark that you want them kept secret. He won’t object to that. Have the contractor put up a solid fence all around the site while it’s being built. No one’s to know what it’s like until you come back and preside at the unveiling in person. Then–pictures in every damn paper in the country!”
    “Ellsworth!”
”I beg your pardon.”
    “The idea’s right. That’s how we put over The Legend of the Virgin, ten years ago that was, with a cast of ninety-seven.”
    “Yes. But in the meantime, keep the public interested. Get yourself a good press agent and tell him how you want it handled. I’ll give you the name of an excellent one. See to it that there’s something about the mysterious Stoddard Temple in the papers every other week or so. Keep ’em guessing. Keep ’em waiting. They’ll be good and ready when the time comes.”
    “Right.”
    “But, above all, don’t let Roark know that I recommended him. Don’t breathe a word to anyone about my having anything to do with it. Not to a soul. Swear it.”
    “But why?”
    “Because I have too many friends who are architects, and it’s such an important commission, and I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings.”
    “Yes. That’s true.”
”Swear it.”
”Oh, Ellsworth!”
”Swear it. By the salvation of your soul.” “I swear it. By…that.”
    “All right. Now you’ve never dealt with architects, and he’s an unusual kind of architect, and you don’t want to muff it. So I’ll tell you exactly what you’re to say to him.”
    On the following day Toohey walked into Dominique’s office. He stood at her desk, smiled and said, his voice unsmiling:
    “Do you remember Hopton Stoddard and that temple of all faith that he’s been talking about for six years?”
    “Vaguely.”
    “He’s going to build it.”
    “Is he?”
    “He’s giving the job to Howard Roark.”
    “Not really!”
    “Really.”
    “Well, of all the incredible…Not Hopton!”
    “Hopton.”
    “Oh, all right. I’ll go to work on him.”
    “No. You lay off. I told him to give it to Roark.”
    She sat still, exactly as the words caught her, the amusement gone from her face. He added:
    “I wanted you to know that I did it, so there won’t be any tactical contradictions. No one else knows it or is to know it. I trust you to remember that.”
    She asked, her lips moving tightly: “What are you after?” He smiled. He said:
    “I’m going to make him famous.” #
    Roark sat in Hopton Stoddard’s office and listened, stupefied. Hopton Stoddard spoke slowly; it sounded earnest and impressive, but was due to the fact that he had memorized his speeches almost verbatim. His baby eyes looked at Roark with an ingratiating plea. For once, Roark almost forgot architecture and placed the human element first; he wanted to get up and
    get out of the office; he could not stand the man. But the words he heard held him; the words did not match the man’s face or voice.
    “So you see, Mr. Roark, though it is to be a religious edifice, it is also more than that. You notice that we call it the Temple of the Human Spirit. We want to capture–in stone, as others capture in music–not some narrow creed, but the essence of all religion. And what is the essence of religion? The great aspiration of the human spirit toward the highest, the noblest, the best. The human spirit as the creator and the conqueror of the ideal. The great life-giving force of the universe. The heroic human spirit. That is your assignment, Mr. Roark.”
    Roark rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes, helplessly. It was not possible. It simply was not possible. That could not be what the man wanted; not that man. It seemed horrible to hear him say that.
    “Mr. Stoddard, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” he said, his voice slow and tired. “I don’t think I’m the man you want. I don’t think it would be right for me to undertake it. I don’t believe in God.”
    He was astonished to see Hopton Stoddard’s expression of delight and triumph. Hopton Stoddard glowed in appreciation–in appreciation of the clairvoyant wisdom of Ellsworth Toohey who was always right. He drew himself up with new confidence, and he said firmly, for the first time in the tone of an old man addressing a youth, wise and gently patronizing:
    “That doesn’t matter. You’re a profoundly religious man, Mr. Roark–in your own way. I can see that in your buildings.”
    He wondered why Roark stared at him like that, without moving, for such a long time. “That’s true,” said Roark. It was almost a whisper.
    That he should learn something about himself, about his buildings, from this man who had seen it and known it before he knew it, that this man should say it with that air of tolerant confidence implying full understanding–removed Roark’s doubts. He told himself that he did not really understand people; that an impression could be deceptive; that Hopton Stoddard would be far on another continent away; that nothing mattered in the face of such an assignment; that nothing could matter when a human voice–even Hopton Stoddard’s–was going on, saying:
    “I wish to call it God. You may choose any other name. But what I want in that building is your spirit. Your spirit, Mr. Roark. Give me the best of that–and you will have done your job, as I shall have done mine. Do not worry about the meaning I wish conveyed. Let it be your spirit in the shape of a building–and it will have that meaning, whether you know it or not.”
    And so Roark agreed to build the Stoddard Temple of the Human Spirit.
    11.
    IN DECEMBER the Cosmo-Slotnick Building was opened with great ceremony. There were celebrities, flower horseshoes, newsreel cameras, revolving searchlights and three hours of speeches, all alike.
    I should be happy, Peter Keating told himself–and wasn’t. He watched from a window the solid spread of faces filling Broadway from curb to curb. He tried to talk himself into joy. He felt nothing. He had to admit that he was bored. But he smiled and shook hands and let himself be photographed. The Cosmo-Slotnick Building rose ponderously over the street, like a big white bromide.
    After the ceremonies Ellsworth Toohey took Keating away to the retreat of a pale-orchid booth in a quiet, expensive restaurant. Many brilliant parties were being given in honor of the opening, but Keating grasped Toohey’s offer and declined all the other invitations. Toohey
    watched him as he seized his drink and slumped in his seat.
    “Wasn’t it grand?” said Toohey. ‘That, Peter, is the climax of what you can expect from life.” He lifted his glass delicately. “Here’s to the hope that you shall have many triumphs such as this. Such as tonight.”
    “Thanks,” said Keating, and reached for his glass hastily, without looking, and lifted it, to find it empty.
    “Don’t you feel proud, Peter?” “Yes. Yes, of course.”
    “That’s good. That’s how I like to see you. You looked extremely handsome tonight. You’ll be splendid in those newsreels.”
    A flicker of interest snapped in Keating’s eyes. “Well, I sure hope so.”
    “It’s too bad you’re not married, Peter. A wife would have been most decorative tonight. Goes well with the public. With the movie audiences, too.”
    “Katie doesn’t photograph well.”
    “Oh, that’s right, you’re engaged to Katie. So stupid of me. I keep forgetting it. No, Katie doesn’t photograph well at all. Also, for the life of me, I can’t imagine Katie being very effective at a social function. There are a great many nice adjectives one could use about Katie, but ‘poised’ and ‘distinguished’ are not among them. You must forgive me, Peter. I let my imagination run away with me. Dealing with art as much as I do, I’m inclined to see things purely from the viewpoint of artistic fitness. And looking at you tonight, I couldn’t help thinking of the woman who would have made such a perfect picture by your side.”
    “W ho?”
    “Oh, don’t pay attention to me. It’s only an esthetic fancy. Life is never as perfect as that. People have too much to envy you for. You couldn’t add that to your other achievements.”
    “W ho?”
    “Drop it, Peter. You can’t get her. Nobody can get her. You’re good, but you’re not good enough for that.”
    “W ho?”
”Dominique Francon, of course.”
    Keating sat up straight and Toohey saw wariness in his eyes, rebellion, actual hostility. Toohey held his glance calmly. It was Keating who gave in; he slumped again and he said, pleading:
    “Oh, God, Ellsworth, I don’t love her.”
    “I never thought you did. But I do keep forgetting the exaggerated importance which the average man attaches to love–sexual love.”
    “I’m not an average man,” said Keating wearily; it was an automatic protest–without fire. “Sit up, Peter. You don’t look like a hero, slumped that way.”
Keating jerked himself up–anxious and angry. He said:
”I’ve always felt that you wanted me to marry Dominique. Why? What’s it to you?”
    “You’ve answered your own question, Peter. What could it possibly be to me? But we were speaking of love. Sexual love, Peter, is a profoundly selfish emotion. And selfish emotions are
    not the ones that lead to happiness. Are they? Take tonight for instance. That was an evening to swell an egotist’s heart. Were you happy, Peter? Don’t bother, my dear, no answer is required. The point I wish to make is only that one must mistrust one’s most personal impulses. What one desires is actually of so little importance! One can’t expect to find happiness until one realizes this completely. Think of tonight for a moment. You, my dear Peter, were the least important person there. Which is as it should be. It is not the doer that counts but those for whom things are done. But you were not able to accept that–and so you didn’t feel the great elation that should have been yours.”
    “That’s true,” whispered Keating. He would not have admitted it to anyone else.
    “You missed the beautiful pride of utter selflessness. Only when you learn to deny your ego, completely, only when you learn to be amused by such piddling sentimentalities as your little sex urges–only then will you achieve the greatness which I have always expected of you.”
    “You…you believe that about me, Ellsworth? You really do?”
    “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t. But to come back to love. Personal love, Peter, is a great evil–as everything personal. And it always leads to misery. Don’t you see why? Personal love is an act of discrimination, of preference. It is an act of injustice–to every human being on earth whom you rob of the affection arbitrarily granted to one. You must love all men equally. But you cannot achieve so noble an emotion if you don’t kill your selfish little choices. They are vicious and futile–since they contradict the first cosmic law–the basic equality of all men.”
    “You mean,” said Keating, suddenly interested, “that in a…in a philosophical way, deep down, I mean, we’re all equal? All of us?”
    “Of course,” said Toohey.
    Keating wondered why the thought was so warmly pleasant to him. He did not mind that this made him the equal of every pickpocket in the crowd gathered to celebrate his building tonight; it occurred to him dimly–and left him undisturbed, even though it contradicted the passionate quest for superiority that had driven him all his life. The contradiction did not matter; he was not thinking of tonight nor of the crowd; he was thinking of a man who had not been there tonight.
    “You know, Ellsworth,” he said, leaning forward, happy in an uneasy kind of way, “I…I’d rather talk to you than do anything else, anything at all. I had so many places to go tonight–and I’m so much happier just sitting here with you. Sometimes I wonder how I’d ever go on without you.”
    “That,” said Toohey, “is as it should be. Or else what are friends for?” #
    That winter the annual costume Arts Ball was an event of greater brilliance and originality than usual. Athelstan Beasely, the leading spirit of its organization, had had what he called a stroke of genius: all the architects were invited to come dressed as their best buildings. It was a huge success.
    Peter Keating was the star of the evening. He looked wonderful as the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. An exact papier-mâché replica of his famous structure covered him from head to knees; one could not see his face, but his bright eyes peered from behind the windows of the top floor, and the crowning pyramid of the roof rose over his head; the colonnade hit him somewhere about the diaphragm, and he wagged a finger through the portals of the great entrance door. His legs were free to move with his usual elegance, in faultless dress trousers and patent-leather pumps.
    Guy Francon was very impressive as the Frink National Bank Building, although the structure looked a little squatter than in the original, in order to allow for Francon’s stomach; the Hadrian torch over his head had a real electric bulb lit by a miniature battery. Ralston Holcombe was magnificent as a state capitol, and Gordon L. Prescott was very masculine as a grain elevator. Eugene Pettingill waddled about on his skinny, ancient legs, small and bent, an imposing Park Avenue hotel, with horn-rimmed spectacles peering from under the majestic tower. Two wits
    engaged in a duel, butting each other in the belly with famous spires, great landmarks of the city that greet the ships approaching from across the ocean. Everybody had lots of fun.
    Many of the architects, Athelstan Beasely in particular, commented resentfully on Howard Roark who had been invited and did not come. They had expected to see him dressed as the Enright House.
#
    Dominique stopped in the hall and stood looking at the door, at the inscription: “HOWARD ROARK, ARCHITECT.”
    She had never seen his office. She had fought against coming here for a long time. But she had to see the place where he worked.
    The secretary in the reception room was startled when Dominique gave her name, but announced the visitor to Roark. “Go right in, Miss Francon,” she said.
    Roark smiled when she entered his office; a faint smile without surprise.
    “I knew you’d come here some day,” he said. “Want me to show you the place?”
    “What’s that?” she asked.
    His hands were smeared with clay; on a long table, among a litter of unfinished sketches, stood the clay model of a building, a rough study of angles and terraces.
    “The Aquitania?” she asked.
    He nodded.
    “Do you always do that?”
    “No. Not always. Sometimes. There’s a hard problem here. I like to play with it for a while. It will probably be my favorite building–it’s so difficult.”
    “Go ahead. I want to watch you doing that. Do you mind?”
    “Not at all.”
    In a moment, he had forgotten her presence. She sat in a corner and watched his hands. She saw them molding walls. She saw them smash a part of the structure, and begin again, slowly, patiently, with a strange certainty even in his hesitation. She saw the palm of his hand smooth a long, straight plane, she saw an angle jerked across the space in the motion of his hand before she saw it in clay.
    She rose and walked to the window. The buildings of the city far below looked no bigger than the model on his table. It seemed to her that she could see his hands shaping the setbacks, the corners, the roofs of all the structures below, smashing and molding again. Her hand moved absently, following the form of a distant building in rising steps, feeling a physical sense of possession, feeling it for him.
    She turned back to the table. A strand of hair hung down over his face bent attentively to the model; he was not looking at her, he was looking at the shape under his fingers. It was almost as if she were watching his hands moving over the body of another woman. She leaned against the wall, weak with a feeling of violent, physical pleasure.

    At the beginning of January, while the first steel columns rose from the excavations that were to become the Cord Building and the Aquitania Hotel, Roark worked on the drawings for the T emple.
    When the first sketches were finished, he said to his secretary:
    “Get me Steve Mallory.”
”Mallory, Mr. Roark? Who…Oh, yes, the shooting sculptor.” “The what?”
”He took a shot at Ellsworth Toohey, didn’t he?”
”Did he? Yes, that’s right.”
”Is that the one you want, Mr. Roark?”
”That’s the one.”
    For two days the secretary telephoned art dealers, galleries, architects, newspapers. No one could tell her what had become of Steven Mallory or where he could be found. On the third day she reported to Roark: “I’ve found an address, in the Village, which I’m told might be his. There’s no telephone.” Roark dictated a letter asking Mallory to telephone his office.
    The letter was not returned, but a week passed without answer. Then Steven Mallory telephoned.
    “Hello?” said Roark, when the secretary switched the call to him.
    “Steven Mallory speaking,” said a young, hard voice, in a way that left an impatient, belligerent silence after the words.
    “I should like to see you, Mr. Mallory. Can we make an appointment for you to come to my office?”
    “What do you want to see me about?”
    “About a commission, of course. I want you to do some work for a building of mine.” There was a long silence.
    “All right,” said Mallory; his voice sounded dead. He added: “Which building?” “The Stoddard Temple. You may have heard…”
    “Yeah, I heard. You’re doing it. Who hasn’t heard? Will you pay me as much as you’re paying your press agent?”
    “I’m not paying the press agent. I’ll pay you whatever you wish to ask.” “You know that can’t be much.”
”What time would it be convenient for you to come here?”
”Oh, hell, you name it. You know I’m not busy.”
    “Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”
    “All right.” He added: “I don’t like your voice.” Roark laughed. “I like yours. Cut it out and be here tomorrow at two.”
    “Okay.” Mallory hung up.
    Roark dropped the receiver, grinning. But the grin vanished suddenly, and he sat looking at the telephone, his face grave.
    Mallory did not keep the appointment. Three days passed without a word from him. Then Roark went to find him in person.
    The rooming house where Mallory lived was a dilapidated brownstone in an unlighted street that smelled of a fish market. There was a laundry and a cobbler on the ground floor, at either side of a narrow entrance. A slatternly landlady said: “Mallory? Fifth floor rear,” and shuffled away indifferently. Roark climbed sagging wooden stairs lighted by bulbs stuck in a web of pipes. He knocked at a grimy door.
    The door opened. A gaunt young man stood on the threshold; he had disheveled hair, a strong mouth with a square lower lip, and the most expressive eyes that Roark had ever seen. “What do you want?” he snapped. “Mr. Mallory?”
    “Yeah.”
”I’m Howard Roark.”
    Mallory laughed, leaning against the doorjamb, one arm stretched across the opening, with no intention of stepping aside. He was obviously drunk. “Well, well!” he said. “In person.”
    “May I come in?”
”What for?”
Roark sat down on the stair banister. “Why didn’t you keep your appointment?”
    “Oh, the appointment? Oh, yes. Well, I’ll tell you,” Mallory said gravely. “It was like this: I really intended to keep it, I really did, and I started out for your office, but on my way there I passed a movie theater that was showing Two Heads on a Pillow, so I went in. I just had to see Two Heads on a Pillow.” He grinned, sagging against his stretched arm. “You’d better let me come in,” said Roark quietly. “Oh, what the hell, come in.”
    The room was a narrow hole. There was an unmade bed in a corner, a litter of newspapers and old clothes, a gas ring, a framed landscape from the five-and-ten, representing some sort of sick brown meadows with sheep; there were no drawings or figures, no hints of the occupant’s profession.
    Roark pushed some books and a skillet off the only chair, and sat down. Mallory stood before him, grinning, swaying a little.
    “You’re doing it all wrong,” said Mallory. “That’s not the way it’s done. You must be pretty hard up to come running after a sculptor. The way it’s done is like this: You make me come to your office, and the first time I come you mustn’t be there. The second time you must keep me waiting for an hour and a half, then come out into the reception room and shake hands and ask me whether I know the Wilsons of Podunk and say how nice that we have mutual friends, but you’re in an awful hurry today and you’ll call me up for lunch soon and then we’ll talk business. Then you keep this up for two months. Then you give me the commission. Then you tell me that I’m no good and wasn’t any good in the first place, and you throw the thing into the ash can. Then you hire Valerian Bronson and he does the job. That’s the way it’s done. Only not this time.”
    But his eyes were studying Roark intently, and his eyes had the certainty of a professional. As he spoke, his voice kept losing its swaggering gaiety, and it slipped to a dead flatness on the last sentences.
    “No,” said Roark, “not this time.”
    The boy stood looking at him silently.
    “You’re Howard Roark?” he asked. “I like your buildings. That’s why I didn’t want to meet you. So I wouldn’t have to be sick every time I looked at them. I wanted to go on thinking that they had to be done by somebody who matched them.”
    “What if I do?”
”That doesn’t happen.”
    But he sat down on the edge of the crumpled bed and slumped forward, his glance like a sensitive scale weighing Roark’s features, impertinent in its open action of appraisal.
    “Listen,” said Roark, speaking clearly and very carefully, “I want you to do a statue for the Stoddard Temple. Give me a piece of paper and I’ll write you a contract right now, stating that I will owe you a million dollars damages if I hire another sculptor or if your work is not used.”
    “You can speak normal. I’m not drunk. Not all the way. I understand.” “W ell?”
”Why did you pick me?”
”Because you’re a good sculptor.”
    “That’s not true.”
”That you’re good?”
”No. That it’s your reason. Who asked you to hire me?”
”Nobody.”
”Some woman I laid?”
”I don’t know any women you laid.”
”Stuck on your building budget?”
”No. The budget’s unlimited.”
”Feel sorry for me?”
”No. Why should I?”
”Want to get publicity out of that shooting Toohey business?”
”Good God, no!”
”Well, what then?”
”Why did you fish for all that nonsense instead of the simplest reason?” “Which?”
”That I like your work.”
    “Sure. That’s what they all say. That’s what we’re all supposed to say and to believe. Imagine what would happen if somebody blew the lid off that one! So, all right, you like my work. What’s the real reason?”
    “I like your work.”
    Mallory spoke earnestly, his voice sober.
    “You mean you saw the things I’ve done, and you like them–you–yourself–alone–without anyone telling you that you should like them or why you should like them–and you decided that you wanted me, for that reason–only for that reason–without knowing anything about me or giving a damn–only because of the things I’ve done and…and what you saw in them–only because of that, you decided to hire me, and you went to the bother of finding me and coming here, and being insulted–only because you saw–and what you saw made me important to you, made you want me? Is that what you mean?”
    “Just that,” said Roark.
    The things that pulled Mallory’s eyes wide were frightening to see. Then he shook his head, and said very simply, in the tone of soothing himself:
    “No.”
    He leaned forward. His voice sounded dead and pleading.
    “Listen, Mr. Roark. I won’t be mad at you. I just want to know. All right, I see that you’re set on having me work for you, and you know you can get me, for anything you say, you don’t have to sign any million-dollar contract, look at this room, you know you’ve got me, so why shouldn’t you tell me the truth? It won’t make any difference to you–and it’s very important to me.”
    “What’s very important to you?”
    “Not to…not to…Look. I didn’t think anybody’d ever want me again. But you do. All right. I’ll go through it again. Only I don’t want to think again that I’m working for somebody who…who likes my work. That, I couldn’t go through any more. I’ll feel better if you tell me, I’ll…I’ll feel calmer. Why should you put on an act for me? I’m nothing. I won’t think less of you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Don’t you see? It’s much more decent to tell me the truth. Then it will be simple and honest. I’ll respect you more. Really, I will.”
    “What’s the matter with you, kid? What have they done to you? Why do you want to say things like that?”
    “Because…” Mallory roared suddenly, and then his voice broke, and his head dropped, and he finished in a flat whisper: “because I’ve spent two years”–his hand circled limply indicating the room–“that’s how I’ve spent them–trying to get used to the fact that what you’re trying to tell me doesn’t exist….”
    Roark walked over to him, lifted his chin, knocking it upward, and said:
    “You’re a God-damn fool. You have no right to care what I think of your work, what I am or why I’m here. You’re too good for that. But if you want to know it–I think you’re the best sculptor we’ve got. I think it, because your figures are not what men are, but what men could be–and should be. Because you’ve gone beyond the probable and made us see what is possible, but possible only through you. Because your figures are more devoid of contempt for humanity than any work I’ve ever seen. Because you have a magnificent respect for the human being. Because your figures are the heroic in man. And so I didn’t come here to do you a favor or because I felt sorry for you or because you need a job pretty badly. I came for a simple, selfish reason–the same reason that makes a man choose the cleanest food he can find. It’s a law of survival, isn’t it?–to seek the best. I didn’t come for your sake. I came for mine.”
    Mallory jerked himself away from him, and dropped face down on the bed, his two arms stretched out, one on each side of his head, hands closed into fists. The thin trembling of the shirt cloth on his back showed that he was sobbing; the shirt cloth and the fists that twisted slowly, digging into the pillow. Roark knew that he was looking at a man who had never cried before. He sat down on the side of the bed and could not take his eyes off the twisting wrists, even though the sight was hard to bear.
    After a while Mallory sat up. He looked at Roark and saw the calmest, kindest face–a face without a hint of pity. It did not look like the countenance of men who watch the agony of another with a secret pleasure, uplifted by the sight of a beggar who needs their compassion; it did not bear the cast of the hungry soul that feeds upon another’s humiliation. Roark’s face seemed tired, drawn at the temples, as if he had just taken a beating. But his eyes were serene and they looked at Mallory quietly, a hard, clean glance of understanding–and respect.
    “Lie down now,” said Roar. “Lie still for a while.” “How did they ever let you survive?”
    “Lie down. Rest. We’ll talk afterward.”
    Mallory got up. Roark took him by the shoulders, forced him down, lifted his legs off the floor, lowered his head on the pillow. The boy did not resist.
    Stepping back, Roark brushed against a table loaded with junk. Something clattered to the floor. Mallory jerked forward, trying to reach it first. Roark pushed his arm aside and picked up the object.
    It was a small plaster plaque, the kind sold in cheap gift shops. It represented a baby sprawled on its stomach, dimpled rear forward, peeking coyly over its shoulder. A few lines, the structure of a few muscles showed a magnificent talent that could not be hidden, that broke fiercely through the rest; the rest was a deliberate attempt to be obvious, vulgar and trite, a clumsy effort, unconvincing and tortured. It was an object that belonged in a chamber of horrors.
    Mallory saw Roark’s hand begin to shake. Then Roark’s arm went back and up, over his head, slowly, as if gathering the weight of air in the crook of his elbow; it was only a flash, but it seemed to last for minutes, the arm stood lifted and still–then it slashed forward, the plaque shot across the room and burst to pieces against the wall. It was the only time anyone had ever seen Roark murderously angry.
    “Roark.”
    “Yes?”
    “Roark, I wish I’d met you before you had a job to give me.” He spoke without expression, his head lying back on the pillow, his eyes closed. “So that there would be no other reason mixed in. Because, you see, I’m very grateful to you. Not for giving me a job. Not for coming here. Not for anything you’ll ever do for me. Just for what you are.”
    Then he lay without moving, straight and limp, like a man long past the stage of suffering. Roark stood at the window, looking at the wrenched room and at the boy on the bed. He wondered why he felt as if he were waiting. He was waiting for an explosion over their heads. It seemed senseless. Then he understood. He thought, this is how men feel, trapped in a shell hole; this room is not an accident of poverty, it’s the footprint of a war; it’s the devastation torn by explosives more vicious than any stored in the arsenals of the world. A war…against?…The enemy had no name and no face. But this boy was a comrade-in-arms, hurt in battle, and Roark stood over him, feeling a strange new thing, a desire to lift him in his arms and carry him to safety…Only the hell and the safety had no known designations…He kept thinking of Kent Lansing, trying to remember something Kent Lansing had said…
    Then Mallory opened his eyes, and lifted himself up on one elbow. Roark pulled the chair over to the bed and sat down.
    “Now,” he said, “talk. Talk about the things you really want said. Don’t tell me about your family, your childhood, your friends or your feelings. Tell me about the things you think.”
    Mallory looked at him incredulously and whispered: “How did you know that?”
Roark smiled and said nothing.
    “How did you know what’s been killing me? Slowly, for years, driving me to hate people when I don’t want to hate….Have you felt it, too? Have you seen how your best friends love everything about you–except the things that count? And your most important is nothing to them, nothing, not even a sound they can recognize. You mean, you want to hear? You want to know what I do and why I do it, you want to know what I think! It’s not boring to you? It’s important?”
    “Go ahead,” said Roark.
    Then he sat for hours, listening, while Mallory spoke of his work, of the thoughts behind his work, of the thoughts that shaped his life, spoke gluttonously, like a drowning man flung out to shore, getting drunk on huge, clean snatches of air.
#
    Mallory came to Roark’s office on the following morning, and Roark showed him the sketches of the Temple. When he stood at a drafting table, with a problem to consider, Mallory changed; there was no uncertainty in him, no remembrance of pain; the gesture of his hand taking the drawing was sharp and sure, like that of a soldier on duty. The gesture said that nothing ever done to him could alter the function of the thing within him that was now called into action. He had an unyielding, impersonal confidence; he faced Roark as an equal.
    He studied the drawings for a long time, then raised his head. Everything about his face was controlled, except his eyes.
    “Like it?” Roark asked. “Don’t use stupid words.”
    He held one of the drawings, walked to the window, stood looking down the sketch to the street to Roark’s face and back again.
    “It doesn’t seem possible,” he said. “Not this–and that.” He waved the sketch at the street.
    There was a poolroom on the corner of the street below; a rooming house with a Corinthian portico; a billboard advertising a Broadway musical; a line of pink-gray underwear fluttering on a roof.
    “Not in the same city. Not on the same earth,” said Mallory. “But you made it happen. It’s possible….I’ll never be afraid again.”
    “Of what?”
Mallory put the sketch down on the table, cautiously. He answered:
    “You said something yesterday about a first law. A law demanding that man seek the best….It was funny….The unrecognized genius–that’s an old story. Have you ever thought of a much worse one–the genius recognized too well?…That a great many men are poor fools who can’t see the best–that’s nothing. One can’t get angry at that. But do you understand about the men who see it and don’t want it?”
    “No.”
    “No. You wouldn’t. I spent all night thinking about you. I didn’t sleep at all. Do you know what your secret is? It’s your terrible innocence.”
    Roark laughed aloud, looking at the boyish face.
    “No,” said Mallory, “it’s not funny. I know what I’m talking about–and you don’t. You can’t know. It’s because of that absolute health of yours. You’re so healthy that you can’t conceive of disease. You know of it. But you don’t really believe it. I do. I’m wiser than you are about some things, because I’m weaker. I understand–the other side. That’s what did it to me…what you saw yesterday.”
    “That’s over.”
    “Probably. But not quite. I’m not afraid any more. But I know that the terror exists. I know the kind of terror it is. You can’t conceive of that kind. Listen, what’s the most horrible experience you can imagine? To me–it’s being left, unarmed, in a sealed cell with a drooling beast of prey or a maniac who’s had some disease that’s eaten his brain out. You’d have nothing then but your voice–your voice and your thought. You’d scream to that creature why it should not touch you, you’d have the most eloquent words, the unanswerable words, you’d become the vessel of the absolute truth. And you’d see living eyes watching you and you’d know that the thing
    can’t hear you, that it can’t be reached, not reached, not in any way, yet it’s breathing and moving there before you with a purpose of its own. That’s horror. Well, that’s what’s hanging over the world, prowling somewhere through mankind, that same thing, something closed, mindless, utterly wanton, but something with an aim and a cunning of its own. I don’t think I’m a coward, but I’m afraid of it. And that’s all I know–only that it exists. I don’t know its purpose, I don’t know its nature.”
    “The principle behind the Dean,” said Roark. “W hat?”
    “It’s something I wonder about once in a while….Mallory, why did you try to shoot Ellsworth Toohey?” He saw the boy’s eyes, and he added: “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t like to talk about it.”
    “I don’t like to talk about it,” said Mallory, his voice tight. “But it was the right question to ask.” “Sit down,” said Roark. “We’ll talk about your commission.”
    Then Mallory listened attentively while Roark spoke of the building and of what he wanted from the sculptor. He concluded:
    “Just one figure. It will stand here.” He pointed to a sketch. “The place is built around it. The statue of a naked woman. If you understand the building, you understand what the figure must be. The human spirit. The heroic in man. The aspiration and the fulfillment, both. Uplifted in its quest–and uplifting by its own essence. Seeking God–and finding itself. Showing that there is no higher reach beyond its own form….You’re the only one who can do it for me.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’ll work as I work for my clients. You know what I want–the rest is up to you. Do it any way you wish. I’d like to suggest the model, but if she doesn’t fit your purpose, choose anyone you prefer.”
    “Who’s your choice?” “Dominique Francon.” “Oh, God!”
”Know her?”
    “I’ve seen her. If I could have her…Christ! there’s no other woman so right, for this. She…” He stopped. He added, deflated: “She won’t pose. Certainly not for you.”
    “She will.” #
    Guy Francon tried to object when he heard of it.
    “Listen, Dominique,” he said angrily, “there is a limit. There really is a limit–even for you. Why are you doing it? Why–for a building of Roark’s of all things? After everything you’ve said and done against him–do you wonder people are talking? Nobody’d care or notice if it were anyone else. But you–and Roark! I can’t go anywhere without having somebody ask me about it. What am I to do?”
    “Order yourself a reproduction of the statue, Father. It’s going to be beautiful.”
    Peter Keating refused to discuss it. But he met Dominique at a party and he asked, having intended not to ask it:
    “Is it true that you’re posing for a statue for Roark’s temple?”
    “Yes.”
    “Dominique, I don’t like it.”
    “No?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry. I know I have no right…It’s only…It’s only that of all people, I don’t want to see you being friendly with Roark. Not Roark. Anybody but Roark.”
    She looked interested: “Why?”
”I don’t know.”
Her glance of curious study worried him.
    “Maybe,” he muttered, “maybe it’s because it has never seemed right that you should have such contempt for his work. It made me very happy that you had, but…but it never seemed right–for you.”
    “It didn’t, Peter?”
    “No. But you don’t like him as a person, do you?”
    “No, I don’t like him as a person.”
    Ellsworth Toohey was displeased. “It was most unwise of you, Dominique,” he said in the privacy of her office. His voice did not sound smooth.
    “I know it was.”
    “Can’t you change your mind and refuse?”
    “I won’t change my mind, Ellsworth.”
    He sat down, and shrugged; after a while he smiled. “All right, my dear, have it your own way.”
    She ran a pencil through a line of copy and said nothing.
    Toohey lighted a cigarette. “So he’s chosen Steven Mallory for the job,” he said.
    “Yes. A funny coincidence, wasn’t it?”
    “It’s no coincidence at all, my dear. Things like that are never a coincidence. There’s a basic law behind it. Though I’m sure he doesn’t know it and nobody helped him to choose.”
    “I believe you approve?”
    “Wholeheartedly. It makes everything just right. Better than ever.”
    “Ellsworth, why did Mallory try to kill you?”
    “I haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t know. I think Mr. Roark does. Or should. Incidentally, who selected you to pose for that statue? Roark or Mallory?”
    “That’s none of your business, Ellsworth.”
”I see. Roark.”
”Incidentally, I’ve told Roark that it was you who made Hopton Stoddard hire him.” He stopped his cigarette in midair; then moved again and placed it in his mouth. “You did? Why?”
    “I saw the drawings of the Temple.” “That good?”
”Better, Ellsworth.”
”What did he say when you told him?” “Nothing. He laughed.”
    “He did? Nice of him. I daresay many people will join him after a while.” #
    Through the months of that winter Roark seldom slept more than three hours a night. There was a swinging sharpness in his movements, as if his body fed energy to all those around him. The energy ran through the walls of his office to three points of the city: to the Cord Building, in the center of Manhattan, a tower of copper and glass; to the Aquitania Hotel on Central Park South; and to the Temple on a rock over the Hudson, far north on Riverside Drive.
    When they had time to meet, Austen Heller watched him, amused and pleased. “When these three are finished, Howard,” he said, “nobody will be able to stop you. Not ever again. I speculate occasionally upon how far you’ll go. You see, I’ve always had a weakness for astronomy.”
    On an evening in March Roark stood within the tall enclosure that had been erected around the site of the Temple, according to Stoddard’s orders. The first blocks of stone, the base of future walls, rose above the ground. It was late and the workers had left. The place lay deserted, cut off from the world, dissolved in darkness; but the sky glowed, too luminous for the night below, as if the light had remained past the normal hour, in announcement of the coming spring. A ship’s siren cried out once, somewhere on the river, and the sound seemed to come from a distant countryside, through miles of silence. A light still burned in the wooden shack built as a studio for Steven Mallory, where Dominique posed for him.
    The Temple was to be a small building of gray limestone. Its lines were horizontal, not the lines reaching to heaven, but the lines of the earth. It seemed to spread over the ground like arms outstretched at shoulder-height, palms down, in great, silent acceptance. It did not cling to the soil and it did not crouch under the sky. It seemed to lift the earth, and its few vertical shafts pulled the sky down. It was scaled to human height in such a manner that it did not dwarf man, but stood as a setting that made his figure the only absolute, the gauge of perfection by which all dimensions were to be judged. When a man entered this temple, he would feel space molded around him, for him, as if it had waited for his entrance, to be completed. It was a joyous place, with the joy of exaltation that must be quiet. It was a place where one would come to feel sinless and strong, to find the peace of spirit never granted save by one’s own glory.
    There was no ornamentation inside, except the graded projections of the walls, and the vast windows. The place was not sealed under vaults, but thrown open to the earth around it, to the trees, the river, the sun–and to the skyline of the city in the distance, the skyscrapers, the shapes of man’s achievement on earth. At the end of the room, facing the entrance, with the city as background, stood the figure of a naked human body.
    There was nothing before him now in the darkness except the first stones, but Roark thought of the finished building, feeling it in the joints of his fingers, still remembering the movements of his pencil that had drawn it. He stood thinking of it. Then he walked across the rough, torn earth to the studio shack.
    “Just a moment,” said Mallory’s voice when he knocked.
    Inside the shack Dominique stepped down from the stand and pulled a robe on. Then Mallory opened the door.
    “Oh, it’s you?” he said. “We thought it was the watchman. What are you doing here so late?”
    “Good evening, Miss Francon,” said Roark, and she nodded curtly. “Sorry to interrupt, Steve.”
    “It’s all right. We haven’t been doing so well. Dominique can’t get quite what I want tonight. Sit down, Howard. What the hell time is it?”
    “Nine-thirty. If you’re going to stay longer, want me to have some dinner sent up?” “I don’t know. Let’s have a cigarette.”
    The place had an unpainted wooden floor, bare wooden rafters, a cast-iron stove glowing in a corner. Mallory moved about like a feudal host, with smudges of clay on his forehead. He smoked nervously, pacing up and down.
    “Want to get dressed, Dominique?” he asked. “I don’t think we’ll do much more tonight.” She didn’t answer. She stood looking at Roark. Mallory reached the end of the room, whirled around, smiled at Roark: “Why haven’t you ever come in before, Howard? Of course, if I’d been really busy, I’d have thrown you out. What, by the way, are you doing here at this hour?”
    “I just wanted to see the place tonight. Couldn’t get here earlier.”
    “Is this what you want, Steve?” Dominique asked suddenly. She took her robe off and walked naked to the stand. Mallory looked from her to Roark and back again. Then he saw what he had been struggling to see all day. He saw her body standing before him, straight and tense, her head thrown back, her arms at her sides, palms out, as she stood for many days; but now her body was alive, so still that it seemed to tremble, saying what he had wanted to hear: a proud, reverent, enraptured surrender to a vision of her own, the right moment, the moment before the figure would sway and break, the moment touched by the reflection of what she saw.
    Mallory’s cigarette went flying across the room. “Hold it, Dominique!” he cried. “Hold it! Hold it!”
    He was at his stand before the cigarette hit the ground. He worked, and Dominique stood without moving, and Roark stood facing her, leaning against the wall.
#
    In April the walls of the Temple rose in broken lines over the ground. On moonlit nights they had a soft, smeared, underwater glow. The tall fence stood on guard around them.
    After the day’s work, four people would often remain at the site–Roark, Mallory, Dominique and Mike Donnigan. Mike had not missed employment on a single building of Roark’s.
    The four of them sat together in Mallory’s shack, after all the others had left. A wet cloth covered the unfinished statue. The door of the shack stood open to the first warmth of a spring night. A tree branch hung outside, with three new leaves against the black sky, stars trembling like drops of water on the edges of the leaves. There were no chairs in the shack. Mallory stood at the cast-iron stove, fixing hot dogs and coffee. Mike sat on the model’s stand, smoking a pipe. Roark lay stretched out on the floor, propped up on his elbows, Dominique sat on a kitchen stool, a thin silk robe wrapped about her, her bare feet on the planks of the floor.
    They did not speak about their work. Mallory told outrageous stories and Dominique laughed like a child. They talked about nothing in particular, sentences that had meaning only in the sound of the voices, in the warm gaiety, in the ease of complete relaxation. They were simply four people who liked being there together. The walls rising in the darkness beyond the open door gave sanction to their rest, gave them the right to lightness, the building on which they had all worked together, the building that was like a low, audible harmony to the sound of their voices. Roark laughed as Dominique had never seen him laugh anywhere else, his mouth loose and young.
    They stayed there late into the night. Mallory poured coffee into a mongrel assortment of cracked cups. The odor of coffee met the odor of the new leaves outside.
#
    In May work was stopped on the construction of the Aquitania Hotel.
    Two of the owners had been cleaned out in the stock market; a third got his funds attached by a lawsuit over an inheritance disputed by someone; a fourth embezzled somebody else’s shares. The corporation blew up in a tangle of court cases that were to require years of untangling. The building had to wait, unfinished.
    “I’ll straighten it out, if I have to murder a few of them,” Kent Lansing told Roark. “I’ll get it out of their hands. We’ll finish it some day, you and I. But it will take time. Probably a long time. I won’t tell you to be patient. Men like you and me would not survive beyond their first fifteen years if they did not acquire the patience of a Chinese executioner. And the hide of a battleship.”
    Ellsworth Toohey laughed, sitting on the edge of Dominique’s desk. “The Unfinished Symphony–thank God,” he said.
    Dominique used that in her column. “The Unfinished Symphony on Central Park South,” she wrote. She did not say, “thank God.” The nickname was repeated. Strangers noticed the odd sight of an expensive structure on an important street, left gaping with empty windows, half- covered walls, naked beams; when they asked what it was, people who had never heard of Roark or of the story behind the building, snickered and answered: “Oh, that’s the Unfinished Symphony.”
    Late at night Roark would stand across the street, under the trees of the Park, and look at the black, dead shape among the glowing structures of the city’s skyline. His hands would move as they had moved over the clay model; at that distance, a broken projection could be covered by the palm of his hand; but the instinctive completing motion met nothing but air.
    He forced himself sometimes to walk through the building. He walked on shivering planks hung over emptiness, through rooms without ceilings and rooms without floors, to the open edges where girders stuck out like bones through a broken skin.
    An old watchman lived in a cubbyhole at the back of the ground floor. He knew Roark and let him wander around. Once, he stopped Roark on the way out and said suddenly: “I had a son once–almost. He was born dead.” Something had made him say that, and he looked at Roark, not quite certain of what he had wanted to say. But Roark smiled, his eyes closed, and his hand covered the old man’s shoulder, like a handshake, and then he walked away.
    It was only the first few weeks. Then he made himself forget the Aquitania.
    On an evening in October Roark and Dominique walked together through the completed Temple. It was to be opened publicly in a week, the day after Stoddard’s return. No one had seen it except those who had worked on its construction.
    It was a clear, quiet evening. The site of the Temple lay empty and silent. The red of the sunset on the limestone walls was like the first light of morning.
    They stood looking at the Temple, and then stood inside, before the marble figure, saying nothing to each other. The shadows in the molded space around them seemed shaped by the same hand that had shaped the walls. The ebbing motion of light flowed in controlled discipline, like the sentences of a speech giving voice to the changing facets of the walls.
    “Roark…”
”Yes, my dearest?”
”No…nothing…”
They walked back to the car together, his hand clasping her wrist.
    12.
THE OPENING of the Stoddard Temple was announced for the afternoon of November first.
    The press agent had done a good job. People talked about the event, about Howard Roark, about the architectural masterpiece which the city was to expect.
    On the morning of October 31 Hopton Stoddard returned from his journey around the world. Ellsworth Toohey met him at the pier.
    On the morning of November 1 Hopton Stoddard issued a brief statement announcing that there would be no opening. No explanation was given.
    On the morning of November 2 the New York Banner came out with the column “One Small Voice” by Ellsworth M. Toohey subtitled “Sacrilege.” It read as follows:
#
    “The time has come, the walrus said,
    To talk of many things:
    Of ships–and shoes–and Howard Roark–
    And cabbages–and kings–
    And why the sea is boiling hot–
    And whether Roark has wings. #
    “It is not our function–paraphrasing a philosopher whom we do not like–to be a fly swatter, but when a fly acquires delusions of grandeur, the best of us must stoop to do a little job of extermination.
    “There has been a great deal of talk lately about somebody named Howard Roark. Since freedom of speech is our sacred heritage and includes the freedom to waste one’s time, there would have been no harm in such talk–beyond the fact that one could find so many endeavors more profitable than discussions of a man who seems to have nothing to his credit except a building that was begun and could not be completed. There would have been no harm, if the ludicrous had not become the tragic–and the fraudulent.
    “Howard Roark–as most of you have not heard and are not likely to hear again–is an architect. A year ago he was entrusted with an assignment of extraordinary responsibility. He was commissioned to erect a great monument in the absence of the owner who believed in him and gave him complete freedom of action. If the terminology of our criminal law could be applied to the realm of art, we would have to say that what Mr. Roark delivered constitutes the equivalent of spiritual embezzlement.
    “Mr. Hopton Stoddard, the noted philanthropist, had intended to present the City of New York with a Temple of Religion, a nonsectarian cathedral symbolizing the spirit of human faith. What Mr. Roark has built for him might be a warehouse–though it does not seem practical. It might be a brothel–which is more likely, if we consider some of its sculptural ornamentation. It is certainly not a temple.
    “It seems as if a deliberate malice had reversed in this building every conception proper to a religious structure. Instead of being austerely enclosed, this alleged temple is wide open, like a western saloon. Instead of a mood of deferential sorrow, befitting a place where one contemplates eternity and realizes the insignificance of man, this building has a quality of loose, orgiastic elation. Instead of the soaring lines reaching for heaven, demanded by the
    very nature of a temple, as a symbol of man’s quest for something higher than his little ego, this building is flauntingly horizontal, its belly in the mud, thus declaring its allegiance to the carnal, glorifying the gross pleasures of the flesh above those of the spirit. The statue of a nude female in a place where men come to be uplifted speaks for itself and requires no further comment.
    “A person entering a temple seeks release from himself. He wishes to humble his pride, to confess his unworthiness, to beg forgiveness. He finds fulfillment in a sense of abject humility. Man’s proper posture in a house of God is on his knees. Nobody in his right mind would kneel within Mr. Roark’s temple. The place forbids it. The emotions it suggests are of a different nature: arrogance, audacity, defiance, self-exaltation. It is not a house of God, but the cell of a megalomaniac. It is not a temple, but its perfect antithesis, an insolent mockery of all religion. We would call it pagan but for the fact that the pagans were notoriously good architects.
    “This column is not the supporter of any particular creed, but simple decency demands that we respect the religious convictions of our fellow men. We felt we must explain to the public the nature of this deliberate attack on religion. We cannot condone an outrageous sacrilege.
    “If we seem to have forgotten our function as a critic of purely architectural values, we can say only that the occasion does not call for it. It is a mistake to glorify mediocrity by an effort at serious criticism. We seem to recall something or other that this Howard Roark has built before, and it had the same ineptitude, the same pedestrian quality of an overambitious amateur. All God’s chillun may have wings, but, unfortunately, this is not true of all God’s geniuses. “And that, my friends, is that. We are glad today’s chore is over. We really do not enjoy writing obituaries.”

    On November 3 Hopton Stoddard filed suit against Howard Roark for breach of contract and malpractice, asking damages; he asked a sum sufficient to have the Temple altered by another architect.
#
    It had been easy to persuade Hopton Stoddard. He had returned from his journey, crushed by the universal spectacle of religion, most particularly by the various forms in which the promise of hell confronted him all over the earth. He had been driven to the conclusion that his life qualified him for the worst possible hereafter under any system of faith. It had shaken what remained of his mind. The ship stewards, on his return trip, had felt certain that the old gentleman was senile.
    On the afternoon of his return Ellsworth Toohey took him to see the Temple. Toohey said nothing. Hopton Stoddard stared, and Toohey heard Stoddard’s false teeth clicking spasmodically. The place did not resemble anything Stoddard had seen anywhere in the world; nor anything he had expected. He did not know what to think. When he turned a glance of desperate appeal upon Toohey, Stoddard’s eyes looked like Jell-O. He waited. In that moment, Toohey could have convinced him of anything. Toohey spoke and said what he said later in his column.
    “But you told me this Roark was good!” Stoddard moaned in panic.
    “I had expected him to be good,” Toohey answered coldly.
    “But then–why?”
    “I don’t know,” said Toohey–and his accusing glance gave Stoddard to understand that there was an ominous guilt behind it all, and that the guilt was Stoddard’s.
    Toohey said nothing in the limousine, on their way back to Stoddard’s apartment, while Stoddard begged him to speak. He would not answer. The silence drove Stoddard to terror. In the apartment, Toohey led him to an armchair and stood before him, somber as a judge.
    “Hopton, I know why it happened.” “Oh, why?”
    “Can you think of any reason why I should have lied to you?”
    “No, of course not, you’re the greatest expert and the most honest man living, and I don’t understand, I just simply don’t understand at all!”
    “I do. When I recommended Roark, I had every reason to expect–to the best of my honest judgment–that he would give you a masterpiece. But he didn’t. Hopton, do you know what power can upset all the calculations of men?”
    “W-what power?”
    “God has chosen this way to reject your offering. He did not consider you worthy of presenting Him with a shrine. I guess you can fool me, Hopton, and all men, but you can’t fool God. He knows that your record is blacker than anything I suspected.”
    He went on speaking for a long time, calmly, severely, to a silent huddle of terror. At the end, he said:
    “It seems obvious, Hopton, that you cannot buy forgiveness by starting at the top. Only the pure in heart can erect a shrine. You must go through many humbler steps of expiation before you reach that stage. You must atone to your fellow men before you can atone to God. This building was not meant to be a temple, but an institution of human charity. Such as a home for subnormal children.”
    Hopton Stoddard would not commit himself to that. “Afterward, Ellsworth, afterward,” he moaned. “Give me time.” He agreed to sue Roark, as Toohey suggested, for recovery of the costs of alterations, and later to decide what these alterations would be.
    “Don’t be shocked by anything I will say or write about this,” Toohey told him in parting. “I shall be forced to stage a few things which are not quite true. I must protect my own reputation from a disgrace which is your fault, not mine. Just remember that you have sworn never to reveal who advised you to hire Roark.”
    On the following day “Sacrilege” appeared in the Banner and set the fuse. The announcement of Stoddard’s suit lighted it.
    Nobody would have felt an urge to crusade about a building; but religion had been attacked; the press agent had prepared the ground too well, the spring of public attention was wound, a great many people could make use of it.
    The clamor of indignation that rose against Howard Roark and his temple astonished everyone, except Ellsworth Toohey. Ministers damned the building in sermons. Women’s clubs passed resolutions of protest. A Committee of Mothers made page eight of the newspapers, with a petition that shrieked something about the protection of their children. A famous actress wrote an article on the essential unity of all the arts, explained that the Stoddard Temple had no sense of structural diction, and spoke of the time when she had played Mary Magdalene in a great Biblical drama. A society woman wrote an article on the exotic shrines she had seen in her dangerous jungle travels, praised the touching faith of the savages and reproached modern man for cynicism; the Stoddard Temple, she said, was a symptom of softness and decadence; the illustration showed her in breeches, one slim foot on the neck of a dead lion. A college professor wrote a letter to the editor about his spiritual experiences and stated that he could not have experienced them in a place like the Stoddard Temple. Kiki Holcombe wrote a letter to the editor about her views on life and death.
    The A.G.A. issued a dignified statement denouncing the Stoddard Temple as a spiritual and artistic fraud. Similar statements, with less dignity and more slang, were issued by the Councils of American Builders, Writers and Artists. Nobody had ever heard of them, but they were Councils and this gave weight to their voice. One man would say to another: “Do you know that the Council of American Builders has said this temple is a piece of architectural tripe?” in a tone suggesting intimacy with the best of the art world. The other wouldn’t want to reply that he had not heard of such a group, but would answer: “I expected them to say it. Didn’t you?”
    Hopton Stoddard received so many letters of sympathy that he began to feel quite happy. He had never been popular before. Ellsworth, he thought, was right; his brother men were forgiving him; Ellsworth was always right.
    The better newspapers dropped the story after a while. But the Banner kept it going. It had been a boon to the Banner. Gail Wynand was away, sailing his yacht through the Indian Ocean, and Alvah Scarret was stuck for a crusade. This suited him. Ellsworth Toohey needed to make no suggestions; Scarret rose to the occasion all by himself.
    He wrote about the decline of civilization and deplored the loss of the simple faith. He sponsored an essay contest for high-school students on “Why I Go to Church.” He ran a series of illustrated articles on “The Churches of Our Childhood.” He ran photographs of religious sculpture through the ages–the Sphinx, gargoyles, totem poles–and gave great prominence to pictures of Dominique’s statue, with proper captions of indignation, but omitting the model’s name. He ran cartoons of Roark as a barbarian with bearskin and club. He wrote many clever things about the Tower of Babel that could not reach heaven and about Icarus who flopped on his wax wings.
    Ellsworth Toohey sat back and watched. He made two minor suggestions: he found, in the Banner’s morgue, the photograph of Roark at the opening of the Enright House, the photograph of a man’s face in a moment of exaltation, and he had it printed in the Banner, over the caption: “Are you happy, Mr. Superman?” He made Stoddard open the Temple to the public while awaiting the trial of his suit. The Temple attracted crowds of people who left obscene drawings and inscriptions on the pedestal of Dominique’s statue.
    There were a few who came, and saw, and admired the building in silence. But they were the kind who do not take part in public issues. Austen Heller wrote a furious article in defense of Roark and of the Temple. But he was not an authority on architecture or religion, and the article was drowned in the storm.
    Howard Roark did nothing.
    He was asked for a statement, and he received a group of reporters in his office. He spoke without anger. He said: “I can’t tell anyone anything about my building. If I prepared a hash of words to stuff into other people’s brains, it would be an insult to them and to me. But I am glad you came here. I do have something to say. I want to ask every man who is interested in this to go and see the building, to look at it and then to use the words of his own mind, if he cares to speak.”
    The Banner printed the interview as follows: “Mr. Roark, who seems to be a publicity hound, received reporters with an air of swaggering insolence and stated that the public mind was hash. He did not choose to talk, but he seemed well aware of the advertising angles in the situation. All he cared about, he explained, was to have his building seen by as many people as possible.”
    Roark refused to hire an attorney to represent him at the coming trial. He said he would handle his own defense and refused to explain how he intended to handle it, in spite of Austen Heller’s angry protests.
    “Austen, there are some rules I’m perfectly willing to obey. I’m willing to wear the kind of clothes everybody wears, to eat the same food and use the same subways. But there are some things which I can’t do their way–and this is one of them.”
    “What do you know about courtrooms and law? He’s going to win.” “To win what?”
”His case.”
    “Is the case of any importance? There’s nothing I can do to stop him from touching the building. He owns it. He can blast it off the face of the earth or make a glue factory out of it. He can do it whether I win that suit or lose it.”
    “But he’ll take your money to do it with.” “Yes. He might take my money.”
    Steven Mallory made no comment on anything. But his face looked as it had looked on the night Roark met him for the first time.
    “Steve, talk about it, if it will make it easier for you,” Roark said to him one evening.
    “There’s nothing to talk about,” Mallory answered indifferently. “I told you I didn’t think they’d let you survive.”
    “Rubbish. You have no right to be afraid for me.”
”I’m not afraid for you. What would be the use? It’s something else.”
    Days later, sitting on the window sill in Roark’s room, looking out at the street, Mallory said suddenly:
    “Howard, do you remember what I told you about the beast I’m afraid of? I know nothing about Ellsworth Toohey. I had never seen him before I shot at him. I had only read what he writes. Howard, I shot at him because I think he knows everything about that beast.”
    Dominique came to Roark’s room on the evening when Stoddard announced his lawsuit. She said nothing. She put her bag down on a table and stood removing her gloves, slowly, as if she wished to prolong the intimacy of performing a routine gesture here, in his room; she looked down at her fingers. Then she raised her head. Her face looked as if she knew his worst suffering and it was hers and she wished to bear it like this, coldly, asking no words of mitigation.
    “You’re wrong,” he said. They could always speak like this to each other, continuing a conversation they had not begun. His voice was gentle. “I don’t feel that.”
    “I don’t want to know.”
    “I want you to know. What you’re thinking is much worse than the truth. I don’t believe it matters to me–that they’re going to destroy it. Maybe it hurts so much that I don’t even know I’m hurt. But I don’t think so. If you want to carry it for my sake, don’t carry more than I do. I’m not capable of suffering completely. I never have. It goes only down to a certain point and then it stops. As long as there is that untouched point, it’s not really pain. You mustn’t look like that.”
    “Where does it stop?”
    “Where I can think of nothing and feel nothing except that I designed that temple. I built it. Nothing else can seem very important.”
    “You shouldn’t have built it. You shouldn’t have delivered it to the sort of thing they’re doing.”
    “That doesn’t matter. Not even that they’ll destroy it. Only that it had existed.”
    She shook her head. “Do you see what I was saving you from when I took commissions away from you?…To give them no right to do this to you….No right to live in a building of yours…No right to touch you…not in any way….”
#
    When Dominique walked into Toohey’s office, he smiled, an eager smile of welcome, unexpectedly sincere. He forgot to control it while his eyebrows moved into a frown of disappointment; the frown and the smile remained ludicrously together for a moment. He was disappointed, because it was not her usual dramatic entrance; he saw no anger, no mockery; she entered like a bookkeeper on a business errand. She asked:
    “What do you intend to accomplish by it?”
    He tried to recapture the exhilaration of their usual feud. He
    “Sit down, my dear. I’m delighted to see you. Quite frankly and helplessly delighted. It really took you too long. I expected you here much sooner. I’ve had so many compliments on that little article of mine, but, honestly, it was no fun at all, I wanted to hear what you’d say.”
    “What do you intend to accomplish by it?”
    “Look, darling, I do hope you didn’t mind what I said about that uplifting statue of yours. I thought you d understand I just couldn’t pass up that one.”
    “What is the purpose of that lawsuit?”
    “Oh well, you want to make me talk. And I did so want to hear you. But half a pleasure is better than none. I want to talk. I’ve waited for you so impatiently. But I do wish you’d sit down, I’ll be more comfortable….No? Well, as you prefer, so long as you don’t run away. The lawsuit? Well, isn’t it obvious?”
    “How is it going to stop him?” she asked in the tone one would use to recite a list of statistics. “It will prove nothing, whether he wins or loses. The whole thing is just a spree for great number of louts, filthy but pointless. I did not think you wasted your time on stink bombs. All of it will be forgotten before Christmas.”
    “My God, but I must be a failure! I never thought of myself as such a poor teacher. That you should have learned so little in two years of close association with me! It’s really discouraging. Since you are the most intelligent woman I know, the fault must be mine. Well, let’s see, you did learn one thing: that I don’t waste my time. Quite correct. I don’t. Right, my dear, everything will be forgotten by next Christmas. And that, you see, will be the achievement. You can fight a live issue. You can’t fight a dead one. Dead issues, like all dead things, don’t just vanish, but leave some decomposing matter behind. A most unpleasant thing to carry on your name. Mr. Hopton Stoddard will be thoroughly forgotten. The Temple will be forgotten. The lawsuit will be forgotten. But here’s what will remain: ‘Howard Roark? Why, how could you trust a man like that? He’s an enemy of religion. He’s completely immortal. First thing you know, he’ll gyp you on your construction costs.’ ‘Roark? He’s no good–why, a client had to sue him because he made such a botch of a building.’ ‘Roark? Roark? Wait a moment, isn’t that the guy who got into all the papers over some sort of a mess? Now what was it? Some rotten kind of scandal, the owner of the building–I think the place was a disorderly house–anyway the owner had to sue him. You don’t want to get involved with a notorious character like that. What for, when there are so many decent architects to choose from?’ Fight that, my dear. Tell me a way to fight it. Particularly when you have no weapons except your genius, which is not a weapon but a great liability.”
    Her eyes were disappointing; they listened patiently, an unmoving glance that would not become anger. She stood before his desk, straight, controlled, like a sentry in a storm who knows that he has to take it and has to remain there even when he can take it no longer.
    “I believe you want me to continue,” said Toohey. “Now you see the peculiar effectiveness of a dead issue. You can’t talk your way out of it, you can’t explain, you can’t defend yourself. Nobody wants to listen. It is difficult enough to acquire fame. It is impossible to change its nature once you’ve acquired it. No, you can never ruin an architect by proving that he’s a bad architect. But you can ruin him because he’s an atheist, or because somebody sued him, or because he slept with some woman, or because he pulls wings off bottleflies. You’ll say it doesn’t make sense? Of course it doesn’t. That’s why it works. Reason can be fought with reason. How are you going to fight the unreasonable? The trouble with you, my dear, and with most people, is that you don’t have sufficient respect for the senseless. The senseless is the major factor in our lives. You have no chance if it is your enemy. But if you can make it become your ally–ah, my dear!…Look, Dominique, I will stop talking the moment you show a sign of being frightened.”
    “Go on,” she said.
    “I think you should now ask me a question, or perhaps you don’t like to be obvious and feel that I must guess the question myself? I think you’re right. The question is, why did I choose Howard Roark? Because–to quote my own article–it is not my function to be a fly swatter. I quote this now with a somewhat different meaning, but we’ll let that pass. Also, this has helped me to get something I wanted from Hopton Stoddard, but that’s only a minor side- issue, an incidental, just pure gravy. Principally, however, the whole thing was an experiment. Just a test skirmish, shall we say? The results are most gratifying. If you were not involved as you are, you’d be the one person who’d appreciate the spectacle. Really, you know, I’ve done very little when you consider the extent of what followed. Don’t you find it interesting to see a huge, complicated piece of machinery, such as our society, all levers and belts and interlocking gears, the kind that looks as if one would need an army to operate it–and you find that by pressing your little finger against one spot, the one vital spot, the center of all its gravity, you can make the thing crumble into a worthless heap of scrap iron? It can be done, my dear. But it takes a long time. It takes centuries. I have the advantage of many experts who came before me. I think I shall be the last and the successful one of the line, because– though not abler than they were–I see more clearly what we’re after. However, that’s abstraction. Speaking of concrete reality, don’t you find anything amusing in my little experiment? I do. For instance, do you notice that all the wrong people are on the wrong sides? Alvah Scarret, the college professors, the newspaper editors, the respectable mothers and the Chambers of Commerce should have come flying to the defense of Howard Roark–if they value their own lives. But they didn’t. They are upholding Hopton Stoddard. On the other hand I heard that some screwy bunch of cafeteria radicals called ‘The New League of Proletarian Art’ tried to enlist in support of Howard Roark–they said he was a victim of capitalism–when they should have known that Hopton Stoddard is their champion. Roark, by the way, had the good sense to decline. He understands. You do. I do. Not many others. Oh, well. Scrap iron has its uses.”
    She turned to leave the room.
    “Dominique, you’re not going?” He sounded hurt. “You won’t say anything? Not anything at all?”
    “No.”
    “Dominique, you’re letting me down. And how I waited for you! I’m a very self-sufficient person, as a rule, but I do need an audience once in a while. You’re the only person with whom I can be myself. I suppose it’s because you have such contempt for me that nothing I say can make any difference. You see, I know that, but I don’t care. Also, the methods I use on other people would never work on you. Strangely enough, only my honesty will. Hell, what’s the use of accomplishing a skillful piece of work if nobody knows that you’ve accomplished it? Had you been your old self, you’d tell me, at this point, that that is the psychology of a murderer who’s committed the perfect crime and then confesses because he can’t bear the idea that nobody knows it’s a perfect crime. And I’d answer that you’re right. I want an audience. That’s the trouble with victims–they don’t even know they’re victims, which is as it should be, but it does become monotonous and takes half the fun away. You’re such a rare treat–a victim who can appreciate the artistry of its own execution….For God’s sake, Dominique, are you leaving when I’m practically begging you to remain?”
    She put her hand on the doorknob. He shrugged and settled back in his chair.
    “All right,” he said. “Incidentally, don’t try to buy Hopton Stoddard out. He’s eating out of my hand just now. He won’t sell.” She had opened the door, but she stopped and pulled it shut again. “Oh, yes, of course I know that you’ve tried, it’s no use. You’re not that rich. You haven’t enough to buy that temple and you couldn’t raise enough. Also, Hopton won’t accept any money from you to pay for the alterations. I know you’ve offered that, too. He wants it from Roark. By the way, I don’t think Roark would like it if I let him know that you’ve tried.”
    He smiled in a manner that demanded a protest. Her face gave no answer. She turned to the door again. “Just one more question, Dominique. Mr. Stoddard’s attorney wants to know whether he can call you as a witness. An expert on architecture. You will testify for the plaintiff, of course?”
    “Yes. I will testify for the plaintiff.”
    #
The case of Hopton Stoddard versus Howard Roark opened in February of 1931.
    The courtroom was so full that mass reactions could be expressed only by a slow motion running across the spread of heads, a sluggish wave like the ripple under the tight-packed skin of a sea lion.
    The crowd, brown and streaked with subdued color, looked like a fruitcake of all the arts, with the cream of the A.G.A. rich and heavy on top. There were distinguished men and well- dressed, tight-lipped women; each woman seemed to feel an exclusive proprietorship of the art practiced by her escort, a monopoly guarded by resentful glances at the others. Almost everybody knew almost everybody else. The room had the atmosphere of a convention, an opening night and a family picnic. There was a feeling of “our bunch,”
    “our boys,” “our show.”
    Steven Mallory, Austen Heller, Roger Enright, Kent Lansing and Mike sat together in one corner. They tried not to look around them. Mike was worried about Steven Mallory. He kept close to Mallory, insisted on sitting next to him and glanced at him whenever a particularly offensive bit of conversation reached them. Mallory noticed it at last, and said: “Don’t worry, Mike. I won’t scream. I won’t shoot anyone.”
    “Watch your stomach, kid,” said Mike, “just watch your stomach. A man can’t get sick just because he oughta.”
    “Mike, do you remember the night when we stayed so late that it was almost daylight, and Dominique’s car was out of gas, and there were no busses, and we all decided to walk home, and there was sun on the rooftops by the time the first one of us got to his house?”
    “That’s right. You think about that, and I’ll think about the granite quarry.” “What granite quarry?”
    “It’s something made me very sick once, but then it turned out it make no difference at all, in the long run.”
    Beyond the windows the sky was white and flat like frosted glass. The light seemed to come from the banks of snow on roofs and ledges, an unnatural light that made everything in the room look naked.
    The judge sat hunched on his high bench as if he were roosting. He had a small face, wizened into virtue. He kept his hands upright in front of his chest, the fingertips pressed together. Hopton Stoddard was not present. He was represented by his attorney a handsome gentleman, tall and grave as an ambassador.
    Roark sat alone at the defense table. The crowd had stared at him and given up angrily, finding no satisfaction. He did not look crushed and he did not look defiant. He looked impersonal and calm. He was not like a public figure in a public place; he was like a man alone in his own room, listening to the radio. He took no notes; there were no papers on the table before him, only a large brown envelope. The crowd would have forgiven anything, except a man who could remain normal under the vibrations of its enormous collective sneer. Some of them had come prepared to pity him; all of them hated him after the first few minutes.
    The plaintiff’s attorney stated his case in a simple opening address; it was true, he admitted, that Hopton Stoddard had given Roark full freedom to design and build the Temple; the point was, however, that Mr. Stoddard had clearly specified and expected a temple; the building in question could not be considered a temple by any known standards; as the plaintiff proposed to prove with the help of the best authorities in the field.
    Roark waived his privilege to make an opening statement to the jury.
    Ellsworth Monkton Toohey was the first witness called by the plaintiff. He sat on the edge of the witness chair and leaned back, resting on the end of his spine: he lifted one leg and placed it horizontally across the other. He looked amused–but managed to suggest that his amusement was a well-bred protection against looking bored.
    The attorney went through a long list of questions about Mr. Toohey’s professional qualifications, including the number of copies sold of his book Sermons in Stone. Then he read aloud Toohey’s column “Sacrilege” and asked him to state whether he had written it. Toohey replied that he had. There followed a list of questions in erudite terms on the architectural merits of the Temple. Toohey proved that it had none. There followed an historical review. Toohey, speaking easily and casually, gave a brief sketch of all known civilizations and of their outstanding religious monuments–from the Incas to the Phoenicians to the Easter Islanders–including, whenever possible, the dates when these monuments were begun and the dates when they were completed, the number of workers employed in the construction and the approximate cost in modern American dollars. The audience listened punch-drunk.
    Toohey proved that the Stoddard Temple contradicted every brick, stone and precept of history. “I have endeavored to show,” he said in conclusion, “that the two essentials of the conception of a temple are a sense of awe and a sense of man’s humility. We have noted the gigantic proportions of religious edifices, the soaring lines, the horrible grotesques of monster- like gods, or, later, gargoyles. All of it tends to impress upon man his essential insignificance, to crush him by sheer magnitude, to imbue him with that sacred terror which leads to the meekness of virtue. The Stoddard Temple is a brazen denial of our entire past, an insolent ‘No’ flung in the face of history. I may venture a guess as to the reason why this case has aroused such public interest. All of us have recognized instinctively that it involves a moral issue much beyond its legal aspects. This building is a monument to a profound hatred of humanity. It is one man’s ego defying the most sacred impulses of all mankind, of every man on the street, of every man in this courtroom!”
    This was not a witness in court, but Ellsworth Toohey addressing a meeting–and the reaction was inevitable: the audience burst into applause. The judge struck his gavel and made a threat to have the courtroom cleared. Order was restored, but not to the faces of the crowd: the faces remained lecherously self-righteous. It was pleasant to be singled out and brought into the case as an injured party. Three-fourths of them had never seen the Stoddard Temple.
    “Thank you, Mr. Toohey,” said the attorney, faintly suggesting a bow. Then he turned to Roark and said with delicate courtesy: “Your witness.”
    “No questions,” said Roark.
Ellsworth Toohey raised one eyebrow and left the stand regretfully.
    “Mr. Peter Keating!” called the attorney. Peter Keating’s face looked attractive and fresh, as if he had had a good night’s sleep. He mounted the witness stand with a collegiate sort of gusto, swinging his shoulders and arms unnecessarily. He took the oath and answered the first questions gaily. His pose in the witness chair was strange: his torso slumped to one side with swaggering ease, an elbow on the chair’s arm; but his feet were planted awkwardly straight, and his knees were pressed tight together. He never looked at Roark.
    “Will you please name some of the outstanding buildings which you have designed, Mr. Keating?” the attorney asked.
    Keating began a list of impressive names; the first few came fast, the rest slower and slower, as if he wished to be stopped; the last one died in the air, unfinished.
    “Aren’t you forgetting the most important one, Mr. Keating?” the attorney asked. “Didn’t you design the Cosmo-Slotnick Building?”
    “Yes,” whispered Keating.
”Now, Mr. Keating, you attended the Stanton Institute of Technology at the same period as Mr.
    Roark?”
    “Yes.”
    “What can you tell us about Mr. Roark’s record there?”
    “He was expelled.”
    “He was expelled because he was unable to live up to the Institute’s high standard of requirements?”
    “Yes. Yes, that was it.”
    The judge glanced at Roark. A lawyer would have objected to this testimony as irrelevant. Roark made no objection.
    “At that time, did you think that he showed any talent for the profession of architecture?” “No.”
”Will you please speak a little louder, Mr. Keating?”
”I didn’t…think he had any talent.”
    Queer things were happening to Keating’s verbal punctuation: some words came out crisply, as if he dropped an exclamation point after each; others ran together, as if he would not stop to let himself hear them. He did not look at the attorney. He kept his eyes on the audience. At times, he looked like a boy out on a lark, a boy who has just drawn a mustache on the face of a beautiful girl on a subway toothpaste ad. Then he looked as if he were begging the crowd for support–as if he were on trial before them.
    “At one time you employed Mr. Roark in your office?” “Yes.”
”And you found yourself forced to fire him?” “Yes…we did.”
    “For incompetence?”
”Yes.”
”What can you tell us about Mr. Roark’s subsequent career?”
    “Well, you know, ‘career’ is a relative term. In volume of achievement any draftsman in our office has done more than Mr. Roark. We don’t call one or two buildings a career. We put up that many every month or so.”
    “Will you give us your professional opinion of his work?”
    “Well, I think it’s immature. Very startling, even quite interesting at times, but essentially– adolescent.”
    “Then Mr. Roark cannot be called a full-fledged architect?”
    “Not in the sense in which we speak of Mr. Ralston Holcombe, Mr. Guy Francon, Mr. Gordon Prescott–no. But, of course, I want to be fair. I think Mr. Roark had definite potentialities, particularly in problems of pure engineering. He could have made something of himself. I’ve tried to talk to him about it–I’ve tried to help him–I honestly did. But it was like talking to one of his pet pieces of reinforced concrete. I knew that he’d come to something like this. I wasn’t surprised when I heard that a client had had to sue him at last.”
    “What can you tell us about Mr. Roark’s attitude toward clients?”
    “Well, that’s the point. That’s the whole point. He didn’t care what the clients thought or wished, what anyone in the world thought or wished. He didn’t even understand how other architects could care. He wouldn’t even give you that, not even understanding, not even enough to…respect you a little just the same. I don’t see what’s so wrong with trying to please people. I don’t see what’s wrong with wanting to be friendly and liked and popular. Why is that a crime? Why should anyone sneer at you for that, sneer all the time, all the time, day and night, not giving you a moment’s peace, like the Chinese water torture, you know where they drop water on your skull drop by drop?”
    People in the audience began to realize that Peter Keating was drunk. The attorney frowned; the testimony had been rehearsed; but it was getting off the rails.
    “Well, now, Mr. Keating, perhaps you’d better tell us about Mr. Roark’s views on architecture.”
    “I’ll tell you, if you want to know. He thinks you should take your shoes off and kneel, when you speak of architecture. That’s what he thinks. Now why should you? Why? It’s a business like any other, isn’t it? What’s so damn sacred about it? Why do we have to be all keyed up? We’re only human. We want to make a living. Why can’t things be simple and easy? Why do we have to be some sort of God-damn heroes?”
    “Now, now, Mr. Keating, I think we’re straying slightly from the subject. We’re…”
    “No, we’re not. I know what I’m talking about. You do, too. They all do. Every one of them here. I’m talking about the Temple. Don’t you see? Why pick a fiend to build a temple? Only a very human sort of man should be chosen to do that. A man who understands…and forgives. A man who forgives…That’s what you go to church for–to be…forgiven…”
    “Yes, Mr. Keating, but speaking of Mr. Roark…”
    “Well, what about Mr. Roark? He’s no architect. He’s no good. Why should I be afraid to say that he’s no good? Why are you all afraid of him?”
    “Mr. Keating, if you’re not well and wish to be dismissed…?” Keating looked at him, as if awakening. He tried to control himself. After a while he said, his voice flat, resigned:
    “No. I’m all right. I’ll tell you anything you want. What is it you want me to say?”
    “Will you tell us–in professional terms–your opinion of the structure known as the Stoddard T emple?”
    “Yes. Sure. The Stoddard Temple…The Stoddard Temple has an improperly articulated plan, which leads to spatial confusion. There is no balance of masses. It lacks a sense of symmetry. Its proportions are inept.” He spoke in a monotone. His neck was stiff; he was making an effort not to let it drop forward. “It’s out of scale. It contradicts the elementary principles of composition. The total effect is that of…”
    “Louder please, Mr. Keating.”
    “The total effect is that of crudeness and architectural illiteracy. It shows…it shows no sense of structure, no instinct for beauty, no creative imagination, no…” he closed his eyes, “…artistic integrity…”
    “Thank you, Mr. Keating. That is all.”
The attorney turned to Roark and said nervously: “Your witness.”
”No questions,” said Roark.
This concluded the first day of the trial.
    That evening Mallory, Heller, Mike, Enright and Lansing gathered in Roark’s room. They had not consulted one another, but they all came, prompted by the same feeling. They did not talk about the trial, but there was no strain and no conscious avoidance of the subject. Roark sat on his drafting table and talked to them about the future of the plastics industry. Mallory laughed aloud suddenly, without apparent reason. “What’s the matter, Steve?” Roark asked. “I just thought…Howard, we all came here to help you, to cheer you up. But it’s you who’re helping us, instead. You’re supporting your supporters, Howard.”
    That evening, Peter Keating lay half-stretched across a table in a speakeasy, one arm extending along the table top, his face on his arm.
    In the next two days a succession of witnesses testified for the plaintiff. Every examination began with questions that brought out the professional achievements of the witness. The attorney gave them leads like an expert press agent. Austen Heller remarked that architects must have fought for the privilege of being called to the witness stand, since it was the grandest spree of publicity in a usually silent profession.
    None of the witnesses looked at Roark. He looked at them. He listened to the testimony. He said: “No questions,” to each one.
    Ralston Holcombe on the stand, with flowing tie and gold-headed cane, had the appearance of a Grand Duke or a beer-garden composer. His testimony was long and scholarly, but it came down to:
    “It’s all nonsense. It’s all a lot of childish nonsense. I can’t say that I feel much sympathy for Mr. Hopton Stoddard. He should have known better. It is a scientific fact that the architectural style of the Renaissance is the only one appropriate to our age. If our best people, like Mr. Stoddard, refuse to recognize this, what can you expect from all sorts of parvenus, would-be architects and the rabble in general? It has been proved that Renaissance is the only permissible style for all churches, temples and cathedrals. What about Sir Christopher Wren? Just laugh that off. And remember the greatest religious monument of all time–St. Peter’s in Rome. Are you going to improve upon St. Peter’s? And if Mr. Stoddard did not specifically insist on Renaissance, he got just exactly what he deserved. It serves him jolly well right.” Gordon L. Prescott wore a turtleneck sweater under a plaid coat, tweed trousers and heavy golf shoes.
    “The correlation of the transcendental to the purely spatial in the building under discussion is entirely screwy,” he said. “If we take the horizontal as the one-dimensional, the vertical as the two-dimensional, the diagonal as the three-dimensional, and the interpenetration of spaces as the fourth-dimensional–architecture being a fourth-dimensional art–we can see quite simply that this building is homaloidal, or–in the language of the layman–flat. The flowing life which comes from the sense of order in chaos, or, if you prefer, from unity in diversity, as well as vice versa, which is the realization of the contradiction inherent in architecture, is here absolutely absent. I am really trying to express myself as clearly as I can, but it is impossible to present a dialectic state by covering it up with an old fig leaf of logic just for the sake of the mentally lazy layman.”
    John Erik Snyte testified modestly and unobtrusively that he had employed Roark in his office, that Roark had been an unreliable, disloyal and unscrupulous employee, and that Roark had started his career by stealing a client from him.
    On the fourth day of the trial the plaintiff’s attorney called his last witness. “Miss Dominique Francon,” he announced solemnly.
    Mallory gasped, but no one heard it; Mike’s hand clamped down on his wrist and made him keep still.
    The attorney had reserved Dominique for his climax, partly because he expected a great deal from her, and partly because he was worried; she was the only unrehearsed witness; she had refused to be coached. She had never mentioned the Stoddard Temple in her column; but he had looked up her earlier writings on Roark; and Ellsworth Toohey had advised him to call her.
    Dominique stood for a moment on the elevation of the witness stand, looking slowly over the crowd. Her beauty was startling but too impersonal, as if it did not belong to her; it seemed present in the room as a separate entity. People thought of a vision that had not quite appeared, of a victim on a scaffold, of a person standing at night at the rail of an ocean liner.
    “What is your name?”
”Dominique Francon.”
”And your occupation, Miss Francon?”
”Newspaper woman.”
”You are the author of the brilliant column ‘Your House’ appearing in the New York Banner!” “I am the author of ‘Your House.’”
”Your father is Guy Francon, the eminent architect?”
    “Yes. My father was asked to come here to testify. He refused. He said he did not care for a building such as the Stoddard Temple, but he did not think that we were behaving like gentlemen.”
    “Well, now, Miss Francon, shall we confine our answers to our questions? We are indeed fortunate to have you with us, since you are our only woman witness, and women have always had the purest sense of religious faith. Being, in addition, an outstanding authority on architecture, you are eminently qualified to give us what I shall call, with all deference, the feminine angle on this case. Will you tell us in your own words what you think of the Stoddard T emple?”
    “I think that Mr. Stoddard has made a mistake. There would have been no doubt about the justice of his case if he had sued, not for alteration costs, but for demolition costs.”
    The attorney looked relieved. “Will you explain your reasons, Miss Francon?”
    “You have heard them from every witness at this trial.”
    “Then I take it that you agree with the preceding testimony?”
    “Completely. Even more completely than the persons who testified. They were very convincing witnesses.”
    “Will you…clarify that, Miss Francon? Just what do you mean?”
”What Mr. Toohey said: that this temple is a threat to all of us.”
”Oh, I see.”
”Mr. Toohey understood the issue so well. Shall I clarify it–in my own words?” “By all means.”
    “Howard Roark built a temple to the human spirit. He saw man as strong, proud, clean, wise and fearless. He saw man as a heroic being. And he built a temple to that. A temple is a place where man is to experience exaltation. He thought that exaltation comes from the consciousness of being guiltless, of seeing the truth and achieving it, of living up to one’s highest possibility, of knowing no shame and having no cause for shame, of being able to stand naked in full sunlight. He thought that exaltation means joy and that joy is man’s birthright. He thought that a place built as a setting for man is a sacred place. That is what Howard Roark thought of man and of exaltation. But Ellsworth Toohey said that this temple was a monument to a profound hatred of humanity. Ellsworth Toohey said that the essence of exaltation was to be scared out of your wits, to fall down and to grovel. Ellsworth Toohey said
    that man’s highest act was to realize his own worthlessness and to beg forgiveness. Ellsworth Toohey said it was depraved not to take for granted that man is something which needs to be forgiven. Ellsworth Toohey saw that this building was of man and of the earth–and Ellsworth Toohey said that this building had its belly in the mud. To glorify man, said Ellsworth Toohey, was to glorify the gross pleasure of the flesh, for the realm of the spirit is beyond the grasp of man. To enter that realm, said Ellsworth Toohey, man must come as a beggar, on his knees. Ellsworth Toohey is a lover of mankind.”
    “Miss Francon, we are not really discussing Mr. Toohey, so if you will confine yourself to…”
    “I do not condemn Ellsworth Toohey. I condemn Howard Roark. A building, they say, must be part of its site. In what kind of world did Roark build his temple? For what kind of men? Look around you. Can you see a shrine becoming sacred by serving as a setting for Mr. Hopton Stoddard? For Mr. Ralston Holcombe? For Mr. Peter Keating? When you look at them all, do you hate Ellsworth Toohey–or do you damn Howard Roark for the unspeakable indignity which he did commit? Ellsworth Toohey is right, that temple is a sacrilege, though not in the sense he meant. I think Mr. Toohey knows that, however. When you see a man casting pearls without getting even a pork chop in return–it is not against the swine that you feel indignation. It is against the man who valued his pearls so little that he was willing to fling them into the muck and to let them become the occasion for a whole concert of grunting, transcribed by the court stenographer.”
    “Miss Francon, I hardly think that this line of testimony is relevant or admissible…”
    “The witness must be allowed to testify,” the judge declared unexpectedly. He had been bored and he liked to watch Dominique’s figure. Besides, he knew that the audience was enjoying it, in the sheer excitement of scandal, even though their sympathies were with Hopton Stoddard.
    “Your Honor, some misunderstanding seems to have occurred,” said the attorney. “Miss Francon, for whom are you testifying? For Mr. Roark or Mr. Stoddard?”
    “For Mr. Stoddard, of course. I am stating the reasons why Mr. Stoddard should win this case. I have sworn to tell the truth.”
    “Proceed,” said the judge.
    “All the witnesses have told the truth. But not the whole truth. I am merely filling in the omissions. They spoke of a threat and of hatred. They were right. The Stoddard Temple is a threat to many things. If it were allowed to exist, nobody would dare to look at himself in the mirror. And that is a cruel thing to do to men. Ask anything of men. Ask them to achieve wealth, fame, love, brutality, murder, self-sacrifice. But don’t ask them to achieve self-respect. They will hate your soul. Well, they know best. They must have their reasons. They won’t say, of course, that they hate you. They will say that you hate them. It’s near enough, I suppose. They know the emotion involved. Such are men as they are. So what is the use of being a martyr to the impossible? What is the use of building for a world that does not exist?”
    “Your Honor, I don’t see what possible bearing this can have on…”
    “I am proving your case for you. I am proving why you must go with Ellsworth Toohey, as you will anyway. The Stoddard Temple must be destroyed. Not to save men from it, but to save it from men. What’s the difference, however? Mr. Stoddard wins. I am in full agreement with everything that’s being done here, except for one point. I didn’t think we should be allowed to get away with that point. Let us destroy, but don’t let us pretend that we are committing an act of virtue. Let us say that we are moles and we object to mountain peaks. Or, perhaps, that we are lemmings, the animals who cannot help swimming out to self-destruction. I realize fully that at this moment I am as futile as Howard Roark. This is my Stoddard Temple–my first and my last.” She inclined her head to the judge. “That is all, Your Honor.”
    “Your witness,” the attorney snapped to Roark. “No questions,” said Roark.
Dominique left the stand.
    The attorney bowed to the bench and said: “The plaintiff rests.”
The judge turned to Roark and made a vague gesture, inviting him to proceed.
    Roark got up and walked to the bench, the brown envelope in hand. He took out of the envelope ten photographs of the Stoddard Temple and laid them on the judge’s desk. He said:
    “The defense rests.”
    13.
HOPTON STODDARD won the suit.
    Ellsworth Toohey wrote in his column: “Mr. Roark pulled a Phryne in court and didn’t get away with it. We never believed that story in the first place.”
    Roark was instructed to pay the costs of the Temple’s alterations. He said that he would not appeal the case. Hopton Stoddard announced that the Temple would be remodeled into the Hopton Stoddard Home for Subnormal Children.
    On the day after the end of the trial Alvah Scarret gasped when he glanced at the proofs of “Your House” delivered to his desk: the column contained most of Dominique’s testimony in court. Her testimony had been quoted in the newspaper accounts of the case but only in harmless excerpts. Alvah Scarret hurried to Dominique’s office.
    “Darling, darling, darling,” he said, “we can’t print that.”
    She looked at him blankly and said nothing.
    “Dominique, sweetheart, be reasonable. Quite apart from some of the language you use and some of your utterly unprintable ideas, you know very well the stand this paper has taken on the case. You know the campaign we’ve conducted. You’ve read my editorial this morning–‘A Victory for Decency.’ We can’t have one writer running against our whole policy.”
    “You’ll have to print it.”
    “But, sweetheart…”
    “Or I’ll have to quit.”
    “Oh, go on, go on, go on, don’t be silly. Now don’t get ridiculous. You know better than that. We can’t get along without you. We can’t…”
    “You’ll have to choose, Alvah.”
    Scarret knew that he would get hell from Gail Wynand if he printed the thing, and might get hell if he lost Dominique Francon whose column was popular. Wynand had not returned from his cruise. Scarret cabled him in Bali, explaining the situation.
    Within a few hours Scarret received an answer. It was in Wynand’s private code. Translated it read FIRE THE BITCH. G.W.
    Scarret stared at the cable, crushed. It was an order that allowed no alternative, even if Dominique surrendered. He hoped she would resign. He could not face the thought of having to fire her.
    Through an office boy whom he had recommended for the job, Toohey obtained the decoded copy of Wynand’s cable. He put it in his pocket and went to Dominique’s office. He had not seen her since the trial. He found her engaged in emptying the drawers of her desk.
    “Hello,” he said curtly. “What are you doing?” “Waiting to hear from Alvah Scarret.” “Meaning?”
”Waiting to hear whether I’ll have to resign.” “Feel like talking about the trial?”
    “No.”
    “I do. I think I owe you the courtesy of admitting that you’ve done what no one has ever done before: you proved me wrong.” He spoke coldly; his face looked flat; his eyes had no trace of kindness. “I had not expected you to do what you did on the stand. It was a scurvy trick. Though up to your usual standard. I simply miscalculated the direction of your malice. However, you did have the good sense to admit that your act was futile. Of course, you made your point. And mine. As a token of appreciation, I have a present for you.” He laid the cable on her desk. She read it and stood holding it in her hand. “You can’t even resign, my dear,” he said. “You can’t make that sacrifice to your pearl-casting hero. Remembering that you attach such great importance to not being beaten except by your own hand, I thought you would enjoy this.”
    She folded the cable and slipped it into her purse.
”Thank you, Ellsworth.”
”If you’re going to fight me, my dear, it will take more than speeches.” “Haven’t I always?”
    “Yes. Yes, of course you have. Quite right. You’re correcting me again. You have always fought me–and the only time you broke down and screamed for mercy was on that witness stand.”
    “That’s right.”
    “That’s where I miscalculated.”
    “Yes.”
    He bowed formally and left the room.
    She made a package of the things she wanted to take home. Then she went to Scarret’s office. She showed him the cable in her hand, but she did not give it to him.
    “Okay, Alvah,” she said.
”Dominique, I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t help it, it was–How the hell did you get that?”
    “It’s all right, Alvah. No, I won’t give it back to you. I want to keep it.” She put the cable back in her bag. “Mail me my check and anything else that has to be discussed.”
    “You…you were going to resign anyway, weren’t you?”
”Yes, I was. But I like it better–being fired.”
”Dominique, if you knew how awful I feel about it. I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it.”
    “So you people made a martyr out of me, after all. And that is the one thing I’ve tried all my life not to be. It’s so graceless, being a martyr. It’s honoring your adversaries too much. But I’ll tell you this, Alvah–I’ll tell it to you, because I couldn’t find a less appropriate person to hear it:
    nothing that you do to me–or to him–will be worse than what I’ll do myself. If you think I can’t take the Stoddard Temple, wait till you see what I can take.”
#
    On an evening three days after the trial Ellsworth Toohey sat in his room, listening to the radio. He did not feel like working and he allowed himself a rest, relaxing luxuriously in an armchair, letting his fingers follow the rhythm of a complicated symphony. He heard a knock at his door. “Co-ome in,” he drawled.
    Catherine came in. She glanced at the radio by way of apology for her entrance. “I knew you weren’t working, Uncle Ellsworth. I want to speak to you.”
    She stood slumped, her body thin and curveless. She wore a skirt of expensive tweed, unpressed. She had smeared some makeup on her face; the skin showed lifeless under the patches of powder. At twenty-six she looked like a woman trying to hide the fact of being over thirty.
    In the last few years, with her uncle’s help, she had become an able social worker. She held a paid job in a settlement house, she had a small bank account of her own; she took her friends out to lunch, older women of her profession, and they talked about the problems of unwed mothers, self-expression for the children of the poor, and the evils of industrial corporations.
    In the last few years Toohey seemed to have forgotten her existence. But he knew that she was enormously aware of him in her silent, self-effacing way. He was seldom first to speak to her. But she came to him continuously for minor advice. She was like a small motor running on his energy, and she had to stop for refueling once in a while. She would not go to the theater without consulting him about the play. She would not attend a lecture course without asking his opinion. Once she developed a friendship with a girl who was intelligent, capable, gay and loved the poor, though a social worker. Toohey did not approve of the girl. Catherine dropped her.
    When she needed advice, she asked for it briefly, in passing, anxious not to delay him: between the courses of a meal, at the elevator door on his way out, in the living room when some important broadcast stopped for station identification. She made it a point to show that she would presume to claim nothing but the waste scraps of his time.
    So Toohey looked at her, surprised, when she entered his study. He said:
    “Certainly, pet. I’m not busy. I’m never too busy for you, anyway. Turn the thing down a bit, will you?”
    She softened the volume of the radio, and she slumped down in an armchair facing him. Her movements were awkward and contradictory, like an adolescent’s: she had lost the habit of moving with assurance, and yet, at times, a gesture, a jerk of her head, would show a dry, overbearing impatience which she was beginning to develop.
    She looked at her uncle. Behind her glasses, her eyes were still and tense, but unrevealing. She said:
    “What have you been doing, Uncle Ellsworth? I saw something in the papers about winning some big lawsuit that you were connected with. I was glad. I haven’t read the papers for months. I’ve been so busy…No, that’s not quite true. I’ve had the time, but when I came home I just couldn’t make myself do anything, I just fell in bed and went to sleep. Uncle Ellsworth, do people sleep a lot because they’re tired or because they want to escape from something?”
    “Now, my dear, this doesn’t sound like you at all. None of it.” She shook her head helplessly: “I know.”
    “What is the matter?”
She said, looking at the toes of her shoes, her lips moving with effort:
    “I guess I’m no good, Uncle Ellsworth.” She raised her eyes to him. “I’m so terribly unhappy.” He looked at her silently, his face earnest, his eyes gentle. She whispered:
”You understand?” He nodded. “You’re not angry at me? You don’t despise me?”
”My dear, how could I?”
    “I didn’t want to say it. Not even to myself. It’s not just tonight, it’s for a long time back. Just let me say everything, don’t be shocked, I’ve got to tell it. It’s like going to confession as I used to–oh, don’t think I’m returning to that, I know religion is only a…a device of class exploitation, don’t think I’d let you down after you explained it all so well. I don’t miss going to church. But it’s just–it’s just that I’ve got to have somebody listen.”
    “Katie, darling, first of all, why are you so frightened? You mustn’t be. Certainly not of speaking to me. Just relax, be yourself and tell me what happened.”
    She looked at him gratefully. “You’re…so sensitive, Uncle Ellsworth. That’s one thing I didn’t want to say, but you guessed. I am frightened. Because–well, you see, you just said, be yourself. And what I’m afraid of most is of being myself. Because I’m vicious.”
    He laughed, not offensively, but warmly, the sound destroying her statement. But she did not smile.
    “No, Uncle Ellsworth, it’s true. I’ll try to explain. You see, always, since I was a child, I wanted to do right. I used to think everybody did, but now I don’t think so. Some people try their best, even if they do make mistakes, and others just don’t care. I’ve always cared. I took it very seriously. Of course I knew that I’m not a brilliant person and that it’s a very big subject, good and evil. But I felt that whatever is the good–as much as it would be possible for me to know–I would do my honest best to live up to it. Which is all anybody can try, isn’t it? This probably sounds terribly childish to you.”
    “No, Katie, it doesn’t. Go on, my dear.”
    “Well, to begin with, I knew that it was evil to be selfish. That much I was sure of. So I tried never to demand anything for myself. When Peter would disappear for months…No, I don’t think you approve of that.”
    “Of what, my dear?”
    “Of Peter and me. So I won’t talk about that. It’s not important anyway. Well, you can see why I was so happy when I came to live with you. You’re as close to the ideal of unselfishness as anyone can be. I tried to follow you the best I could. That’s how I chose the work I’m doing. You never actually said that I should choose it, but I came to feel that you thought so. Don’t ask me how I came to feel it–it was nothing tangible, just little things you said. I felt very confident when I started. I knew that unhappiness comes from selfishness, and that one can find true happiness only in dedicating oneself to others. You said that. So many people have said that. Why, all the greatest men in history have been saying that for centuries.”
    “And?”
    “Well, look at me.”
    His face remained motionless for a moment, then he smiled gaily and said:
    “What’s wrong with you, pet? Apart from the fact that your stockings don’t match and that you could be more careful about your make-up?”
    “Don’t laugh, Uncle Ellsworth. Please don’t laugh. I know you say we must be able to laugh at everything, particularly at ourselves. Only–I can’t.”
    “I won’t laugh, Katie. But what is the matter?”
    “I’m unhappy. I’m unhappy in such a horrible, nasty, undignified way. In a way that seems…unclean. And dishonest. I go for days, afraid to think, to look at myself. And that’s wrong. It’s…becoming a hypocrite. I always wanted to be honest with myself. But I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!”
    “Hold on, my dear. Don’t shout. The neighbors will hear you.”
She brushed the back of her hand against her forehead. She shook her head. She whispered: “I’m sorry….I’ll be all right….”
”Just why are you unhappy, my dear?”
    “I don’t know. I can’t understand it. For instance, it was I who arranged to have the classes in prenatal care down at the Clifford House–it was my idea–I raised the money–I found the teacher. The classes are doing very well. I tell myself that I should be happy about it. But I’m not. It doesn’t seem to make any difference to me. I sit down and I tell myself: It was you who arranged to have Marie Gonzales’ baby adopted into a nice family–now, be happy. But I’m
not. I feel nothing. When I’m honest with myself, I know that the only emotion I’ve felt for years is being tired. Not physically tired. Just tired. It’s as if…as if there were nobody there to feel any more.”
    She took off her glasses, as if the double barrier of her glasses and his prevented her from reaching him. She spoke, her voice lower, the words coming with greater effort:
    “But that’s not all. There’s something much worse. It’s doing something horrible to me. I’m beginning to hate people, Uncle Ellsworth. I’m beginning to be cruel and mean and petty in a way I’ve never been before. I expect people to be grateful to me. I…I demand gratitude. I find myself pleased when slum people bow and scrape and fawn over me. I find myself liking only those who are servile. Once…once I told a woman that she didn’t appreciate what people like us did for trash like her. I cried for hours afterward, I was so ashamed. I begin to resent it when people argue with me. I feel that they have no right to minds of their own, that I know best, that I’m the final authority for them. There was a girl we were worried about, because she was running around with a very handsome boy who had a bad reputation, I tortured her for weeks about it, telling her how he’d get her in trouble and that she should drop him. Well, they got married and they’re the happiest couple in the district. Do you think I’m glad? No, I’m furious and I’m barely civil to the girl when I meet her. Then there was a girl who needed a job desperately–it was really a ghastly situation in her home, and I promised that I’d get her one. Before I could find it, she got a good job all by herself. I wasn’t pleased. I was sore as hell that somebody got out of a bad hole without my help. Yesterday, I was speaking to a boy who wanted to go to college and I was discouraging him, telling him to get a good job, instead. I was quite angry, too. And suddenly I realized that it was because I had wanted so much to go to college–you remember, you wouldn’t let me–and so I wasn’t going to let that kid do it either….Uncle Ellsworth, don’t you see? I’m becoming selfish. I’m becoming selfish in a way that’s much more horrible than if I were some petty chiseler pinching pennies off these people’s wages in a sweatshop!”
    He asked quietly:
”Is that all?”
She closed her eyes, and then she said, looking down at her hands:
    “Yes…except that I’m not the only one who’s like that. A lot of them are, most of the women I work with….I don’t know how they got that way….I don’t know how it happened to me….I used to feel happy when I helped somebody. I remember once–I had lunch with Peter that day–and on my way back I saw an old organ-grinder and I gave him five dollars I had in my bag. It was all the money I had; I’d saved it to buy a bottle of ‘Christmas Night,’ I wanted ‘Christmas Night’ very badly, but afterward every time I thought of that organ-grinder I was happy….I saw Peter often in those days….I’d come home after seeing him and I’d want to kiss every ragged kid on our block….I think I hate the poor now….I think all the other women do, too….But the poor don’t hate us, as they should. They only despise us….You know, it’s funny: it’s the masters who despise the slaves, and the slaves who hate the masters. I don’t know who is which.
    Maybe it doesn’t fit here. Maybe it does. I don’t know…” She raised her head with a last spurt of rebellion.
    “Don’t you see what it is that I must understand? Why is it that I set out honestly to do what I thought was right and it’s making me rotten? I think it’s probably because I’m vicious by nature and incapable of leading a good life. That seems to be the only explanation. But…but sometimes I think it doesn’t make sense that a human being is completely sincere in good will and yet the good is not for him to achieve. I can’t be as rotten as that. But…but I’ve given up everything, I have no selfish desire left, I have nothing of my own–and I’m miserable. And so are the other women like me. And I don’t know a single selfless person in the world who’s happy–except you.”
    She dropped her head and she did not raise it again; she seemed indifferent even to the answer she was seeking.
    “Katie,” he said softly, reproachfully, “Katie darling.” She waited silently.
    “Do you really want me to tell you the answer?” She nodded. “Because, you know, you’ve given the answer yourself, in the things you said.” She lifted her eyes blankly. “What have you been talking about? What have you been complaining about? About the fact that you are unhappy. About Katie Halsey and nothing else. It was the most egotistical speech I’ve ever heard in my life.”
    She blinked attentively, like a schoolchild disturbed by a difficult lesson.
    “Don’t you see how selfish you have been? You chose a noble career, not for the good you could accomplish, but for the personal happiness you expected to find in it.”
    “But I really wanted to help people.”
    “Because you thought you’d be good and virtuous doing it.”
    “Why–yes. Because I thought it was right. Is it vicious to want to do right?”
    “Yes, if it’s your chief concern. Don’t you see how egotistical it is? To hell with everybody so long as I’m virtuous.”
    “But if you have no…no self-respect, how can you be anything?”
    “Why must you be anything?”
    She spread her hands out, bewildered.
    “If your first concern is for what you are or think or feel or have or haven’t got–you’re still a common egotist.”
    “But I can’t jump out of my own body.”
”No. But you can jump out of your narrow soul.” “You mean, I must want to be unhappy?”
    “No. You must stop wanting anything. You must forget how important Miss Catherine Halsey is. Because, you see, she isn’t. Men are important only in relation to other men, in their usefulness, in the service they render. Unless you understand that completely, you can expect nothing but one form of misery or another. Why make such a cosmic tragedy out of the fact that you’ve found yourself feeling cruel toward people? So what? It’s just growing pains. One can’t jump from a state of animal brutality into a state of spiritual living without certain transitions. And some of them may seem evil. A beautiful woman is usually a gawky adolescent first. All growth demands destruction. You can’t make an omelet without breaking
    eggs. You must be willing to suffer, to be cruel, to be dishonest, to be unclean–anything, my dear, anything to kill the most stubborn of roots, the ego. And only when it is dead, when you care no longer, when you have lost your identity and forgotten the name of your soul–only then will you know the kind of happiness I spoke about, and the gates of spiritual grandeur will fall open before you.”
    “But, Uncle Ellsworth,” she whispered, “when the gates fall open, who is it that’s going to enter?”
    He laughed aloud, crisply. It sounded like a laugh of appreciation. “My dear,” he said, “I never thought you could surprise me.”
    Then his face became earnest again.
”It was a smart crack, Katie, but you know, I hope, that it was only a smart crack?” “Yes,” she said uncertainly, “I suppose so. Still…”
    “We can’t be too literal when we deal in abstractions. Of course it’s you who’ll enter. You won’t have lost your identity–you will merely have acquired a broader one, an identity that will be part of everybody else and of the whole universe.”
    “How? In what way? Part of what?”
    “Now you see how difficult it is to discuss these things when our entire language is the language of individualism, with all its terms and superstitions. ‘Identity’–it’s an illusion, you know. But you can’t build a new house out of crumbling old bricks. You can’t expect to understand me completely through the medium of present-day conceptions. We are poisoned by the superstition of the ego. We cannot know what will be right or wrong in a selfless society, nor what we’ll feel, nor in what manner. We must destroy the ego first. That is why the mind is so unreliable. We must not think. We must believe. Believe, Katie, even if your mind objects. Don’t think. Believe. Trust your heart, not your brain. Don’t think. Feel. Believe.”
    She sat still, composed, but somehow she looked like something run over by a tank. She whispered obediently:
    “Yes, Uncle Ellsworth…I…I didn’t think of it that way. I mean I always thought that I must think…But you’re right, that is, if right is the word I mean, if there is a word…Yes, I will believe….I’ll try to understand….No, not to understand. To feel. To believe, I mean….Only I’m so weak….I always feel so small after talking to you….I suppose I was right in a way–I am worthless…but it doesn’t matter…it doesn’t matter….”
    #
When the doorbell rang on the following evening Toohey went to open the door himself.
    He smiled when he admitted Peter Keating. After the trial he had expected Keating to come to him; he knew that Keating would need to come. But he had expected him sooner.
    Keating walked in uncertainly. His hands seemed too heavy for his wrists. His eyes were puffed, and the skin of his face looked slack.
    “Hello, Peter,” said Toohey brightly. “Want to see me? Come right in. Just your luck. I have the whole evening free.”
    “No,” said Keating. “I want to see Katie.”
He was not looking at Toohey and he did not see the expression behind Toohey’s glasses.
    “Katie? But of course!” said Toohey gaily. “You know, you’ve never come here to call on Katie, so it didn’t occur to me, but…Go right in, I believe she’s home. This way–you don’t know her room?–second door.”
    Keating shuffled heavily down the hall, knocked on Catherine’s door and went in when she
    answered. Toohey stood looking after him, his face thoughtful.
    Catherine jumped to her feet when she saw her guest. She stood stupidly, incredulously for a moment, then she dashed to her bed to snatch a girdle she had left lying there and stuff it hurriedly under the pillow. Then she jerked off her glasses, closed her whole fist over them, and slipped them into her pocket. She wondered which would be worse: to remain as she was or to sit down at her dressing table and make up her face in his presence.
    She had not seen Keating for six months. In the last three years, they had met occasionally, at long intervals, they had had a few luncheons together, a few dinners, they had gone to the movies twice. They had always met in a public place. Since the beginning of his acquaintance with Toohey, Keating would not come to see her at her home. When they met, they talked as if nothing had changed. But they had not spoken of marriage for a long time. “Hello, Katie,” said Keating softly. “I didn’t know you wore glasses now.”
    “It’s just…it’s only for reading….I…Hello, Peter….I guess I look terrible tonight….I’m glad to see you, Peter….”
    He sat down heavily, his hat in his hand, his overcoat on. She stood smiling helplessly. Then she made a vague, circular motion with her hands and asked:
    “Is it just for a little while or…or do you want to take your coat off?”
    “No, it’s not just for a little while.” He got up, threw his coat and hat on the bed, then he smiled for the first time and asked: “Or are you busy and want to throw me out?”
    She pressed the heels of her hands against her eye sockets, and dropped her hands again quickly; she had to meet him as she had always met him, she had to sound light and normal: “No, no, Fin not busy at all.”
    He sat down and stretched out his arm in silent invitation. She came to him promptly, she put her hand in his, and he pulled her down to the arm of his chair.
    The lamplight fell on him, and she had recovered enough to notice the appearance of his face. “Peter,” she gasped, “what have you been doing to yourself? You look awful.”
”Drinking.”
”Not…like that!”
    “Like that. But it’s over now.”
    “What was it?”
    “I wanted to see you, Katie. I wanted to see you.”
    “Darling…what have they done to you?”
    “Nobody’s done anything to me. I’m all right now. I’m all right. Because I came here…Katie, have you ever heard of Hopton Stoddard?”
    “Stoddard?…I don’t know. I’ve seen the name somewhere.”
    “Well, never mind, it doesn’t matter. I was only thinking how strange it is. You see, Stoddard’s an old bastard who just couldn’t take his own rottenness any more, so to make up for it he built a big present to the city. But when I…when I couldn’t take any more, I felt that the only way I could make up for it was by doing the thing I really wanted to do most–by coming here.”
    “When you couldn’t take–what, Peter?”
    “I’ve done something very dirty, Katie. I’ll tell you about it some day, but not now….Look will you say that you forgive me–without asking what it is? I’ll think…I’ll think that I’ve been forgiven
    by someone who can never forgive me. Someone who can’t be hurt and so can’t forgive–but that makes it worse for me.”
    She did not seem perplexed. She said earnestly:
”I forgive you, Peter.”
He nodded his head slowly several times and said: “Thank you.”
    Then she pressed her head to his and she whispered:
    “You’ve gone through hell, haven’t you?”
    “Yes. But it’s all right now.”
    He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Then he did not think of the Stoddard Temple any longer, and she did not think of good and evil. They did not need to; they felt too clean.
    “Katie, why haven’t we married?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. And added hastily, saying it only because her heart was pounding, because she could not remain silent and because she felt called upon not to take advantage of him: “I guess it’s because we knew we don’t have to hurry,”
    “But we do. If we’re not too late already.” “Peter, you…you’re not proposing to me again?”
    “Don’t look stunned, Katie. If you do, I’ll know that you’ve doubted it all these years. And I couldn’t stand to think that just now. That’s what I came here to tell you tonight. We’re going to get married. We’re going to get married right away.”
    “Yes, Peter.”
    “We don’t need announcements, dates, preparations, guests, any of it. We’ve let one of those things or another stop us every time. I honestly don’t know just how it happened that we’ve let it all drift like that….We won’t say anything to anyone. We’ll just slip out of town and get married. We’ll announce and explain afterward, if anyone wants explanations. And that means your uncle, and my mother, and everybody.”
    “Yes, Peter.”
    “Quit your damn job tomorrow. I’ll make arrangements at the office to take a month off. Guy will be sore as hell–I’ll enjoy that. Get your things ready–you won’t need much–don’t bother about the makeup, by the way–did you say you looked terrible tonight?–you’ve never looked lovelier. I’ll be here at nine o’clock in the morning, day after tomorrow. You must be ready to start then.”
    “Yes, Peter.”
    After he had gone, she lay on her bed, sobbing aloud, without restraint, without dignity, without a care in the world.
    Ellsworth Toohey had left the door of his study open. He had seen Keating pass by the door without noticing it and go out. Then he heard the sound of Catherine’s sobs. He walked to her room and entered without knocking. He asked:
    “What’s the matter, my dear? Has Peter done something to hurt you?”
    She half lifted herself on the bed, she looked at him, throwing her hair back off her face, sobbing exultantly. She said without thinking the first thing she felt like saying. She said
    something which she did not understand, but he did: “I’m not afraid of you, Uncle Ellsworth!”
    14.
    “WHO?” gasped Keating.
    “Miss Dominique Francon,” the maid repeated.
    “You’re drunk, you damn fool!”
    “Mr. Keating!…”
    He was on his feet, he shoved her out of the way, he flew into the living room, and saw Dominique Francon standing there, in his apartment.
    “Hello, Peter.”
    “Dominique!…Dominique, how come?” In his anger, apprehension, curiosity and flattered pleasure, his first conscious thought was gratitude to God that his mother was not at home.
    “I phoned your office. They said you had gone home.”
    “I’m so delighted, so pleasantly sur…Oh, hell, Dominique, what’s the use? I always try to be correct with you and you always see through it so well that it’s perfectly pointless. So I won’t play the poised host. You know that I’m knocked silly and that your coming here isn’t natural and anything I say will probably be wrong.”
    “Yes, that’s better, Peter.”
    He noticed that he still held a key in his hand and he slipped it into his pocket; he had been packing a suitcase for his wedding trip of tomorrow. He glanced at the room and noted angrily how vulgar his Victorian furniture looked beside the elegance of Dominique’s figure. She wore a gray suit, a black fur jacket with a collar raised to her cheeks, and a hat slanting down. She did not look as she had looked on the witness stand, nor as he remembered her at dinner parties. He thought suddenly of that moment, years ago, when he stood on the stair landing outside Guy Francon’s office and wished never to see Dominique again. She was what she had been then: a stranger who frightened him by the crystal emptiness of her face.
    “Well, sit down, Dominique. Take your coat off.”
    “No, I shan’t stay long. Since we’re not pretending anything today, shall I tell you what I came for–or do you want some polite conversation first?”
    “No, I don’t want polite conversation.”
”All right. Will you marry me, Peter?”
He stood very still; then he sat down heavily–because he knew she meant it.
    “If you want to marry me,” she went on in the same precise, impersonal voice, “you must do it right now. My car is downstairs. We drive to Connecticut and we come back. It will take about three hours.”
    “Dominique…” He didn’t want to move his lips beyond the effort of her name. He wanted to think that he was paralyzed. He knew that he was violently alive, that he was forcing the stupor into his muscles and into his mind, because he wished to escape the responsibility of consciousness.
    “We’re not pretending, Peter. Usually, people discuss their reasons and their feelings first, then make the practical arrangements. With us, this is the only way. If I offered it to you in any
    other form, I’d be cheating you. It must be like this. No questions, no conditions, no explanations. What we don’t say answers itself. By not being said. There is nothing for you to ponder–only whether you want to do it or not.”
    “Dominique,” he spoke with the concentration he used when he walked down a naked girder in an unfinished building, “I understand only this much: I understand that I must try to imitate you, not to discuss it, not to talk, just answer.”
    “Yes.”
”Only–I can’t–quite.”
    “This is one time, Peter, when there are no protections. Nothing to hide behind. Not even words.”
    “If you’d just say one thing…”
    “No.”
    “If you’d give me time…”
    “No. Either we go downstairs together now or we forget it.”
    “You mustn’t resent it if I…You’ve never allowed me to hope that you could…that you…no, no, I won’t say it…but what can you expect me to think? I’m here, alone, and…”
    “And I’m the only one present to give you advice. My advice is to refuse. I’m honest with you, Peter. But I won’t help you by withdrawing the offer. You would prefer not to have had the chance of marrying me. But you have the chance. Now. The choice will be yours.”
    Then he could not hold on to his dignity any longer; he let his head drop, he pressed his fist to his forehead. “Dominique–why?”
    “You know the reasons. I told them to you once, long ago. If you haven’t the courage to think of them, don’t expect me to repeat them.”
    He sat still, his head down. Then he said: “Dominique, two people like you and me getting married, it’s almost a front-page event.”
    “Yes.”
”Wouldn’t it be better to do it properly, with an announcement and a real wedding ceremony?”
    “I’m strong, Peter, but I’m not that strong. You can have your receptions and your publicity afterward.”
    “You don’t want me to say anything now, except yes or no?” “That’s all.”
    He sat looking up at her for a long time. Her glance was on his eyes, but it had no more reality than the glance of a portrait. He felt alone in the room. She stood, patient, waiting, granting him nothing, not even the kindness of prompting him to hurry. “All right, Dominique. Yes,” he said at last. She inclined her head gravely in acquiescence. He stood up. “I’ll get my coat,” he said. “Do you want to take your car?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s an open car, isn’t it? Should I wear my fur coat? “No. Take a warm muffler, though. There’s a little wind.”
    “No luggage? We’re coming right back to the city?”
    “We’re coming right back.”
    He left the door to the hall open, and she saw him putting on his coat, throwing a muffler around his throat, with the gesture of flinging a cape over his shoulder. He stepped to the door of the living room, hat in hand, and invited her to go, with a silent movement of his head. In the hall outside he pressed the button of the elevator and he stepped back to let her enter first. He was precise, sure of himself, without joy, without emotion. He seemed more coldly masculine than he had ever been before.
    He took her elbow firmly, protectively, to cross the street where she had left her car. He opened the car’s door, let her slide behind the wheel and got in silently beside her. She leaned over across him and adjusted the glass wind screen on his side. She said: “If it’s not right, fix it any way you want when we start moving, so it won’t be too cold for you.” He said: “Get to the Grand Concourse, fewer lights there.” She put her handbag down on his lap while she took the wheel and started the car. There was suddenly no antagonism between them, but a quiet, hopeless feeling of comradeship, as if they were victims of the same impersonal disaster, who had to help each other.
    She drove fast, as a matter of habit, an even speed without a sense of haste. They sat silently to the level drone of the motor, and they sat patiently, without shifting the positions of their bodies, when the car stopped for a light. They seemed caught in a single streak of motion, an imperative direction like the flight of a bullet that could not be stopped on its course. There was a first hint of twilight in the streets of the city. The pavements looked yellow. The shops were still open. A movie theater had lighted its sign, and the red bulbs whirled jerkily, sucking the last daylight out of the air, making the street look darker.
    Peter Keating felt no need of speech. He did not seem to be Peter Keating any longer. He did not ask for warmth and he did not ask for pity. He asked nothing. She thought of that once, and she glanced at him, a glance of appreciation that was almost gentle. He met her eyes steadily; she saw understanding, but no comment. It was as if his glance said: “Of course,” nothing else.
    They were out of the city, with a cold brown road flying to meet them, when he said: “The traffic cops are bad around here. Got your press card with you, just in case?” “I’m not the press any longer.”
”You’re not what?”
    “I’m not a newspaper woman any more.” “You quit your job?”
”No, I was fired.”
”What are you talking about?”
    “Where have you been the last few days? I thought everybody knew it.” “Sorry. I didn’t follow things very well the last few days.”
    Miles later, she said: “Give me a cigarette. In my bag.” He opened her bag, and he saw her cigarette case, her compact, her lipstick, her comb, a folded handkerchief too white to touch, smelling faintly of her perfume. Somewhere within him he thought that this was almost like unbuttoning her blouse. But most of him was not conscious of the thought nor of the intimate proprietorship with which he opened the bag. He took a cigarette from her case, lighted it and put it from his lips to hers. “Thanks,” she said. He lighted one for himself and closed the bag.
    When they reached Greenwich, it was he who made the inquiries, told her where to drive, at what block to turn, and said, “Here it is,” when they pulled up in front of the judge’s house. He got out first and helped her out of the car. He pressed the button of the doorbell.
    They were married in a living room that displayed armchairs of faded tapestry, blue and purple, and a lamp with a fringe of glass beads. The witnesses were the judge’s wife and someone from next door named Chuck, who had been interrupted at some household task and smelled faintly of Clorox.
    Then they came back to their car and Keating asked: “Want me to drive if you’re tired?” She said: “No, I’ll drive.”
    The road to the city cut through brown fields where every rise in the ground had a shade of tired red on the side facing west. There was a purple haze eating away the edges of the fields, and a motionless streak of fire in the sky. A few cars came toward them as brown shapes, still visible; others had their lights on, two disquieting spots of yellow.
    Keating watched the road; it looked narrow, a small dash in the middle of the windshield, framed by earth and hills, all of it held within the rectangle of glass before him. But the road spread as the windshield flew forward. The road filled the glass, it ran over the edges, it tore apart to let them pass, streaming in two gray bands on either side of the car. He thought it was a race and he waited to see the windshield win, to see the car hurtle into that small dash before it had time to stretch.
    “Where are we going to live now, at first?” he asked. “Your place or mine?” “Yours, of course.”
”I’d rather move to yours.”
”No. I’m closing my place.”
    “You can’t possibly like my apartment.” “Why not?”
”I don’t know. It doesn’t fit you.”
”I’ll like it.”
    They were silent for a while, then he asked: “How are we going to announce this now?” “In any way you wish. I’ll leave it up to you.”
    It was growing darker and she switched on the car’s headlights. He watched the small blurs of traffic signs, low by the side of the road, springing suddenly into life as they approached, spelling out: “Left turn,”
    “Crossing ahead,” in dots of light that seemed conscious, malevolent, winking.
    They drove silently, but there was no bond in their silence now; they were not walking together toward disaster; the disaster had come; their courage did not matter any longer.
    He felt disturbed and uncertain as he always felt in the presence of Dominique Francon.
    He half turned to look at her. She kept her eyes on the road. Her profile in the cold wind was serene and remote and lovely in a way that was hard to bear. He looked at her gloved hands resting firmly, one on each side of the wheel. He looked down at her slender foot on the accelerator, then his eyes rose up the line of her leg. His glance remained on the narrow triangle of her tight gray skirt. He realized suddenly that he had a right to think what he was thinking.
    For the first time this implication of marriage occurred to him fully and consciously. Then he knew that he had always wanted this woman, that it was the kind of feeling he would have for a whore, only lasting and hopeless and vicious. My wife, he thought for the first time, without a trace of respect in the word. He felt so violent a desire that had it been summer he would have ordered her to drive into the first side lane and he would have taken her there.
    He slipped his arm along the back of the seat and encircled her shoulders, his fingers barely touching her. She did not move, resist or turn to look at him. He pulled his arm away, and he sat staring straight ahead.
    “Mrs. Keating,” he said flatly, not addressing her, just as a statement of fact. “Mrs. Peter Keating,” she said.
    When they stopped in front of his apartment house, he got out and held the door for her, but she remained sitting behind the wheel.
    “Good night, Peter,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    She added, before the expression of his face had turned into an obscene swearword: “I’ll send my things over tomorrow and we’ll discuss everything then. Everything will begin tomorrow, Peter.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “I have things to settle.”
    “But what will I tell people tonight?”
    “Anything you wish, if at all.”
    She swung the car into the traffic and drove away. #
    When she entered Roark’s room, that evening, he smiled, not his usual faint smile of acknowledging the expected, but a smile that spoke of waiting and pain.
    He had not seen her since the trial. She had left the courtroom after her testimony and he had heard nothing from her since. He had come to her house, but her maid had told him that Miss Francon could not see him.
    She looked at him now and she smiled. It was, for the first time, like a gesture of complete acceptance, as if the sight of him solved everything, answered all questions, and her meaning was only to be a woman who looked at him.
    They stood silently before each other for a moment, and she thought that the most beautiful words were those which were not needed.
    When he moved, she said: “Don’t say anything about the trial. Afterward.”
    When he took her in his arms, she turned her body to meet his straight on, to feel the width of his chest with the width of hers, the length of his legs with the length of hers, as if she were lying against him, and her feet felt no weight, and she was held upright by the pressure of his body.
    They lay in bed together that night, and they did not know when they slept, the intervals of exhausted unconsciousness as intense an act of union as the convulsed meetings of their bodies.
    In the morning, when they were dressed, she watched him move about the room. She saw the drained relaxation of his movements; she thought of what she had taken from him, and the heaviness of her wrists told her that her own strength was now in his nerves, as if they had exchanged their energy.
    He was at the other end of the room, his back turned to her for a moment, when she said, “Roark,” her voice quiet and low.
    He turned to her, as if he had expected it and, perhaps, guessed the rest.
    She stood in the middle of the floor, as she had stood on her first night in this room, solemnly composed to the performance of a rite.
    “I love you, Roark.”
She had said it for the first time.
She saw the reflection of her next words on his face before she had pronounced them. “I was married yesterday. To Peter Keating.”
    It would have been easy, if she had seen a man distorting his mouth to bite off sound, closing his fists and twisting them in defense against himself. But it was not easy, because she did not see him doing this, yet knew that this was being done, without the relief of a physical gesture.
    “Roark…” she whispered, gently, frightened.
He said: “I’m all right.” Then he said: “Please wait a moment…All right. Go on.”
    “Roark, before I met you, I had always been afraid of seeing someone like you, because I knew that I’d also have to see what I saw on the witness stand and I’d have to do what I did in that courtroom. I hated doing it, because it was an insult to you to defend you–and it was an insult to myself that you had to be defended….Roark, I can accept anything, except what seems to be the easiest for most people: the halfway, the almost, the just-about, the in- between. They may have their justifications. I don’t know. I don’t care to inquire. I know that it is the one thing not given me to understand. When I think of what you are, I can’t accept any reality except a world of your kind. Or at least a world in which you have a fighting chance and a fight on your own terms. That does not exist. And I can’t live a life torn between that which exists–and you. It would mean to struggle against things and men who don’t deserve to be your opponents. Your fight, using their methods–and that’s too horrible a desecration. It would mean doing for you what I did for Peter Keating: lie, flatter, evade, compromise, pander to every ineptitude–in order to beg of them a chance for you, beg them to let you live, to let you function, to beg them, Roark, not to laugh at them, but to tremble because they hold the power to hurt you. Am I too weak because I can’t do this? I don’t know which is the greater strength: to accept all this for you–or to love you so much that the rest is beyond acceptance. I don’t know. I love you too much.”
    He looked at her, waiting. She knew that he had understood this long ago, but that it had to be said.
    “You’re not aware of them. I am. I can’t help it, I love you. The contrast is too great. Roark, you won’t win, they’ll destroy you, but I won’t be there to see it happen. I will have destroyed myself first. That’s the only gesture of protest open to me. What else could I offer you? The things people sacrifice are so little. I’ll give you my marriage to Peter Keating. I’ll refuse to permit myself happiness in their world. I’ll take suffering. That will be my answer to them, and my gift to you. I shall probably never see you again. I shall try not to. But I will live for you, through every minute and every shameful act I take, I will live for you in my own way, in the only way I can.”
    He made a movement to speak, and she said:
    “Wait. Let me finish. You could ask, why not kill myself then. Because I love you. Because you exist. That alone is so much that it won’t allow me to die. And since I must be alive in order to know that you are, I will live in the world as it is, in the manner of life it demands. Not halfway, but completely. Not pleading and running from it, but walking out to meet it, beating it to the pain and the ugliness, being first to choose the worst it can do to me. Not as the wife of some half-decent human being, but as the wife of Peter Keating. And only within my own mind, only where nothing can touch it, kept sacred by the protecting wall of my own degradation, there will be the thought of you and the knowledge of you, and I shall say ‘Howard Roark to myself once in a while, and I shall feel that I have deserved to say it.” She stood before him, her face raised; her lips were not drawn, but closed softly, yet the shape of her mouth was too definite on her face, a shape of pain and tenderness, and resignation.
    In his face she saw suffering that was made old, as if it had been part of him for a long time, because it was accepted, and it looked not like a wound, but like a scar.
    “Dominique, if I told you now to have that marriage annulled at once–to forget the world and my struggle–to feel no anger, no concern, no hope–just to exist for me, for my need of you– as my wife–as my property…?”
    He saw in her face what she had seen in his when she told him of her marriage; but he was not frightened and he watched it calmly. After a while, she answered and the words did not come from her lips, but as if her lips were forced to gather the sounds from the outside: “I’d obey you.”
    “Now you see why I won’t do it. I won’t try to stop you. I love you, Dominique.” She closed her eyes, and he said:
    “You’d rather not hear it now? But I want you to hear it. We never need to say anything to each other when we’re together. This is–for the time when we won’t be together. I love you, Dominique. As selfishly as the fact that I exist. As selfishly as my lungs breathe air. I breathe for my own necessity, for the fuel of my body, for my survival. I’ve given you, not my sacrifice or my pity, but my ego and my naked need. This is the only way you can wish to be loved. This is the only way I can want you to love me. If you married me now, I would become your whole existence. But I would not want you then. You would not want yourself–and so you would not love me long. To say ‘I love you’ one must know first how to say the ‘I.’ The kind of surrender I could have from you now would give me nothing but an empty hulk. If I demanded it, I’d destroy you. That’s why I won’t stop you. I’ll let you go to your husband. I don’t know how I’ll live through tonight, but I will. I want you whole, as I am, as you’ll remain in the battle you’ve chosen. A battle is never selfless.”
    She heard, in the measured tension of his words, that it was harder for him to speak them than for her to listen. So she listened.
    “You must learn not to be afraid of the world. Not to be held by it as you are now. Never to be hurt by it as you were in that courtroom. I must let you learn it. I can’t help you. You must find your own way. When you have, you’ll come back to me. They won’t destroy me, Dominique. And they won’t destroy you. You’ll win, because you’ve chosen the hardest way of fighting for your freedom from the world. I’ll wait for you. I love you. I’m saying this now for all the years we’ll have to wait. I love you, Dominique.”
    Then he kissed her and let her go.
    15.
    AT NINE O’CLOCK that morning Peter Keating was pacing the floor of his room, his door locked. He forgot that it was nine o’clock and that Catherine was waiting for him. He had made himself forget her and everything she implied.
    The door of his room was locked to protect him from his mother. Last night, seeing his furious restlessness, she had forced him to tell her the truth. He had snapped that he was married to Dominique Francon, and he had added some sort of explanation about Dominique going out of town to announce the marriage to some old relative. His mother had been so busy with gasps of delight and questions, that he had been able to ‘answer nothing and to hide his panic; he was not certain that he had a wife and that she would come back to him in the morning.
    He had forbidden his mother to announce the news, but she had made a few telephone calls last night, and she was making a few more this morning, and now their telephone was ringing constantly, with eager voices asking: “Is it true?” pouring out sounds of amazement and congratulations. Keating could see the news spreading through the city in widening circles, by the names and social positions of the people who called. He refused to answer the telephone.
    It seemed to him that every corner of New York was flooded with celebration and that he alone, hidden in the watertight caisson of his room, was cold and lost and horrified.
    It was almost noon when the doorbell rang, and he pressed his hands to his ears, not to know who it was and what they wanted. Then he heard his mother’s voice, so shrill with joy that it sounded embarrassingly silly: “Petey darling, don’t you want to come out and kiss your wife?” He flew out into the hall, and there was Dominique, removing her soft mink coat, the fur throwing to his nostrils a wave of the street’s cold air touched by her perfume. She was smiling correctly, looking straight at him, saying: “Good morning, Peter.”
    He stood drawn up, for one instant, and in that instant he relived all the telephone calls and felt the triumph to which they entitled him. He moved as a man in the arena of a crowded stadium, he smiled as if he felt the ray of an arc light playing in the creases of his smile, and he said: “Dominique my dear, this is like a dream come true!”
    The dignity of their doomed understanding was gone and their marriage was what it had been intended to be.
    She seemed glad of it. She said: “Sorry you didn’t carry me over the threshold, Peter.” He did not kiss her, but took her hand and kissed her arm above the wrist, in casual, intimate tenderness.
    He saw his mother standing there, and he said with a dashing gesture of triumph: “Mother– Dominique Keating.”
    He saw his mother kissing her. Dominique returned the kiss gravely. Mrs. Keating was gulping: “My dear, I’m so happy, so happy, God bless you, I had no idea you were so beautiful!”
    He did not know what to do next, but Dominique took charge, simply, leaving them no time for wonder. She walked into the living room and she said: “Let’s have lunch first, and then you’ll show me the place, Peter. My things will be here in an hour or so.”
    Mrs. Keating beamed: “Lunch is all ready for three, Miss Fran…” She stopped. “Oh, dear, what am I to call you, honey? Mrs. Keating or…”
    “Dominique, of course,” Dominique answered without smiling.
”Aren’t we going to announce, to invite anyone, to…?” Keating began, but Dominique said: “Afterwards, Peter. It will announce itself.”
    Later, when her luggage arrived, he saw her walking into his bedroom without hesitation. She instructed the maid how to hang up her clothes, she asked him to help her rearrange the contents of the closets.
    Mrs. Keating looked puzzled. “But aren’t you children going to go away at all? It’s all so sudden and romantic, but–no honeymoon of any kind?”
    “No,” said Dominique, “I don’t want to take Peter away from his work.”
    He said: “This is temporary of course, Dominique. We’ll have to move to another apartment, a bigger one. I want you to choose it.”
    “Why, no,” she said. “I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ll remain here.”
    “I’ll move out,” Mrs. Keating offered generously, without thinking, prompted by an overwhelming fear of Dominique. “I’ll take a little place for myself.”
    “No,” said Dominique. “I’d rather you wouldn’t. I want to change nothing. I want to fit myself into Peter’s life just as it is.”
    “That’s sweet of you!” Mrs. Keating smiled, while Keating thought numbly that it was not sweet
    of her at all.
    Mrs. Keating knew that when she had recovered she would hate her daughter-in-law. She could have accepted snubbing. She could not forgive Dominique’s grave politeness.
    The telephone rang. Keating’s chief designer at the office delivered his congratulations and said: “We just heard it, Peter, and Guy’s pretty stunned. I really think you ought to call him up or come over here or something.”
    Keating hurried to the office, glad to escape from his house for a while. He entered the office like a perfect figure of a radiant young lover. He laughed and shook hands in the drafting room, through noisy congratulations, gay shouts of envy and a few smutty references. Then he hastened to Francon’s office.
    For an instant he felt oddly guilty when he entered and saw the smile on Francon’s face, a smile like a blessing. He tugged affectionately at Francon’s shoulders and he muttered: “I’m so happy, Guy, I’m so happy…”
    “I’ve always expected it,” said Francon quietly, “but now I feel right. Now it’s right that it should be all yours, Peter, all of it, this room, everything, soon.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Come, you always understand. I’m tired, Peter. You know, there comes a time when you get tired in a way that’s final and then…No, you wouldn’t know, you’re too young. But hell, Peter, of what use am I around here? The funny part of it is that I don’t care any more even about pretending to be of any use….I like to be honest sometimes. It’s a nice sort of feeling….Well, anyway, it might be another year or two, but then I’m going to retire. Then it’s all yours. It might amuse me to hang on around here just a little longer–you know, I actually love the place–it’s so busy, it’s done so well, people respect us–it was a good firm, Francon & Heyer, wasn’t it?– What the hell am I saying? Francon & Keating. Then it will be just Keating….Peter,” he asked softly, “why don’t you look happy?”
    “Of course I’m happy, I’m very grateful and all that, but why in blazes should you think of retiring now?”
    “I don’t mean that. I mean–why don’t you look happy when I say that it will be yours? I…I’d like you to be happy about that, Peter.”
    “For God’s sake, Guy, you’re being morbid, you’re…”
    “Peter, it’s very important to me–that you should be happy at what I’m leaving you. That you should be proud of it. And you are, aren’t you, Peter? You are?”
    “Well, who wouldn’t be?” He did not look at Francon. He could not stand the sound of pleading in Francon’s voice.
    “Yes, who wouldn’t be? Of course….And you are, Peter?”
    “What do you want?” snapped Keating angrily.
    “I want you to feel proud of me, Peter,” said Francon humbly, simply, desperately. “I want to know that I’ve accomplished something. I want to feel that it had some meaning. At the last summing up, I want to be sure that it wasn’t all–for nothing.”
    “You’re not sure of that? You’re not sure?” Keating’s eyes were murderous, as if Francon were a sudden danger to him.
    “What’s the matter, Peter?” Francon asked gently, almost indifferently.
    “God damn you, you have no right–not to be sure! At your age, with your name, with your prestige, with your…”
    “I want to be sure, Peter. I’ve worked very hard.”
    “But you’re not sure!” He was furious and frightened, and so he wanted to hurt, and he flung out the one thing that could hurt most, forgetting that it hurt him, not Francon, that Francon wouldn’t know, had never known, wouldn’t even guess: “Well, I know somebody who’ll be sure, at the end of his life, who’ll be so God-damn sure I’d like to cut his damn throat for it!”
    “Who?” asked Francon quietly, without interest. “Guy! Guy, what’s the matter with us? What are we talking about?”
    “I don’t know,” said Francon. He looked tired.
    That evening Francon came to Keating’s house for dinner. He was dressed jauntily, and he twinkled with his old gallantry as he kissed Mrs. Keating’s hand. But he looked grave when he congratulated Dominique and he found little to say to her; there was a pleading look in his eyes when he glanced up at her face. Instead of the bright, cutting mockery he had expected from her, he saw a sudden understanding. She said nothing, but bent down and kissed him on the forehead and held her lips pressed gently to his head a second longer than formality required. He felt a warm flood of gratitude–and then he felt frightened. “Dominique,” he whispered–the others could not hear him–“how terribly unhappy you must be….” She laughed gaily, taking his arm: “Why, no, Father, how can you say that!”
    “Forgive me,” he muttered, “I’m just stupid….This is really wonderful….”
    Guests kept coming in all evening, uninvited and unannounced, anyone who had heard the news and felt privileged to drop in. Keating did not know whether he was glad to see them or not. It seemed all right, so long as the gay confusion lasted. Dominique behaved exquisitely. He did not catch a single hint of sarcasm in her manner.
    It was late when the last guest departed and they were left alone among the filled ash trays and empty glasses. They sat at opposite ends of the living room, and Keating tried to postpone the moment of thinking what he had to think now.
    “All right, Peter,” said Dominique, rising, “let’s get it over with.”
    When he lay in the darkness beside her, his desire satisfied and left hungrier than ever by the unmoving body that had not responded, not even in revulsion, when he felt defeated in the one act of mastery he had hoped to impose upon her, his first whispered words were: “God damn you!”
    He heard no movement from her.
Then he remembered the discovery which the moments of passion had wiped off his mind. “Who was he?” he asked.
”Howard Roark,” she answered.
”All right,” he snapped, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to!”
    He switched on the light. He saw her lying still, naked, her head thrown back. Her face looked peaceful, innocent, clean. She said to the ceiling, her voice gentle: “Peter, if I could do this…I can do anything now….”
    “If you think I’m going to bother you often, if that’s your idea of…” #
    “As often or as seldom as you wish, Peter.”
    Next morning, entering the dining room for breakfast, Dominique found a florist’s box, long and white, resting across her plate.
    “What’s that?” she asked the maid.
    “It was brought this morning, madam, with instructions to be put on the breakfast table.”
    The box was addressed to Mrs. Peter Keating. Dominique opened it. It contained a few branches of white lilac, more extravagantly luxurious than orchids at this time of the year. There was a small card with a name written upon it in large letters that still held the quality of a hand’s dashing movement, as if the letters were laughing on the pasteboard: “Ellsworth M.
T oohey.”
    “How nice!” said Keating. “I wondered why we hadn’t heard from him at all yesterday.” “Please put them in water, Mary,” said Dominique, handing the box to the maid.
In the afternoon Dominique telephoned Toohey and invited him for dinner.
    The dinner took place a few days later. Keating’s mother had pleaded some previous engagement and escaped for the evening; she explained it to herself by believing that she merely needed time to get used to things. So there were only three places set on the dining- room table, candles in crystal holders, a centerpiece of blue flowers and glass bubbles.
    When Toohey entered he bowed to his hosts in a manner proper to a court reception. Dominique looked like a society hostess who had always been a society hostess and could not possibly be imagined as anything else.
    “Well, Ellsworth? Well?” Keating asked, with a gesture that included the hall, the air and Dominique.
    “My dear Peter,” said Toohey, “let’s skip the obvious.”
    Dominique led the way into the living room. She wore a dinner dress–a white satin blouse tailored like a man’s, and a long black skirt, straight and simple as the polished planes of her hair. The narrow band of the skirt about her waistline seemed to state that two hands could encircle her waist completely or snap her figure in half without much effort. The short sleeves left her arms bare, and she wore a plain gold bracelet, too large and heavy for her thin wrist. She had an appearance of elegance become perversion, an appearance of wise, dangerous maturity achieved by looking like a very young girl.
    “Ellsworth, isn’t it wonderful?” said Keating, watching Dominique as one watches a fat bank account. “No less than I expected,” said Toohey. “And no more.” At the dinner table Keating did most of the talking. He seemed possessed by a talking jag. He turned over words with the sensuous abandon of a cat rolling in catnip.
    “Actually, Ellsworth, it was Dominique who invited you. I didn’t ask her to. You’re our first formal guest. I think that’s wonderful. My wife and my best friend. I’ve always had the silly idea that you two didn’t like each other. God knows where I get those notions. But this is what makes me so damn happy–the three of us, together.”
    “Then you don’t believe in mathematics, do you, Peter?” said Toohey. “Why the surprise? Certain figures in combination have to give certain results. Granting three entities such as Dominique, you and I–this had to be the inevitable sum.”
    “They say three’s a crowd,” laughed Keating. “But that’s bosh. Two are better than one, and sometimes three are better than two, it all depends.”
    “The only thing wrong with that old cliché,” said Toohey, “is the erroneous implication that ‘a crowd’ is a term of opprobrium. It is quite the opposite. As you are so merrily discovering. Three, I might add, is a mystic key number. As for instance, the Holy Trinity. Or the triangle, without which we would have no movie industry. There are so many variations upon the triangle, not necessarily unhappy. Like the three of us–with me serving as understudy for the hypotenuse, quite an appropriate substitution, since I’m replacing my antipode, don’t you think so, Dominique?”
    They were finishing dessert when Keating was called to the telephone. They could hear his
    impatient voice in the next room, snapping instructions to a draftsman who was working late on a rush job and needed help. Toohey turned, looked at Dominique and smiled. The smile said everything her manner had not allowed to be said earlier. There was no visible movement on her face, as she held his glance, but there was a change of expression, as if she were acknowledging his meaning instead of refusing to understand it. He would have preferred the closed look of refusal. The acceptance was infinitely more scornful.
    “So you’ve come back to the fold, Dominique?” “Yes, Ellsworth.”
”No more pleas for mercy?”
”Does it appear as if they will be necessary?”
    “No. I admire you, Dominique….How do you like it? I should imagine Peter is not bad, though not as good as the man we’re both thinking of, who’s probably superlative, but you’ll never have a chance to learn.”
    She did not look disgusted; she looked genuinely puzzled. “What are you talking about, Ellsworth?”
    “Oh, come, my dear, we’re past pretending now, aren’t we? You’ve been in love with Roark from that first moment you saw him in Kiki Holcombe’s drawing room–or shall I be honest?– you wanted to sleep with him–but he wouldn’t spit at you–hence all your subsequent behavior.”
    “Is that what you thought?” she asked quietly. “Wasn’t it obvious? The woman scorned. As obvious as the fact that Roark had to be the man you’d want. That you’d want him in the most primitive way. And that he’d never know you existed.”
    “I overestimated you, Ellsworth,” she said. She had lost all interest in his presence, even the need of caution. She looked bored. He frowned, puzzled.
    Keating came back. Toohey slapped his shoulder as he passed by on the way to his seat.
    “Before I go, Peter, we must have a chat about the rebuilding of the Stoddard Temple. I want you to bitch that up, too.”
    “Ellsworth…!” he gasped.
    Toohey laughed. “Don’t be stuffy, Peter. Just a little professional vulgarity. Dominique won’t mind. She’s an ex-newspaper woman.”
    “What’s the matter, Ellsworth?” Dominique asked. “Feeling pretty desperate? The weapons aren’t up to your usual standard.” She rose. “Shall we have coffee in the drawing room?”
#
    Hopton Stoddard added a generous sum to the award he had won from Roark, and the Stoddard Temple was rebuilt for its new purpose by a group of architects chosen by Ellsworth Toohey: Peter Keating, Gordon L. Prescott, John Erik Snyte and somebody named Gus Webb, a boy of twenty-four who liked to utter obscenities when passing well-bred women on the street, and who had never handled an architectural commission of his own. Three of these men had social and professional standing; Gus Webb had none; Toohey included him for that reason. Of the four Gus Webb had the loudest voice and the greatest self-assurance. Gus Webb said he was afraid of nothing; he meant it. They were all members of the Council of American Builders.
    The Council of American Builders had grown. After the Stoddard trial many earnest discussions were held informally in the club rooms of the A.G.A. The attitude of the A.G.A. toward Ellsworth Toohey had not been cordial, particularly since the establishment of his Council. But the trial brought a subtle change; many members pointed out that the article in
    “One Small Voice” had actually brought about the Stoddard lawsuit; and that a man who could force clients to sue was a man to be treated with caution. So it was suggested that Ellsworth Toohey should be invited to address the A.G.A. at one of its luncheons. Some members objected, Guy Francon among them. The most passionate objector was a young architect who made an eloquent speech, his voice trembling with the embarrassment of speaking in public for the first time; he said that he admired Ellsworth Toohey and had always agreed with Toohey’s social ideals, but if a group of people felt that some person was acquiring power over them, that was the time to fight such a person. The majority overruled him. Ellsworth Toohey was asked to speak at the luncheon, the attendance was enormous and Toohey made a witty, gracious speech. Many members of the A.G.A. joined the Council of American Builders, John Erik Snyte among the first.
    The four architects in charge of the Stoddard reconstruction met in Keating’s office, around a table on which they spread blueprints of the Temple, photographs of Roark’s original drawings, obtained from the contractor, and a clay model which Keating had ordered made. They talked about the depression and its disastrous effect on the building industry; they talked about women, and Gordon L. Prescott told a few jokes of a bathroom nature. Then Gus Webb raised his fist and smacked it plump upon the roof of the model which was not quite dry and spread into a flat mess. “Well, boys,” he said, “let’s go to work.”
    “Gus, you son of a bitch,” said Keating, “the thing cost money.” “Balls!” said Gus, “we’re not paying for it.”
    Each of them had a set of photographs of the original sketches with the signature “Howard Roark” visible in the corner. They spent many evenings and many weeks, drawing their own versions right on the originals, remaking and improving. They took longer than necessary. They made more changes than required. They seemed to find pleasure in doing it. Afterward, they put the four versions together and made a cooperative combination. None of them had ever enjoyed a job quite so much. They had long, friendly conferences. There were minor dissensions, such as Gus Webb saying: “Hell, Gordon, if the kitchen’s going to be yours, then the johns’ve got to be mine,” but these were only surface ripples. They felt a sense of unity and an anxious affection for one another, the kind of brotherhood that makes a man withstand the third degree rather than squeal on the gang.
    The Stoddard Temple was not torn down, but its framework was carved into five floors, containing dormitories, schoolrooms, infirmary, kitchen, laundry. The entrance hall was paved with colored marble, the stairways had railings of hand-wrought aluminum, the shower stalls were glass-enclosed, the recreation rooms had gold-leafed Corinthian pilasters. The huge windows were left untouched, merely crossed by floorlines.
    The four architects had decided to achieve an effect of harmony and therefore not to use any historical style in its pure form. Peter Keating designed the white marble semi-Doric portico that rose over the main entrance, and the Venetian balconies for which new doors were cut. John Erik Snyte designed the small semi-Gothic spire surmounted by a cross, and the bandcourses of stylized acanthus leaves which were cut into the limestone of the walls. Gordon L. Prescott designed the semi-Renaissance cornice, and the glass-enclosed terrace projecting from the third floor. Gus Webb designed a cubistic ornament to frame the original windows, and the modern neon sign on the roof, which read: “The Hopton Stoddard Home for Subnormal Children.”
    “Comes the revolution,” said Gus Webb, looking at the completed structure, “and every kid in the country will have a home like that!”
    The original shape of the building remained discernible. It was not like a corpse whose fragments had been mercifully scattered; it was like a corpse hacked to pieces and reassembled.
    In September the tenants of the Home moved in. A small, expert staff was chosen by Toohey. It had been harder to find the children who qualified as inmates. Most of them had to be taken from other institutions. Sixty-five children, their ages ranging from three to fifteen, were picked out by zealous ladies who were full of kindness and so made a point of rejecting those who could be cured and selecting only the hopeless cases. There was a fifteen-year-old boy who
    had never learned to speak; a grinning child who could not be taught to read or write; a girl born without a nose, whose father was also her grandfather; a person called “Jackie” of whose age or sex nobody could be certain. They marched into their new home, their eyes staring vacantly, the stare of death before which no world existed.
    On warm evenings children from the slums nearby would sneak into the park of the Stoddard Home and gaze wistfully at the playrooms, the gymnasium, the kitchen beyond the big windows. These children had filthy clothes and smudged faces, agile little bodies, impertinent grins, and eyes bright with a roaring, imperious, demanding intelligence. The ladies in charge of the Home chased them away with angry exclamations about “little gangsters.”
    Once a month a delegation from the sponsors came to visit the Home. It was a distinguished group whose names were in many exclusive registers, though no personal achievement had ever put them there. It was a group of mink coats and diamond clips; occasionally, there was a dollar cigar and a glossy derby from a British shop among them. Ellsworth Toohey was always present to show them through the Home. The inspection made the mink coats seem warmer and their wearers’ rights to them incontestable, since it established superiority and altruistic virtue together, in a demonstration more potent than a visit to a morgue. On the way back from such an inspection Ellsworth Toohey received humbled compliments on the wonderful work he was doing, and had no trouble in obtaining checks for his other humanitarian activities, such as publications, lecture courses, radio forums and the Workshop of Social Study.
    Catherine Halsey was put in charge of the children’s occupational therapy, and she moved into the Home as a permanent resident. She took up her work with a fierce zeal. She spoke about it insistently to anyone who would listen. Her voice was dry and arbitrary. When she spoke, the movements of her mouth hid the two lines that had appeared recently, cut from her nostrils to her chin; people preferred her not to remove her glasses; her eyes were not good to see. She spoke belligerently about her work not being charity, but “human reclamation.”
    The most important time of her day was the hour assigned to the children’s art activities, known as the “Creative Period.” There was a special room for the purpose–a room with a view of the distant city skyline–where the children were given materials and encouraged to create freely, under the guidance of Catherine who stood watch over them like an angel presiding at a birth.
    She was elated on the day when Jackie, the least promising one of the lot, achieved a completed work of imagination. Jackie picked up fistfuls of colored felt scraps and a pot of glue, and carried them to a corner of the room. There was, in the corner, a slanting ledge projecting from the wall-plastered over and painted green–left from Roark’s modeling of the Temple interior that had once controlled the recession of the light at sunset. Catherine walked over to Jackie and saw, spread out on the ledge, the recognizable shape of a dog, brown, with blue spots and five legs. Jackie wore an expression of pride. “Now you see, you see?” Catherine said to her colleagues. “Isn’t it wonderful and moving! There’s no telling how far the child will go with proper encouragement. Think of what happens to their little souls if they are frustrated in their creative instincts! It’s so important not to deny them a chance for self- expression. Did you see Jackie’s face?”
    Dominique’s statue had been sold. No one knew who bought it. It had been bought by Ellsworth Toohey.
#
    Roark’s office had shrunk back to one room. After the completion of the Cord Building he found no work. The depression had wrecked the building trade; there was little work for anyone; it was said that the skyscraper was finished; architects were closing their offices.
    A few commissions still dribbled out occasionally, and a group of architects hovered about them with the dignity of a bread line. There were men like Ralston Holcombe among them, men who had never begged, but had demanded references before they accepted a client. When Roark tried to get a commission, he was rejected in a manner implying that if he had no more sense than that, politeness would be a wasted effort. “Roark?” cautious businessmen said. “The tabloid hero? Money’s too scarce nowadays to waste it on lawsuits afterwards.”
    He got a few jobs, remodeling rooming houses, an assignment that involved no more than erecting partitions and rearranging the plumbing. “Don’t take it, Howard,” Austen Heller said angrily. “The infernal gall of offering you that kind of work! After a skyscraper like the Cord Building. After the Enright House.”
    “I’ll take anything,” said Roark.
    The Stoddard award had taken more than the amount of his fee for the Cord Building. But he had saved enough to exist on for a while. He paid Mallory’s rent and he paid for most of their frequent meals together.
    Mallory had tried to object. “Shut up, Steve,” Roark had said. “I’m not doing it for you. At a time like this I owe myself a few luxuries. So I’m simply buying the most valuable thing that can be bought–your time. I’m competing with a whole country–and that’s quite a luxury, isn’t it? They want you to do baby plaques and I don’t, and I like having my way against theirs.”
    “What do you want me to work on, Howard?”
    “I want you to work without asking anyone what he wants you to work on.”
    Austen Heller heard about it from Mallory, and spoke of it to Roark in private.
    “If you’re helping him, why don’t you let me help you?”
    “I’d let you if you could,” said Roark. “But you can’t. All he needs is his time. He can work without clients. I can’t.”
    “It’s amusing, Howard, to see you in the role of an altruist.”
    “You don’t have to insult me. It’s not altruism. But I’ll tell you this: most people say they’re concerned with the suffering of others. I’m not. And yet there’s one thing I can’t understand. Most of them would not pass by if they saw a man bleeding in the road, mangled by a hit-and- run driver. And most of them would not turn their heads to look at Steven Mallory. But don’t they know that if suffering could be measured, there’s no suffering in Steven Mallory when he can’t do the work he wants to do, than in a whole field of victims mowed down by a tank? If one must relieve the pain of this world, isn’t Mallory the place to begin?…However, that’s not why I’m doing it.”

    Roark had never seen the reconstructed Stoddard Temple. On an evening in November he went to see it. He did not know whether it was surrender to pain or victory over the fear of seeing it.
    It was late and the garden of the Stoddard Home was deserted. The building was dark, a single light showed in a back window upstairs. Roark stood looking at the building for a long time.
    The door under the Greek portico opened and a slight masculine figure came out. It hurried casually down the steps–and then stopped.
    “Hello, Mr. Roark,” said Ellsworth Toohey quietly.
Roark looked at him without curiosity. “Hello,” said Roark. “Please don’t run away.” The voice was not mocking, but earnest. “I wasn’t going to.”
    “I think I knew that you’d come here some day and I think I wanted to be here when you came. I’ve kept inventing excuses for myself to hang about this place.” There was no gloating in the voice; it sounded drained and simple.
    “W ell?”
    “You shouldn’t mind speaking to me. You see, I understand your work. What I do about it is another matter.”
    “You are free to do what you wish about it.”
    “I understand your work better than any living person–with the possible exception of Dominique Francon. And, perhaps, better than she does. That’s a deal, isn’t it, Mr. Roark? You haven’t many people around you who can say that. It’s a greater bond than if I were your devoted, but blind supporter.”
    “I knew you understood.”
    “Then you won’t mind talking to me.”
    “About what?”
    In the darkness it sounded almost as if Toohey had sighed. After a while he pointed to the building and asked:
    “Do you understand this?”
    Roark did not answer.
    Toohey went on softly: “What does it look like to you? Like a senseless mess? Like a chance collection of driftwood? Like an imbecile chaos? But is it, Mr. Roark? Do you see no method? You who know the language of structure and the meaning of form. Do you see no purpose here?”
    “I see none in discussing it.”
    “Mr. Roark, we’re alone here. Why don’t you tell me what you think of me? In any words you wish. No one will hear us.”
    “But I don’t think of you.”
    Toohey’s face had an expression of attentiveness, of listening quietly to something as simple as fate. He remained silent, and Roark asked:
    “What did you want to say to me?”
    Toohey looked at him, and then at the bare trees around them, at the river far below, at the great rise of the sky beyond the river.
    “Nothing,” said Toohey.
    He walked away, his steps creaking on the gravel in the silence, sharp and even, like the cracks of an engine’s pistons.
    Roark stood alone in the empty driveway, looking at the building.
    Part Three: GAIL WYNAND
    1.
GAIL WYNAND raised a gun to his temple.
    He felt the pressure of a metal ring against his skin–and nothing else. He might have been holding a lead pipe or a piece of jewelry; it was just a small circle without significance. “I am going to die,” he said aloud–and yawned.
    He felt no relief, no despair, no fear. The moment of his end would not grant him even the dignity of seriousness. It was an anonymous moment; a few minutes ago, he had held a toothbrush in that hand; now he held a gun with the same casual indifference.
    One does not die like this, he thought. One must feel a great joy or a healthy terror. One must salute one’s own end. Let me feel a spasm of dread and I’ll pull the trigger. He felt nothing.
    He shrugged and lowered the gun. He stood tapping it against the palm of his left hand. People always speak of a black death or a red death, he thought; yours, Gail Wynand, will be a gray death. Why hasn’t anyone ever said that this is the ultimate horror? Not screams, pleas or convulsions. Not the indifference of a clean emptiness, disinfected by the fire of some great disaster. But this–a mean, smutty little horror, impotent even to frighten. You can’t do it like that, he told himself, smiling coldly; it would be in such bad taste.
    He walked to the wall of his bedroom. His penthouse was built above the fifty-seventh floor of a great residential hotel which he owned, in the center of Manhattan; he could see the whole city below him. The bedroom was a glass cage on the roof of the penthouse, its walls and ceiling made of huge glass sheets. There were dust-blue suede curtains to be pulled across the walls and enclose the room when he wished; there was nothing to cover the ceiling. Lying in bed, he could study the stars over his head, or see flashes of lightning, or watch the rain smashed into furious, glittering sunbursts in mid-air above him, against the unseen protection. He liked to extinguish the lights and pull all the curtains open when he lay in bed with a woman. “We are fornicating in the sight of six million people,” he would tell her.
    He was alone now. The curtains were open. He stood looking at the city. It was late and the great riot of lights below him was beginning to die down. He thought that he did not mind having to look at the city for many more years and he did not mind never seeing it again.
    He leaned against the wall and felt the cold glass through the thin, dark silk of his pyjamas. A monogram was embroidered in white on his breast pocket: GW, reproduced from his handwriting, exactly as he signed his initials with a single imperial motion.
    People said that Gail Wynand’s greatest deception, among many, was his appearance. He looked like the decadent, overperfected end product of a long line of exquisite breeding–and everybody knew that he came from the gutter. He was tall, too slender for physical beauty, as if all his flesh and muscle had been bred away. It was not necessary for him to stand erect in order to convey an impression of hardness. Like a piece of expensive steel, he bent, slouched and made people conscious, not of his pose, but of the ferocious spring that could snap him straight at any moment. This hint was all he needed; he seldom stood quite straight; he lounged about. Under any clothes he wore, it gave him an air of consummate elegance.
    His face did not belong to modern civilization, but to ancient Rome; the face of an eternal patrician. His hair, streaked with gray, was swept smoothly back from a high forehead. His skin was pulled tight over the sharp bones of his face; his mouth was long and thin; his eyes, under slanting eyebrows, were pale blue and photographed like two sardonic white ovals. An artist had asked him once to sit for a painting of Mephistopheles; Wynand had laughed, refusing, and the artist had watched sadly, because the laughter made the face perfect for his purpose.
    He slouched casually against the glass pane of his bedroom, the weight of a gun on his palm. Today, he thought; what was today? Did anything happen that would help me now and give meaning to this moment?
    Today had been like so many other days behind him that particular features were hard to recognize. He was fifty-one years old, and it was the middle of October in the year 1932; he was certain of this much; the rest took an effort of memory.
    He had awakened and dressed at six o’clock this morning; he had never slept more than four
    hours on any night of his adult life. He descended to his dining room where breakfast was served to him. His penthouse, a small structure, stood on the edge of a vast roof landscaped as a garden. The rooms were a superlative artistic achievement; their simplicity and beauty would have aroused gasps of admiration had this house belonged to anyone else; but people were shocked into silence when they thought that this was the home of the publisher of the New York Banner, the most vulgar newspaper in the country.
    After breakfast he went to his study. His desk was piled with every important newspaper, book and magazine received that morning from all over the country. He worked alone at his desk for three hours, reading and making brief notes with a large blue pencil across the printed pages. The notes looked like a spy’s shorthand; nobody could decipher them except the dry, middle-aged secretary who entered the study when Wynand left it. He had not heard her voice in five years, but no communication between them was necessary. When he returned to his study in the evening, the secretary and the pile of papers were gone; on his desk he found neatly typed pages containing the things he had wished to be recorded from his morning’s work.
    At ten o’clock he arrived at the Banner Building, a plain, grimy structure in an undistinguished neighborhood of lower Manhattan. When he walked through the narrow halls of the building, the employees he met wished him a good morning. The greeting was correct and he answered courteously; but his passage had the effect of a death ray that stopped the motor of living organisms.
    Among the many hard rules imposed upon the employees of all Wynand enterprises, the hardest was the one demanding that no man pause in his work if Mr. Wynand entered the room, or notice his entrance. Nobody could predict what department he would choose to visit or when. He could appear at any moment in any part of the building–and his presence was as unobtrusive as an electric shock. The employees tried to obey the rule as best they could; but they preferred three hours of overtime to ten minutes of working under his silent observation.
    This morning, in his office, he went over the proofs of the Banner’s Sunday editorials. He slashed blue lines across the spreads he wished eliminated. He did not sign his initials; everybody knew that only Gail Wynand could make quite that kind of blue slashes, lines that seemed to rip the authors of the copy out of existence.
    He finished the proofs, then asked to be connected with the editor of the Wynand Herald, in Springville, Kansas. When he telephoned his provinces, Wynand’s name was never announced to the victim. He expected his voice to be known to every key citizen of his empire.
    “Good morning, Cummings,” he said when the editor answered. “My God!” gasped the editor. “It isn’t…”
    “It is,” said Wynand. “Listen, Cummings. One more piece of crap like yesterday’s yarn on the Last Rose of Summer and you can go back to the high school Bugle.”
    “Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
Wynand hung up. He asked to be connected with an eminent Senator in Washington.
    “Good morning, Senator,” he said when the gentleman came on the wire within two minutes. “It is so kind of you to answer this call. I appreciate it. I do not wish to impose on your time. But I felt I owed you an expression of my deepest gratitude. I called to thank you for your work in passing the Hayes-Langston Bill.”
    “But…Mr. Wynand!” The Senator’s voice seemed to squirm. “It’s so nice of you, but…the Bill hasn’t been passed.”
    “Oh, that’s right. My mistake. It will be passed tomorrow.” A meeting of the board of directors of the Wynand Enterprises, Inc., had been scheduled for eleven-thirty that morning. The Wynand Enterprises consisted of twenty-two newspapers, seven magazines, three news services and two newsreels. Wynand owned seventy-five percent of the stock. The directors were not certain of their functions or purpose. Wynand had ordered meetings of the board
    always to start on time, whether he was present or not. Today he entered the board room at twelve twenty-five. A distinguished old gentleman was making a speech. The directors were not allowed to stop or notice Wynand’s presence. He walked to the empty chair at the head of the long mahogany table and sat down. No one turned to him; it was as if the chair had just been occupied by a ghost whose existence they dared not admit. He listened silently for fifteen minutes. He got up in the middle of a sentence and left the room as he had entered.
    On a large table in his office he spread out maps of Stoneridge, his new real-estate venture, and spent half an hour discussing it with two of his agents. He had purchased a vast tract of land on Long Island, which was to be converted into the Stoneridge Development, a new community of small home owners, every curbstone, street and house to be built by Gail Wynand. The few people who knew of his real-estate activities had told him that he was crazy. It was a year when no one thought of building. But Gail Wynand had made his fortune on decisions which people called crazy.
    The architect to design Stoneridge had not been chosen. News of the project had seeped into the starved profession. For weeks Wynand had refused to read letters or answer calls from the best architects of the country and their friends. He refused once more when, at the end of his conference, his secretary informed him that Mr. Ralston Holcombe most urgently requested two minutes of his time on the telephone.
    When the agents were gone, Wynand pressed a button on his desk, summoning Alvah Scarret. Scarret entered the office, smiling happily. He always answered that buzzer with the flattered eagerness of an office boy.
    “Alvah, what in hell is the Gallant Gallstone?”
Scarret laughed. “Oh, that? It’s the title of a novel. By Lois Cook.” “What kind of a novel?”
    “Oh, just a lot of drivel. It’s supposed to be a sort of prose poem. It’s all about a gallstone that thinks that it’s an independent entity, a sort of a rugged individualist of the gall bladder, if you see what I mean, and then the man takes a big dose of castor oil–there’s a graphic description of the consequences–I’m not sure it’s correct medically, but anyway that’s the end of the Gallant Gallstone. It’s all supposed to prove that there’s no such thing as free will.”
    “How many copies has it sold?”
    “I don’t know. Not very many, I think. Just among the intelligentsia. But I hear it’s picked up some, lately, and…”
    “Precisely. What’s going on around here, Alvah?”
”What? Oh, you mean you noticed the few mentions which…”
    “I mean I’ve noticed it all over the Banner in the last few weeks. Very nicely done, too, if it took me that long to discover that it wasn’t accidental.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “What do you think I mean? Why should that particular title appear continuously, in the most inappropriate places? One day it’s in a police story about the execution of some murderer who ‘died bravely like the Gallant Gallstone.’ Two days later it’s on page sixteen, in a state yarn from Albany. ‘Senator Hazleton thinks he’s an independent entity, but it might turn out that he’s only a Gallant Gallstone.’ Then it’s in the obituaries. Yesterday it was on the women’s page. Today, it’s in the comics. Snooxy calls his rich landlord a Gallant Gallstone.”
    Scarret chortled peacefully. “Yes, isn’t it silly?”
”I thought it was silly. At first. Now I don’t.”
”But what the hell, Gail! It’s not as if it were a major issue and our by-liners plugged it. It’s just
    the small fry, the forty-dollar-a-week ones.”
    “That’s the point. One of them. The other is that the book’s not a famous bestseller. If it were, I could understand the title popping into their heads automatically. But it isn’t. So someone’s doing the popping. Why?”
    “Oh, come, Gail! Why would anyone want to bother? And what do we care? If it were a political issue…But hell, who can get any gravy out of plugging for free will or against free will?”
    “Did anyone consult you about this plugging?”
    “No. I tell you, nobody’s behind it. It’s just spontaneous. Just a lot of people who thought it was a funny gag.”
    “Who was the first one that you heard it from?”
”I don’t know….Let me see….It was…yes, I think it was Ellsworth Toohey.”
”Have it stopped. Be sure to tell Mr. Toohey.”
”Okay, if you say so. But it’s really nothing. Just a lot of people amusing themselves.” “I don’t like to have anyone amusing himself on my paper.”
”Yes, Gail.”
    At two o’clock Wynand arrived, as guest of honor, at a luncheon given by a National Convention of Women’s Clubs. He sat at the right of the chairwoman in an echoing banquet hall filled with the odors of corsages–gardenias and sweet peas–and of fried chicken. After luncheon Wynand spoke. The Convention advocated careers for married women; the Wynand papers had fought against the employment of married women for many years. Wynand spoke for twenty minutes and said nothing at all; but he conveyed the impression that he supported every sentiment expressed at the meeting. Nobody had ever been able to explain the effect of Gail Wynand on an audience, particularly an audience of women. He did nothing spectacular; his voice was low, metallic, inclined to sound monotonous; he was too correct, in a manner that was almost deliberate satire on correctness. Yet he conquered all listeners. People said it was his subtle, enormous virility; it made the courteous voice speaking about school, home and family sound as if he were making love to every old hag present.
    Returning to his office, Wynand stopped in the city room. Standing at a tall desk, a big blue pencil in his hand, he wrote on a huge sheet of plain print stock, in letters an inch high, a brilliant, ruthless editorial denouncing all advocates of careers for women. The GW at the end stood like a streak of blue flame. He did not read the piece over–he never needed to–but threw it on the desk of the first editor in sight and walked out of the room. Late in the afternoon, when Wynand was ready to leave his office, his secretary announced that Ellsworth Toohey requested the privilege of seeing him. “Let him in,” said Wynand.
    Toohey entered, a cautious half-smile on his face, a smile mocking himself and his boss, but with a delicate sense of balance, sixty percent of the mockery directed at himself. He knew that Wynand did not want to see him, and being received was not in his favor.
    Wynand sat behind his desk, his face courteously blank. Two diagonal ridges stood out faintly on his forehead, parallel with his slanting eyebrows. It was a disconcerting peculiarity which his face assumed at times; it gave the effect of a double exposure, an ominous emphasis.
    “Sit down, Mr. Toohey. Of what service can I be to you?”
    “Oh, I’m much more presumptuous than that, Mr. Wynand,” said Toohey gaily. “I didn’t come to ask for your services, but to offer you mine.”
    “In what matter?”
    “Stoneridge.”
    The diagonal lines stood out sharper on Wynand’s forehead.
    “Of what use can a newspaper columnist be to Stoneridge?”
    “A newspaper columnist–none, Mr. Wynand. But an architectural expert…” Toohey let his voice trail into a mocking question mark.
    If Toohey’s eyes had not been fixed insolently on Wynand’s, he would have been ordered out of the office at once. But the glance told Wynand that Toohey knew to what extent he had been plagued by people recommending architects and how hard he had tried to avoid them; and that Toohey had outwitted him by obtaining this interview for a purpose Wynand had not expected. The impertinence of it amused Wynand, as Toohey had known it would.
    “All right, Mr. Toohey. Whom are you selling?” “Peter Keating.”
”W ell?”
”I beg your pardon?”
    “Well, sell him to me.”
Toohey was stopped, then shrugged brightly and plunged in:
    “You understand, of course, that I’m not connected with Mr. Keating in any way. I’m acting only as his friend–and yours.” The voice sounded pleasantly informal, but it had lost some of its certainty. “Honestly, I know it does sound trite, but what else can I say? It just happens to be the truth.” Wynand would not help him out. “I presumed to come here because I felt it was my duty to give you my opinion. No, not a moral duty. Call it an esthetic one. I know that you demand the best in anything you do. For a project of the size you have in mind there’s not another architect living who can equal Peter Keating in efficiency, taste, originality, imagination. That, Mr. Wynand, is my sincere opinion.”
    “I quite believe you.”
    “You do?”
    “Of course. But, Mr. Toohey, why should I consider your opinion?”
    “Well, after all, I am your architectural expert!” He could not keep the edge of anger out of his voice.
    “My dear, Mr. Toohey, don’t confuse me with my readers.” After a moment, Toohey leaned back and spread his hands out in laughing helplessness.
    “Frankly, Mr. Wynand, I didn’t think my word would carry much weight with you. So I didn’t intend trying to sell you Peter Keating.”
    “No? What did you intend?”
    “Only to ask that you give half an hour of your time to someone who can convince you of Peter Keating’s ability much better than I can.”
    “Who is that?”
”Mrs. Peter Keating.”
”Why should I wish to discuss this matter with Mrs. Peter Keating?”
”Because she is an exceedingly beautiful woman and an extremely difficult one.”
    Wynand threw his head back and laughed aloud. “Good God, Toohey, am I as obvious as that?” Toohey, blinked, unprepared.
    “Really, Mr. Toohey, I owe you an apology, if, by allowing my tastes to become so well known, I caused you to be so crude. But I had no idea that among your many other humanitarian activities you were also a pimp.”
    Toohey rose to his feet.
    “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Toohey. I have no desire whatever to meet Mrs. Peter Keating.”
    “I didn’t think you would have, Mr. Wynand. Not on my unsupported suggestion. I foresaw that several hours ago. In fact, as early as this morning. So I took the liberty of preparing for myself another chance to discuss this with you. I took the liberty of sending you a present. When you get home tonight, you will find my gift there. Then, if you feel that I was justified in expecting you to do so, you can telephone me and I shall come over at once so that you will be able to tell me whether you wish to meet Mrs. Peter Keating or not.”
    “Toohey, this is unbelievable, but I believe you’re offering me a bribe.” “I am.”
    “You know, that’s the sort of stunt you should be allowed to get away with completely–or lose your job for.”
    “I shall rest upon your opinion of my present tonight.”
”All right, Mr. Toohey, I’ll look at your present.”
Toohey bowed and turned to go. He was at the door when Wynand added:
”You know, Toohey, one of these days you’ll bore me.”
”I shall endeavor not to do so until the right time,” said Toohey, bowed again and went out. When Wynand returned to his home, he had forgotten all about Ellsworth Toohey.
    That evening, in his penthouse, Wynand had dinner with a woman who had a white face, soft brown hair and, behind her, three centuries of fathers and brothers who would have killed a man for a hint of the things which Gail Wynand had experienced with her.
    The line of her arm, when she raised a crystal goblet of water to her lips, was as perfect as the lines of the silver candelabra produced by a matchless talent–and Wynand observed it with the same appreciation. The candlelight flickering on the planes of her face made a sight of such beauty that he wished she were not alive, so that he could look, say nothing and think what he pleased.
    “In a month or two, Gail,” she said, smiling lazily, “when it gets really cold and nasty, let’s take the I Do and sail somewhere straight into the sun, as we did last winter.”
    I Do was the name of Wynand’s yacht. He had never explained that name to anyone. Many women had questioned him about it. This woman had questioned him before. Now, as he remained silent, she asked it again:
    “By the way, darling, what does it mean–the name of that wonderful mudscow of yours?” “It’s a question I don’t answer,” he said. “One of them.”
”Well, shall I get my wardrobe ready for the cruise?”
    “Green is your best color. It looks well at sea. I love to watch what it does to your hair and your arms. I shall miss the sight of your naked arms against green silk. Because tonight is the last time.”
    Her fingers lay still on the stem of the glass. Nothing had given her a hint that tonight was to be the last time. But she knew that these words were all he needed to end it. All of Wynand’s women had known that they were to expect an end like this and that it was not to be discussed. After a while, she asked, her voice low:
    “What reason, Gail?” “The obvious one.”
    He reached into his pocket and took out a diamond bracelet; it flashed a cold, brilliant fire in the candlelight: its heavy links hung limply in his fingers. It had no case, no wrapper. He tossed it across the table.
    “A memorial, my dear,” he said. “Much more valuable than that which it commemorates.”
    The bracelet hit the goblet and made it ring, a thin, sharp cry, as if the glass had screamed for the woman. The woman made no sound. He knew that it was horrible, because she was the kind to whom one did not offer such gifts at such moments, just as all those other women had been; and because she would not refuse, as all the others had not refused.
    “Thank you, Gail,” she said, clasping the bracelet about her wrist, not looking at him across the candles.
    Later, when they had walked into the drawing room, she stopped and the glance between her long eyelashes moved toward the darkness where the stairway to his bedroom began. “To let me earn the memorial, Gail?” she asked, her voice flat.
    He shook his head.
”I had really intended that,” he said. “But I’m tired.”
    When she had gone, he stood in the hall and thought that she suffered, that the suffering was real, but after a while none of it would be real to her, except the bracelet. He could no longer remember the time when such a thought had the power to give him bitterness. When he recalled that he, too, was concerned in the event of this evening, he felt nothing, except wonder why he had not done this long ago.
    He went to his library. He sat reading for a few hours. Then he stopped. He stopped short, without reason, in the middle of an important sentence. He had no desire to read on. He had no desire ever to make another effort.
    Nothing had happened to him–a happening is a positive reality, and no reality could ever make him helpless; this was some enormous negative–as if everything had been wiped out, leaving a senseless emptiness, faintly indecent because it seemed so ordinary, so unexciting, like murder wearing a homey smile.
    Nothing was gone–except desire; no, more than that–the root, the desire to desire. He thought that a man who loses his eyes still retains the concept of sight; but he had heard of a ghastlier blindness–if the brain centers controlling vision are destroyed, one loses even the memory of visual perception.
    He dropped the book and stood up. He had no wish to remain on that spot; he had no wish to move from it. He thought that he should go to sleep. It was much too early for him, but he could get up earlier tomorrow. He went to his bedroom, he took a shower, he put on his pyjamas. Then he opened a drawer of his dresser and saw the gun he always kept there. It was the immediate recognition, the sudden stab of interest, that made him pick it up.
    It was the lack of shock, when he thought he would kill himself, that convinced him he should.
    The thought seemed so simple, like an argument not worth contesting. Like a bromide.
    Now he stood at the glass wall, stopped by that very simplicity. One could make a bromide of one’s life, he thought; but not of one’s death.
    He walked to the bed and sat down, the gun hanging in his hand. A man about to die, he thought, is supposed to see his whole life in a last flash. I see nothing. But I could make myself see it. I could go over it again, by force. Let me find in it either the will to live on or the reason to end it now.

    Gail Wynand, aged twelve, stood in the darkness under a broken piece of wall on the shore of the Hudson, one arm swung back, the fist closed, ready to strike, waiting.
    The stones under his feet rose to the remnant of a corner; one side of it hid him from the street; there was nothing behind the other side but a sheer drop to the river. An unlighted, unpaved stretch of waterfront lay before him, sagging structures and empty spaces of sky, warehouses, a crooked cornice hanging somewhere over a window with a malignant light.
    In a moment he would have to fight–and he knew it would be for his life. He stood still. His closed fist, held down and back, seemed to clutch invisible wires that stretched to every key spot of his lanky, fleshless body, under the ragged pants and shirt, to the long, swollen tendon of his bare arm, to the taut cords of his neck. The wires seemed to quiver; the body was motionless. He was like a new sort of lethal instrument; if a finger were to touch any part of him, it would release the trigger.
    He knew that the leader of the boys’ gang was looking for him and that the leader would not come alone. Two of the boys he expected fought with knives; one had a killing to his credit. He waited for them, his own pockets empty. He was the youngest member of the gang and the last to join. The leader had said that he needed a lesson.
    It had started over the looting of the barges on the river, which the gang was planning. The leader had decided that the job would be done at night. The gang had agreed; all but Gail Wynand. Gail Wynand had explained, in a slow, contemptuous voice, that the Little Plug- Uglies, farther down the river, had tried the same stunt last week and had left six members in the hands of the cops, plus two in the cemetery; the job had to be done at daybreak, when no one would expect it. The gang hooted him. It made no difference. Gail Wynand was not good at taking orders. He recognized nothing but the accuracy of his own judgment. So the leader wished to settle the issue once and for all. The three boys walked so softly that the people behind the thin walls they passed could not hear their steps. Gail Wynand heard them a block away. He did not move in his corner; only his wrist stiffened a little.
    When the moment was right, he leaped. He leaped straight into space, without thought of landing, as if a catapult had sent him on a flight of miles. His chest struck the head of one enemy, his stomach another, his feet smashed into the chest of the third. The four of them went down. When the three lifted their faces, Gail Wynand was unrecognizable; they saw a whirl suspended in the air above them, and something darted at them out of the whirl with a scalding touch.
    He had nothing but his two fists; they had five fists and a knife on their side; it did not seem to count. They heard their blows landing with a thud as on hard rubber; they felt the break in the thrust of their knife, which told that it had been stopped and had cut its way out. But the thing they were fighting was invulnerable. He had no time to feel; he was too fast; pain could not catch up with him; he seemed to leave it hanging in the air over the spot where it had hit him and where he was no longer in the next second.
    He seemed to have a motor between his shoulder blades to propel his arms in two circles; only the circles were visible; the arms had vanished like the spokes of a speeding wheel. The circle landed each time, and stopped whatever it had landed upon, without a break in its spin. One boy saw his knife disappear in Wynand’s shoulder; he saw the jerk of the shoulder that sent the knife slicing down through Wynand’s side and flung it out at the belt. It was the last thing the boy saw. Something happened to his chin and he did not feel it when the back of his head struck against a pile of old bricks.
    For a long time the two others fought the centrifuge that was now spattering red drops against the walls around them. But it was no use. They were not fighting a man. They were fighting a bodiless human will.
    When they gave up, groaning among the bricks, Gail Wynand said in a normal voice: “We’ll pull it off at daybreak,” and walked away. From that moment on, he was the leader of the gang.
    The looting of the barges was done at daybreak, two days later, and came off with brilliant success.
    Gail Wynand lived with his father in the basement of an old house in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. His father was a longshoreman, a tall, silent, illiterate man who had never gone to school. His own father and his grandfather were of the same kind, and they knew of nothing but poverty in their family. But somewhere far back in the line there had been a root of aristocracy, the glory of some noble ancestor and then some tragedy, long since forgotten, that had brought the descendants to the gutter. Something about all the Wynands–in tenement, saloon and jail–did not fit their surroundings. Gail’s father was known on the waterfront as the Duke.
    Gail’s mother had died of consumption when he was two years old. He was an only son. He knew vaguely that there had been some great drama in his father’s marriage; he had seen a picture of his mother; she did not look and she was not dressed like the women of their neighborhood; she was very beautiful. All life had gone out of his father when she died. He loved Gail; but it was the kind of devotion that did not require two sentences a week.
    Gail did not look like his mother or father. He was a throwback to something no one could quite figure out; the distance had to be reckoned, not in generations, but in centuries. He was always too tall for his age, and too thin. The boys called him Stretch Wynand. Nobody knew what he used for muscles; they knew only that he used it.
    He had worked at one job after another since early childhood. For a long while he sold newspapers on street corners. One day he walked up to the pressroom boss and stated that they should start a new service–delivering the paper to the reader’s door in the morning; he explained how and why it would boost circulation. “Yeah?” said the boss. “I know it will work,” said Wynand. “Well, you don’t run things around here,” said the boss. “You’re a fool,” said Wynand. He lost the job.
    He worked in a grocery store. He ran errands, he swept the soggy wooden floor, he sorted out barrels of rotting vegetables, he helped to wait on customers, patiently weighing a pound of flour or filling a pitcher with milk from a huge can. It was like using a steamroller to press handkerchiefs. But he set his teeth and stuck to it. One day, he explained to the grocer what a good idea it would be to put milk up in bottles, like whisky. “You shut your trap and go wait on Mrs. Sullivan there,” said the grocer, “don’t you tell me nothing I don’t know about my business. You don’t run things around here.” He waited on Mrs. Sullivan and said nothing.
    He worked in a poolroom. He cleaned spittoons and washed up after drunks. He heard and saw things that gave him immunity from astonishment for the rest of his life. He made his greatest effort and learned to keep silent, to keep the place others described as his place, to accept ineptitude as his master–and to wait. No one had ever heard him speak of what he felt. He felt many emotions toward his fellow men, but respect was not one of them.
    He worked as bootblack on a ferryboat. He was shoved and ordered around by every bloated horse trader, by every drunken deck hand aboard. If he spoke, he heard some thick voice answering: “You don’t run things around here.” But he liked this job. When he had no customers, he stood at the rail and looked at Manhattan. He looked at the yellow boards of new houses, at the vacant lots, at the cranes and derricks, at the few towers rising in the distance. He thought of what should be built and what should be destroyed, of the space, the promise and what could be made of it. A hoarse shout–“Hey, boy!”–interrupted him. He went back to his bench and bent obediently over some muddy shoe. The customer saw only a small head of light brown hair and two thin, capable hands.
    On foggy evenings, under a gas lantern on a street corner, nobody noticed the slender figure leaning against a lamppost, the aristocrat of the Middle Ages, the timeless patrician whose every instinct cried that he should command, whose swift brain told him why he had the right to do so, the feudal baron created to rule–but born to sweep floors and take orders.
    He had taught himself to read and write at the age of five, by asking questions. He read everything he found. He could not tolerate the inexplicable. He had to understand anything known to anyone. The emblem of his childhood–the coat-of-arms he devised for himself in place of the one lost for him centuries ago–was the question mark. No one ever needed to explain anything to him twice. He learned his first mathematics from the engineers laying sewer pipes. He learned geography from the sailors on the waterfront. He learned civics from the politicians at a local club that was a gangsters’ hangout. He had never gone to church or to school. He was twelve when he walked into a church. He listened to a sermon on patience and humility. He never came back. He was thirteen when he decided to see what education was like and enrolled at a public school. His father said nothing about this decision, as he said nothing whenever Gail came home battered after a gang fight.
    During his first week at school the teacher called on Gail Wynand constantly–it was sheer pleasure to her, because he always knew the answers. When he trusted his superiors and their purpose, he obeyed like a Spartan, imposing on himself the kind of discipline he demanded of his own subjects in the gang. But the force of his will was wasted: within a week he saw that he needed no effort to be first in the class. After a month the teacher stopped noticing his presence; it seemed pointless, he always knew his lesson and she had to concentrate on the slower, duller children. He sat, unflinching, through hours that dragged like chains, while the teacher repeated and chewed and rechewed, sweating to force some spark of intellect from vacant eyes and mumbling voices. At the end of two months, reviewing the rudiments of history which she had tried to pound into her class, the teacher asked: “And how many original states were there in the Union?” No hands were raised. Then Gail Wynand’s arm went up. The teacher nodded to him. He rose. “Why,” he asked, “should I swill everything down ten times? I know all that.”
    “You are not the only one in the class,” said the teacher. He uttered an expression that struck her white and made her blush fifteen minutes later, when she grasped it fully. He walked to the door. On the threshold he turned to add: “Oh yes. There were thirteen original states.” That was the last of his formal education. There were people in Hell’s Kitchen who never ventured beyond its boundaries, and others who seldom stepped out of the tenement in which they were born. But Gail Wynand often went for a walk through the best streets of the city. He felt no bitterness against the world of wealth, no envy and no fear. He was simply curious and he felt at home on Fifth Avenue, just as anywhere else. He walked past the stately mansions, his hands in his pockets, his toes sticking out of flat-soled shoes. People glared at him, but it had no effect. He passed by and left behind him the feeling that he belonged on this street and they didn’t. He wanted nothing, for the time being, except to understand.
    He wanted to know what made these people different from those in his neighborhood. It was not the clothes, the carriages or the banks that caught his notice; it was the books. People in his neighborhood had clothes, horse wagons and money; degrees were inessential; but they did not read books. He decided to learn what was read by the people on Fifth Avenue. One day, he saw a lady waiting in a carriage at the curb; he knew she was a lady–his judgment on such matters was more acute than the discrimination of the Social Register; she was reading a book. He leaped to the steps of the carriage, snatched the book and ran away. It would have taken swifter, slimmer men than the cops to catch him.
    It was a volume of Herbert Spencer. He went through a quiet agony trying to read it to the end. He read it to the end. He understood one quarter of what he had read. But this started him on a process which he pursued with a systematic, fist-clenched determination. Without advice, assistance or plan, he began reading an incongruous assortment of books; he would find some passage which he could not understand in one book, and he would get another on that subject. He branched out erratically in all directions; he read volumes of specialized erudition first, and high-school primers afterward. There was no order in his reading; but there was order in what remained of it in his mind.
    He discovered the reading room of the Public Library and he went there for a while–to study the layout. Then, one day, at various times, a succession of young boys, painfully combed and
    unconvincingly washed, came to visit the reading room. They were thin when they came, but not when they left. That evening Gail Wynand had a small library of his own in the corner of his basement. His gang had executed his orders without protest. It was a scandalous assignment; no self-respecting gang had ever looted anything as pointless as books. But Stretch Wynand had given the orders–and one did not argue with Stretch Wynand. He was fifteen when he was found, one morning, in the gutter, a mass of bleeding pulp, both legs broken, beaten by some drunken longshoreman. He was unconscious when found. But he had been conscious that night, after the beating. He had been left alone in a dark alley. He had seen a light around the corner. Nobody knew how he could have managed to drag himself around that corner; but he had; they saw the long smear of blood on the pavement afterward. He had crawled, able to move nothing but his arms. He had knocked against the bottom of a door. It was a saloon, still open. The saloonkeeper came out. It was the only time in his life that Gail Wynand asked for help. The saloonkeeper looked at him with a flat, heavy glance, a glance that showed full consciousness of agony, of injustice–and a stolid, bovine indifference. The saloonkeeper went inside and slammed the door. He had no desire to get mixed up with gang fights.
    Years later, Gail Wynand, publisher of the New York Banner, still knew the names of the longshoreman and the saloonkeeper, and where to find them. He never did anything to the longshoreman. But he caused the saloonkeeper’s business to be ruined, his home and savings to be lost, and drove the man to suicide.
    Gail Wynand was sixteen when his father died. He was alone, jobless at the moment, with sixty-five cents in his pocket, an unpaid rent bill and a chaotic erudition. He decided that the time had come to decide what he would make of his life. He went, that night, to the roof of his tenement and looked at the lights of the city, the city where he did not run things. He let his eyes move slowly from the windows of the sagging hovels around him to the windows of the mansions in the distance. There were only lighted squares hanging in space, but he could tell from them the quality of the structures to which they belonged; the lights around him looked muddy, discouraged; those in the distance were clean and tight. He asked himself a single question: what was there that entered all those houses, the dim and the brilliant alike, what reached into every room, into every person? They all had bread. Could one rule men through the bread they bought? They had shoes, they had coffee, they had…The course of his life was set.
    Next morning, he walked into the office of the editor of the Gazette, a fourth-rate newspaper in a rundown building, and asked for a job in the city room. The editor looked at his clothes and inquired, “Can you spell cat?”
    “Can you spell anthropomorphology?” asked Wynand. “We have no jobs here,” said the editor. “I’ll hang around,” said Wynand. “Use me when you want to. You don’t have to pay me. You’ll put me on salary when you’ll feel you’d better.”
    He remained in the building, sitting on the stairs outside the city room. He sat there every day for a week. No one paid any attention to him. At night he slept in doorways. When most of his money was gone, he stole food, from counters or from garbage pails, before returning to his post on the stairs.
    One day a reporter felt sorry for him and, walking down the stairs, threw a nickel into Wynand’s lap, saying: “Go buy yourself a bowl of stew, kid.” Wynand had a dime left in his pocket. He took the dime and threw it at the reporter, saying: “Go buy yourself a screw.” The man swore and went on down. The nickel and the dime remained lying on the steps. Wynand would not touch them. The story was repeated in the city room. A pimply-faced clerk shrugged and took the two coins.
    At the end of the week, in a rush hour, a man from the city room called Wynand to run an errand. Other small chores followed. He obeyed with military precision. In ten days he was on salary. In six months he was a reporter. In two years he was an associate editor.
    Gail Wynand was twenty when he fell in love. He had known everything there was to know about sex since the age of thirteen. He had had many girls. He never spoke of love, created no romantic illusion and treated the whole matter as a simple animal transaction; but at this he was an expert–and women could tell it, just by looking at him. The girl with whom he fell in
    love had an exquisite beauty, a beauty to be worshipped, not desired. She was fragile and silent. Her face told of the lovely mysteries within her, left unexpressed.
    She became Gail Wynand’s mistress. He allowed himself the weakness of being happy. He would have married her at once, had she mentioned it. But they said little to each other. He felt that everything was understood between them.
    One evening he spoke. Sitting at her feet, his face raised to her, he allowed his soul to be heard. “My darling, anything you wish, anything I am, anything I can ever be…That’s what I want to offer you–not the things I’ll get for you, but the thing in me that will make me able to get them. That thing–a man can’t renounce it–but I want to renounce it–so that it will be yours–so that it will be in your service–only for you.” The girl smiled and asked: “Do you think I’m prettier than Maggy Kelly?”
    He got up. He said nothing and walked out of the house. He never saw that girl again. Gail Wynand, who prided himself on never needing a lesson twice, did not fall in love again in the years that followed.
    He was twenty-one when his career on the Gazette was threatened, for the first and only time. Politics and corruption had never disturbed him; he knew all about it; his gang had been paid to help stage beatings at the polls on election days. But when Pat Mulligan, police captain of his precinct, was framed, Wynand could not take it; because Pat Mulligan was the only honest man he had ever met in his life.
    The Gazette was controlled by the powers that had framed Mulligan. Wynand said nothing. He merely put in order in his mind such items of information he possessed as would blow the Gazette into hell. His job would be blown with it, but that did not matter. His decision contradicted every rule he had laid down for his career. But he did not think. It was one of the rare explosions that hit him at times, throwing him beyond caution, making of him a creature possessed by the single impulse to have his way, because the rightness of his way was so blindingly total. But he knew that the destruction of the Gazette would be only a first step. It was not enough to save Mulligan.
    For three years Wynand had kept one small clipping, an editorial on corruption, by the famous editor of a great newspaper. He had kept it, because it was the most beautiful tribute to integrity he had ever read. He took that clipping and went to see the great editor. He would tell him about Mulligan and together they would beat the machine.
    He walked far across town, to the building of the famous paper. He had to walk. It helped to control the fury within him. He was admitted into the office of the editor–he had a way of getting admitted into places against all rules. He saw a fat man at a desk, with thin slits of eyes set close together. He did not introduce himself, but laid the clipping down on the desk and asked: “Do you remember this?” The editor glanced at the clipping, then at Wynand. It was a glance Wynand had seen before: in the eyes of the saloonkeeper who had slammed the door. “How do you expect me to remember every piece of swill I write?” asked the editor.
    After a moment, Wynand said: “Thanks.” It was the only time in his life that he felt gratitude to anyone. The gratitude was genuine–a payment for a lesson he would never need again. But even the editor knew there was something very wrong in that short “Thanks,” and very frightening. He did not know that it had been an obituary on Gail Wynand.
    Wynand walked back to the Gazette, feeling no anger toward the editor or the political machine. He felt only a furious contempt for himself, for Pat Mulligan, for all integrity; he felt shame when he thought of those whose victims he and Mulligan had been willing to become. He did not think “victims”–he thought “suckers.” He got back to the office and wrote a brilliant editorial blasting Captain Mulligan. “Why, I thought you kinda felt sorry for the poor bastard,” said his editor, pleased. “I don’t feel sorry for anyone,” said Wynand.
    Grocers and deck hands had not appreciated Gail Wynand; politicians did. In his years on the paper he had learned how to get along with people. His face had assumed the expression it was to wear for the rest of his life: not quite a smile, but a motionless look of irony directed at the whole world. People could presume that his mockery was intended for the particular things they wished to mock. Besides, it was pleasant to deal with a man untroubled by passion or
    sanctity.
    He was twenty-three when a rival political gang, intent on winning a municipal election and needing a newspaper to plug a certain issue, bought the Gazette. They bought it in the name of Gail Wynand, who was to serve as a respectable front for the machine. Gail Wynand became editor-in-chief. He plugged the issue, he won the election for his bosses. Two years later, he smashed the gang, sent its leaders to the penitentiary, and remained as sole owner of the Gazette.
    His first act was to tear down the sign over the door of the building and to throw out the paper’s old masthead. The Gazette became the New York Banner. His friends objected. “Publishers don’t change the name of a paper,” they told him. “This one does,” he said.
    The first campaign of the Banner was an appeal for money for a charitable cause. Displayed side by side, with an equal amount of space, the Banner ran two stories: one about a struggling young scientist, starving in a garret, working on a great invention; the other about a chambermaid, the sweetheart of an executed murderer, awaiting the birth of her illegitimate child. One story was illustrated with scientific diagrams; the other–with the picture of a loose- mouthed girl wearing a tragic expression and disarranged clothes. The Banner asked its readers to help both these unfortunates. It received nine dollars and forty-five cents for the young scientist; it received one thousand and seventy-seven dollars for the unwed mother. Gail Wynand called a meeting of his staff. He put down on the table the paper carrying both stories and the money collected for both funds. “Is there anyone here who doesn’t understand?” he asked. No one answered. He said: “Now you all know the kind of paper the Banner is to be.”
    The publishers of his time took pride in stamping their individual personalities upon their newspapers. Gail Wynand delivered his paper, body and soul, to the mob. The Banner assumed the appearance of a circus poster in body, of a circus performance in soul. It accepted the same goal–to stun, to amuse and to collect admission. It bore the imprint, not of one, but of a million men. “Men differ in their virtues, if any,” said Gail Wynand, explaining his policy, “but they are alike in their vices.” He added, looking straight into the questioner’s eyes: “I am serving that which exists on this earth in greatest quantity. I am representing the majority–surely an act of virtue?”
    The public asked for crime, scandal and sentiment. Gail Wynand provided it. He gave people what they wanted, plus a justification for indulging the tastes of which they had been ashamed. The Banner presented murder, arson, rape, corruption–with an appropriate moral against each. There were three columns of details to one stick of moral. “If you make people perform a noble duty, it bores them,” said Wynand. “If you make them indulge themselves, it shames them. But combine the two–and you’ve got them.” He ran stories about fallen girls, society divorces, foundling asylums, red-light districts, charity hospitals. “Sex first,” said Wynand. “Tears second. Make them itch and make them cry–and you’ve got them.”
    The Banner led great, brave crusades–on issues that had no opposition. It exposed politicians–one step ahead of the Grand Jury; it attacked monopolies–in the name of the downtrodden; it mocked the rich and the successful–in the manner of those who could never be either. It overstressed the glamour of society–and presented society news with a subtle sneer. This gave the man on the street two satisfactions: that of entering illustrious drawing rooms and that of not wiping his feet on the threshold. The Banner was permitted to strain truth, taste and credibility, but not its readers’ brain power. Its enormous headlines, glaring pictures and oversimplified text hit the senses and entered men’s consciousness without any necessity for an intermediary process of reason, like food shot through the rectum, requiring no digestion.
    “News,” Gail Wynand told his staff, “is that which will create the greatest excitement among the greatest number. The thing that will knock them silly. The sillier the better, provided there’s enough of them.”
    One day he brought into the office a man he had picked off the street. It was an ordinary man, neither well-dressed nor shabby, neither tall nor short, neither dark nor quite blond; he had the kind of face one could not remember even while looking at it. He was frightening by being so totally undifferentiated; he lacked even the positive distinction of a half-wit. Wynand took him
    through the building, introduced him to every member of the staff and let him go. Then Wynand called his staff together and told them: “When in doubt about your work, remember that man’s face. You’re writing for him.”
    “But, Mr. Wynand,” said a young editor, “one can’t remember his face.” “That’s the point,” said Wynand.
    When the name of Gail Wynand became a threat in the publishing world, a group of newspaper owners took him aside–at a city charity affair which all had to attend–and reproached him for what they called his debasement of the public taste. “It is not my function,” said Wynand, “to help people preserve a self-respect they haven’t got. You give them what they profess to like in public. I give them what they really like. Honesty is the best policy, gentlemen, though not quite in the sense you were taught to believe.”
    It was impossible for Wynand not to do a job well. Whatever his aim, his means were superlative. All the drive, the force, the will barred from the pages of his paper went into its making. An exceptional talent was burned prodigally to achieve perfection in the unexceptional. A new religious faith could have been founded on the energy of spirit which he spent upon collecting lurid stories and smearing them across sheets of paper.
    The Banner was always first with the news. When an earthquake occurred in South America and no communications came from the stricken area, Wynand chartered a liner, sent a crew down to the scene and had extras on the streets of New York days ahead of his competitors, extras with drawings that represented flames, chasms and crushed bodies. When an S.O.S. was received from a ship sinking in a storm off the Atlantic coast, Wynand himself sped to the scene with his crew, ahead of the Coast Guard; Wynand directed the rescue and brought back an exclusive story with photographs of himself climbing a ladder over raging waves, a baby in his arms. When a Canadian village was cut off from the world by an avalanche, it was the Banner that sent a balloon to drop food and Bibles to the inhabitants. When a coal-mining community was paralyzed by a strike, the Banner opened soup-kitchens and printed tragic stories on the perils confronting the miners’ pretty daughters under the pressure of poverty. When a kitten got trapped on the top of a pole, it was rescued by a Banner photographer.
    “When there’s no news, make it,” was Wynand’s order. A lunatic escaped from a state institution for the insane. After days of terror for miles around–terror fed by the Banner’s dire predictions and its indignation at the inefficiency of the local police–he was captured by a reporter of the Banner. The lunatic recovered miraculously two weeks after his capture, was released, and sold to the Banner an expose of the ill-treatment he had suffered at the institution. It led to sweeping reforms. Afterward, some people said that the lunatic had worked on the Banner before his commitment. It could never be proved.
    A fire broke out in a sweatshop employing thirty young girls. Two of them perished in the disaster. Mary Watson, one of the survivors, gave the Banner an exclusive story about the exploitation they had suffered. It led to a crusade against sweatshops, headed by the best women of the city. The origin of the fire was never discovered. It was whispered that Mary Watson had once been Evelyn Drake who wrote for the Banner. It could not be proved.
    In the first years of the Banner’s existence Gail Wynand spent more nights on his office couch than in his bedroom. The effort he demanded of his employees was hard to perform; the effort he demanded of himself was hard to believe. He drove them like an army; he drove himself like a slave. He paid them well; he got nothing but his rent and meals. He lived in a furnished room at the time when his best reporters lived in suites at expensive hotels. He spent money faster than it came in–and he spent it all on the Banner. The paper was like a luxurious mistress whose every need was satisfied without inquiry about the price.
    The Banner was first to get the newest typographical equipment. The Banner was last to get the best newspapermen–last, because it kept them. Wynand raided his competitors’ city rooms; nobody could meet the salaries he offered. His procedure evolved into a simple formula. When a newspaperman received an invitation to call on Wynand, he took it as an insult to his journalistic integrity, but he came to the appointment. He came, prepared to deliver a set of offensive conditions on which he would accept the job, if at all. Wynand began the interview by stating the salary he would pay. Then he added: “You might wish, of course,
    to discuss other conditions–” and seeing the swallowing movement in the man’s throat, concluded: “No? Fine. Report to me on Monday.”
    When Wynand opened his second paper–in Philadelphia–the local publishers met him like European chieftains united against the invasion of Attila. The war that followed was as savage. Wynand laughed over it. No one could teach him anything about hiring thugs to highjack a paper’s delivery wagons and beat up news vendors. Two of his competitors perished in the battle. The Wynand Philadelphia Star survived.
    The rest was swift and simple like an epidemic. By the time he reached the age of thirty-five there were Wynand papers in all the key cities of the United States. By the time he was forty there were Wynand magazines, Wynand newsreels and most of the Wynand Enterprises, Inc.
    A great many activities, not publicized, helped to build his fortune. He had forgotten nothing of his childhood. He remembered the things he had thought, standing as a bootblack at the rail of a ferryboat–the chances offered by a growing city. He bought real estate where no one expected it to become valuable, he built against all advice–and he ran hundreds into thousands. He bought his way into a great many enterprises of all kinds. Sometimes they crashed, ruining everybody concerned, save Gail Wynand. He staged a crusade against a shady streetcar monopoly and caused it to lose its franchise; the franchise was granted to a shadier group, controlled by Gail Wynand. He exposed a vicious attempt to corner the beef market in the Middle West–and left the field clear for another gang, operating under his orders.
    He was helped by a great many people who discovered that young Wynand was a bright fellow, worth using. He exhibited a charming complaisance about being used. In each case, the people found that they had been used instead–like the men who bought the Gazette for Gail Wynand.
    Sometimes he lost money on his investments, coldly and with full intention. Through a series of untraceable steps he ruined many powerful men: the president of a bank, the head of an insurance company, the owner of a steamship line, and others. No one could discover his motives. The men were not his competitors and he gained nothing from their destruction.
    “Whatever that bastard Wynand is after,” people said, “it’s not after money.”
    Those who denounced him too persistently were run out of their professions: some in a few weeks, others many years later. There were occasions when he let insults pass unnoticed; there were occasions when he broke a man for an innocuous remark. One could never tell what he would avenge and what he would forgive.
    One day he noticed the brilliant work of a young reporter on another paper and sent for him. The boy came, but the salary Wynand mentioned had no effect on him. “I can’t work for you, Mr. Wynand,” he said with desperate earnestness, “because you…you have no ideals.” Wynand’s thin lips smiled. “You can’t escape human depravity, kid,” he said gently. “The boss you work for may have ideals, but he has to beg money and take orders from many contemptible people. I have no ideals–but I don’t beg. Take your choice. There’s no other.” The boy went back to his paper. A year later he came to Wynand and asked if his offer were still open. Wynand said that it was. The boy had remained on the Banner ever since. He was the only one on the staff who loved Gail Wynand.
    Alvah Scarret, sole survivor of the original Gazette, had risen with Wynand. But one could not say that he loved Wynand–he merely clung to his boss with the automatic devotion of a rug under Wynand’s feet. Alvah Scarret had never hated anything, and so was incapable of love. He was shrewd, competent and unscrupulous in the innocent manner of one unable to grasp the conception of a scruple. He believed everything he wrote and everything written in the Banner. He could hold a belief for all of two weeks. He was invaluable to Wynand–as a barometer of public reaction.
    No one could say whether Gail Wynand had a private life. His hours away from the office had assumed the style of the Banner’s front page–but a style raised to a grand plane, as if he were still playing circus, only to a gallery of kings. He bought out the entire house for a great opera performance–and sat alone in the empty auditorium with his current mistress. He
    discovered a beautiful play by an unknown playwright and paid him a huge sum to have the play performed once and never again; Wynand was the sole spectator at the single performance; the script was burned next morning. When a distinguished society woman asked him to contribute to a worthy charity cause, Wynand handed her a signed blank check– and laughed, confessing that the amount she dared to fill in was less than he would have given otherwise. He bought some kind of Balkan throne for a penniless pretender whom he met in a speakeasy and never bothered to see afterward; he often referred to “my valet, my chauffeur and my king.”
    At night, dressed in a shabby suit bought for nine dollars, Wynand would often ride the subways and wander through the dives of slum districts, listening to his public. Once, in a basement beer joint, he heard a truck driver denouncing Gail Wynand as the worst exponent of capitalistic evils, in a language of colorful accuracy. Wynand agreed with him and helped him out with a few expressions of his own, from his Hell’s Kitchen vocabulary. Then Wynand picked up a copy of the Banner left by someone on a table, tore his own photograph from page 3, clipped it to a hundred-dollar bill, handed it to the truck driver and walked out before anyone could utter a word.
    The succession of his mistresses was so rapid that it ceased to be gossip. It was said that he never enjoyed a woman unless he had bought her–and that she had to be the kind who could not be bought.
    He kept the details of his life secret by making it glaringly public as a whole. He had delivered himself to the crowd; he was anyone’s property, like a monument in a park, like a bus stop sign, like the pages of the Banner. His photographs appeared in his papers more often than pictures of movie stars. He had been photographed in all kinds of clothes, on every imaginable occasion. He had never been photographed naked, but his readers felt as if he had. He derived no pleasure from personal publicity; it was merely a matter of policy to which he submitted. Every corner of his penthouse had been reproduced in his papers and magazines. “Every bastard in the country knows the inside of my icebox and bathtub,” he said.
    One phase of his life, however, was little known and never mentioned. The top floor of the building under his penthouse was his private art gallery. It was locked. He had never admitted anyone, except the caretaker. A few people knew about it. Once a French ambassador asked him for permission to visit it. Wynand refused. Occasionally, not often, he would descend to his gallery and remain there for hours. The things he collected were chosen by standards of his own. He had famous masterpieces; he had canvases by unknown artists; he rejected the works of immortal names for which he did not care. The estimates set by collectors and the matter of great signatures were of no concern to him. The art dealers whom he patronized reported that his judgment was that of a master.
    One night his valet saw Wynand returning from the art gallery below and was shocked by the expression of his face; it was a look of suffering, yet the face seemed ten years younger. “Are you ill, sir?” he asked. Wynand looked at him indifferently and said: “Go to bed.”
    “We could make a swell spread for the Sunday scandal sheet out of your art gallery,” said Alvah Scarret wistfully. “No,” said Wynand. “But why, Gail?”
    “Look, Alvah. Every man on earth has a soul of his own that nobody can stare at. Even the convicts in a penitentiary and the freaks in a side show. Everybody but me. My soul is spread in your Sunday scandal sheet–in three-color process. So I must have a substitute–even if it’s only a locked room and a few objects not to be pawed.”
    It was a long process and there had been premonitory signs, but Scarret did not notice a certain new trait in Gail Wynand’s character until Wynand was forty-five. Then it became apparent to many. Wynand lost interest in breaking industrialists and financiers. He found a new kind of victim. People could not tell whether it was a sport, a mania or a systematic pursuit. They thought it was horrible, because it seemed so vicious and pointless.
    It began with the case of Dwight Carson. Dwight Carson was a talented young writer who had achieved the spotless reputation of a man passionately devoted to his convictions. He upheld the cause of the individual against the masses. He wrote for magazines of great prestige and small circulation, which were no threat to Wynand. Wynand bought Dwight Carson. He forced
    Carson to write a column in the Banner, dedicated to preaching the superiority of the masses over the man of genius. It was a bad column, dull and unconvincing; it made many people angry. It was a waste of space and of a big salary. Wynand insisted on continuing it.
    Even Alvah Scarret was shocked by Carson’s apostasy. “Anybody else, Gail,” he said, “but, honest, I didn’t expect it of Carson.” Wynand laughed; he laughed too long, as if he could not stop it; his laughter had an edge of hysteria. Scarret frowned; he did not like the sight of Wynand being unable to control an emotion; it contradicted everything he knew of Wynand; it gave Scarret a funny feeling of apprehension, like the sight of a tiny crack in a solid wall; the crack could not possibly endanger the wall–except that it had no business being there.
    A few months later Wynand bought a young writer from a radical magazine, a man known for his honesty, and put him to work on a series of articles glorifying exceptional men and damning the masses. That, too, made a great many of his readers angry. He continued it. He seemed not to care any longer about the delicate signs of effect on circulation.
    He hired a sensitive poet to cover baseball games. He hired an art expert to handle financial news. He got a socialist to defend factory owners and a conservative to champion labor. He forced an atheist to write on the glories of religion. He made a disciplined scientist proclaim the superiority of mystical intuition over the scientific method. He gave a great symphony conductor a munificent yearly income, for no work at all, on the sole condition that he never conduct an orchestra again.
    Some of these men had refused, at first. But they surrendered when they found themselves on the edge of bankruptcy through a series of untraceable circumstances within a few years. Some of the men were famous, others obscure. Wynand showed no interest in the previous standing of his prey. He showed no interest in men of glittering success who had commercialized their careers and held no particular beliefs of any kind. His victims had a single attribute in common: their immaculate integrity.
    Once they were broken, Wynand continued to pay them scrupulously. But he felt no further concern for them and no desire to see them again. Dwight Carson became a dipsomaniac. Two men became drug addicts. One committed suicide. This last was too much for Scarret. “Isn’t it going too far, Gail?” he asked. “That was practically murder.”
    “Not at all,” said Wynand, “I was merely an outside circumstance. The cause was in him. If lightning strikes a rotten tree and it collapses, it’s not the fault of the lightning.”
    “But what do you call a healthy tree?”
”They don’t exist, Alvah,” said Wynand cheerfully, “they don’t exist.”
    Alvah Scarret never asked Wynand for an explanation of this new pursuit. By some dim instinct Scarret guessed a little of the reason behind it. Scarret shrugged and laughed, telling people that it was nothing to worry about, it was just “a safety valve.” Only two men understood Gail Wynand: Alvah Scarret–partially; Ellsworth Toohey–completely.
    Ellsworth Toohey–who wished, above all, to avoid a quarrel with Wynand at that time–could not refrain from a feeling of resentment, because Wynand had not chosen him as a victim. He almost wished Wynand would try to corrupt him, no matter what the consequences. But Wynand seldom noticed his existence.
    Wynand had never been afraid of death. Through the years the thought of suicide had occurred to him, not as an intention, but as one of the many possibilities among the chances of life. He examined it indifferently, with polite curiosity, as he examined any possibility–and then forgot it. He had known moments of blank exhaustion when his will deserted him. He had always cured himself by a few hours in his art gallery.
    Thus he reached the age of fifty-one, and a day when nothing of consequence happened to him, yet the evening found him without desire to take a step farther.
#
    Gail Wynand sat on the edge of the bed, slumped forward, his elbows on his knees, the gun
    on the palm of his hand.
    Yes, he told himself, there’s an answer there somewhere. But I don’t want to know it. I don’t want to know it.
    And because he felt a pang of dread at the root of this desire not to examine his life further, he knew that he would not die tonight. As long as he still feared something, he had a foothold on living; even if it meant only moving forward to an unknown disaster. The thought of death gave him nothing. The thought of living gave him a slender alms–the hint of fear.
    He moved his hand, weighing the gun. He smiled, a faint smile of derision. No, he thought, that’s not for you. Not yet. You still have the sense of not wanting to die senselessly. You were stopped by that. Even that is a remnant–of something.
    He tossed the gun aside on the bed, knowing that the moment was past and the thing was of no danger to him any longer. He got up. He felt no elation; he felt tired; but he was back in his normal course. There were no problems, except to finish this day quickly and go to sleep. He went down to his study to get a drink. When he switched on the light in the study, he saw Toohey’s present. It was a huge, vertical crate, standing by his desk. He had seen it earlier in the evening. He had thought “What the hell,” and forgotten all about it.
    He poured himself a drink and stood sipping it slowly. The crate was too large to escape his field of vision, and as he drank he tried to guess what it could possibly contain. It was too tall and slender for a piece of furniture. He could not imagine what material property Toohey could wish to send him; he had expected something less tangible–a small envelope containing a hint at some sort of blackmail; so many people had tried to blackmail him so unsuccessfully; he did think Toohey would have more sense than that.
    By the time he finished his drink, he had found no plausible explanation for the crate. It annoyed him, like a stubborn crossword puzzle. He had a kit of tools somewhere in a drawer of his desk. He found it and broke the crate open.
    It was Steven Mallory’s statue of Dominique Francon. Gail Wynand walked to his desk and put down the pliers he held as if they were of fragile crystal. Then he turned and looked at the statue again. He stood looking at it for an hour. Then he went to the telephone and dialed Toohey’s number. “Hello?” said Toohey’s voice, its hoarse impatience confessing that he had been awakened out of sound sleep. “All right. Come over,” said Wynand and hung up. Toohey arrived half an hour later. It was his first visit to Wynand’s home. Wynand himself answered the doorbell, still dressed in his pyjamas. He said nothing and walked into the study, Toohey following.
    The naked marble body, its head thrown back in exaltation, made the room look like a place that did not exist any longer: like the Stoddard Temple. Wynand’s eyes rested on Toohey expectantly, a heavy glance of suppressed anger.
    “You want, of course, to know the name of the model?” Toohey asked, with just a hint of triumph in his voice.
    “Hell, no,” said Wynand. “I want to know the name of the sculptor.”
    He wondered why Toohey did not like the question; there was something more than disappointment in Toohey’s face.
    “The sculptor?” said Toohey. “Wait…let me see…I think I did know it….It’s Steven…or Stanley…Stanley something or other….Honestly, I don’t remember.”
    “If you knew enough to buy this, you knew enough to ask the name and never forget it.” “I’ll look it up, Mr. Wynand.”
”Where did you get this?”
”In some art shop, you know, one of those places on Second Avenue.”
    “How did it get there?”
”I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I bought it because I knew the model.”
    “You’re lying about that. If that were all you saw in it, you wouldn’t have taken the chance you took. You know that I’ve never let anyone see my gallery. Did you think I’d allow you the presumption of contributing to it? Nobody has ever dared offer me a gift of that kind. You wouldn’t have risked it, unless you were sure, terribly sure, of how great a work of art this is. Sure that I’d have to accept it. That you’d beat me. And you have.”
    “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Wynand.”
    “If you wish to enjoy that, I’ll tell you also that I hate seeing this come from you. I hate your having been able to appreciate it. It doesn’t fit you. Though I was obviously wrong about you: you’re a greater art expert than I thought you were.”
    “Such as it is, I’ll have to accept this as a compliment and thank you, Mr. Wynand.”
    “Now what was it you wanted? You intended me to understand that you won’t let me have this unless I grant an interview to Mrs. Peter Keating?”
    “Why, no, Mr. Wynand. I’ve made you a present of it. I intended you only to understand that this is Mrs. Peter Keating.”
    Wynand looked at the statue, then back at Toohey. “Oh you damn fool!” said Wynand softly.
Toohey stared at him, bewildered.
    “So you really did use this as a red lamp in a window?” Wynand seemed relieved; he did not find it necessary to hold Toohey’s glance now. “That’s better, Toohey. You’re not as smart as I thought for a moment.”
    “But, Mr. Wynand, what…?”
    “Didn’t you realize that this statue would be the surest way to kill any possible appetite I might have for your Mrs. Keating?”
    “You haven’t seen her, Mr. Wynand.”
    “Oh, she’s probably beautiful. She might be more beautiful than this. But she can’t have what that sculptor has given her. And to see that same face, but without any meaning, like a dead caricature–don’t you think one would hate the woman for that?”
    “You haven’t seen her.”
    “Oh, all right, I’ll see her. I told you you should be allowed to get away with your stunt completely or not at all. I didn’t promise you to lay her, did I? Only to see her.”
    “That is all I wanted, Mr. Wynand.”
    “Have her telephone my office and make an appointment.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Wynand.”
    “Besides, you’re lying about not knowing the name of that sculptor. But it’s too much bother to make you tell me. She’ll tell me.”
    “I’m sure she’ll tell you. Though why should I lie?”
”God knows. By the way, if it had been a lesser sculptor, you’d have lost your job over this.”
    “But, after all, Mr. Wynand, I have a contract.”
    “Oh, save that for your labor unions, Elsie! And now I think you should wish me a good night and get out of here.”
    “Yes, Mr. Wynand. I wish you a good night.”
Wynand accompanied him to the hall. At the door Wynand said:
    “You’re a poor businessman, Toohey. I don’t know why you’re so anxious to have me meet Mrs. Keating. I don’t know what your racket is in trying to get a commission for that Keating of yours. But whatever it is, it can’t be so valuable that you should have been willing to part with a thing like this in exchange.”
    2.
    “WHY didn’t you wear your emerald bracelet?” asked Peter Keating. “Gordon Prescott’s so- called fiancee had everybody gaping at her star sapphire.”
    “I’m sorry, Peter. I shall wear it next time,” said Dominique. “It was a nice party. Did you have a good time?”
”I always have a good time.”
”So did I…Only…Oh God, do you want to know the truth?” “No.”
    “Dominique, I was bored to death. Vincent Knowlton is a pain in the neck. He’s such a damn snob. I can’t stand him.” He added cautiously: “I didn’t show it, did I?”
    “No. You behaved very well. You laughed at all his jokes–even when no one else did.” “Oh, you noticed that? It always works.”
”Yes, I noticed that.”
”You think I shouldn’t, don’t you?”
    “I haven’t said that.”
”You think it’s…low, don’t you?” “I don’t think anything is low.”
    He slumped farther in his armchair; it made his chin press uncomfortably against his chest; but he did not care to move again. A fire crackled in the fireplace of his living room. He had turned out all the lights, save one lamp with a yellow silk shade; but it created no air of intimate relaxation, it only made the place look deserted, like a vacant apartment with the utilities shut off. Dominique sat at the other end of the room, her thin body fitted obediently to the contours of a straight-backed chair; she did not look stiff, only too poised for comfort. They were alone, but she sat like a lady at a public function; like a lovely dress dummy in a public show window–a window facing a busy intersection. They had come home from a tea party at the house of Vincent Knowlton, a prominent young society man, Keating’s new friend. They had had a quiet dinner together, and now their evening was free. There were no other social engagements till tomorrow.
    “You shouldn’t have laughed at theosophy when you spoke to Mrs. Marsh,” he said. “She
    believes in it.”
    “I’m sorry. I shall be more careful.”
    He waited to have her open a subject of conversation. She said nothing. He thought suddenly that she had never spoken to him first–in the twenty months of their marriage. He told himself that that was ridiculous and impossible; he tried to recall an occasion when she had addressed him. Of course she had; he remembered her asking him: ‘”What time will you get back tonight?” and “Do you wish to include the Dixons for Tuesday’s dinner?” and many things like that.
    He glanced at her. She did not look bored or anxious to ignore him. She sat there, alert and ready, as if his company held her full interest; she did not reach for a book, she did not stare at some distant thought of her own. She looked straight at him, not past him, as if she were waiting for a conversation. He realized that she had always looked straight at him, like this; and now he wondered whether he liked it. Yes, he did, it allowed him no cause to be jealous, not even of her hidden thoughts. No, he didn’t, not quite, it allowed no escape, for either one of them.
    “I’ve just finished The Gallant Gallstone,” he said. “It’s a swell book. It’s the product of a scintillating brain, a Puck with tears streaming down his face, a golden-hearted clown holding for a moment the throne of God.”
    “I read the same book review. In the Sunday Banner.” “I read the book itself. You know I did.”
”That was nice of you.”
”Huh?” He heard approval and it pleased him.
    “It was considerate toward the author. I’m sure she likes to have people read her book. So it was kind to take the time–when you knew in advance what you’d think of it.”
    “I didn’t know. But I happened to agree with the reviewer.”
    “The Banner has the best reviewers.”
    “That’s true. Of course. So there’s nothing wrong in agreeing with them, is there?”
    “Nothing whatever. I always agree.”
    “With whom?”
    “With everybody.”
    “Are you making fun of me, Dominique?”
    “Have you given me reason to?”
    “No. I don’t see how. No, of course I haven’t.”
    “Then I’m not.”
    He waited. He heard a truck rumbling past, in the street below, and that filled a few seconds; “but when the sound died, he had to speak again:
    “Dominique, I’d like to know what you think.”
”Of what?”
”Of…of…” He searched for an important subject and ended with: “…of Vincent Knowlton.”
    “I think he’s a man worth kissing the backside of.” “For Christ’s sake, Dominique!”
    “I’m sorry. That’s bad English and bad manners. It’s wrong, of course. Well, let’s see: Vincent Knowlton is a man whom it’s pleasant to know. Old families deserve a great deal of consideration, and we must have tolerance for the opinions of others, because tolerance is the greatest virtue, therefore it would be unfair to force your views on Vincent Knowlton, and if you just let him believe what he pleases, he will be glad to help you too, because he’s a very human person.”
    “Now, that’s sensible,” said Keating; he felt at home in recognizable language. “I think tolerance is very important, because…” He stopped. He finished, in an empty voice: “You said exactly the same thing as before.”
    “Did you notice that,” she said. She said it without question mark, indifferently, as a simple fact. It was not sarcasm; he wished it were; sarcasm would have granted him a personal recognition–the desire to hurt him. But her voice had never carried any personal relation to him–not for twenty months.
    He stared into the fire. That was what made a man happy–to sit looking dreamily into a fire, at his own hearth, in his own home; that’s what he had always heard and read. He stared at the flames, unblinking, to force himself into a complete obedience to an established truth. Just one more minute of it and I will feel happy, he thought, concentrating. Nothing happened.
    He thought of how convincingly he could describe this scene to friends and make them envy the fullness of his contentment. Why couldn’t he convince himself? He had everything he’d ever wanted. He had wanted superiority–and for the last year he had been the undisputed leader of his profession. He had wanted fame–and he had five thick albums of clippings. He had wanted wealth–and he had enough to insure luxury for the rest of his life. He had everything anyone ever wanted. How many people struggled and suffered to achieve what he had achieved? How many dreamed and bled and died for this, without reaching it? “Peter Keating is the luckiest fellow on earth.” How often had he heard that?
    This last year had been the best of his life. He had added the impossible to his possessions– Dominique Francon. It had been such a joy to laugh casually when friends repeated to him: “Peter, how did you ever do it?” It had been such a pleasure to introduce her to strangers, to say lightly: “My wife,” and to watch the stupid, uncontrolled look of envy in their eyes. Once at a large party an elegant drunk had asked him, with a wink declaring unmistakable intentions: “Say, do you know that gorgeous creature over there?”
    “Slightly,” Keating had answered, gratified, “she’s my wife.”
    He often told himself gratefully that their marriage had turned out much better than he had expected. Dominique had become an ideal wife. She devoted herself completely to his interests: pleasing his clients, entertaining his friends, running his home. She changed nothing in his existence: not his hours, not his favorite menus, not even the arrangement of his furniture. She had brought nothing with her, except her clothes; she had not added a single book or ash tray to his house. When he expressed his views on any subject, she did not argue–she agreed with him. Graciously, as a matter of natural course, she took second place, vanishing in his background.
    He had expected a torrent that would lift him and smash him against some unknown rocks. He had not found even a brook joining his peaceful river. It was more as if the river went on and someone came to swim quietly in his wake; no, not even to swim–that was a cutting, forceful action–but just to float behind him with the current. Had he been offered the power to determine Dominique’s attitude after their marriage, he would have asked that she behave exactly as she did.
    Only their nights left him miserably unsatisfied. She submitted whenever he wanted her. But it was always as on their first night: an indifferent body in his arms, without revulsion, without answer. As far as he was concerned, she was still a virgin: he had never made her experience anything. Each time, burning with humiliation, he decided never to touch her again. But his
    desire returned, aroused by the constant presence of her beauty. He surrendered to it, when he could resist no longer; not often.
    It was his mother who stated the thing he had not admitted to himself about his marriage. “I can’t stand it,” his mother said, six months after the wedding. “If she’d just get angry at me once, call me names, throw things at me, it would be all right. But I can’t stand this.”
    “What, Mother?” he asked, feeling a cold hint of panic. “It’s no use, Peter,” she answered. His mother, whose arguments, opinions, reproaches he had never been able to stop, would not say another word about his marriage. She took a small apartment of her own and moved out of his house. She came to visit him often and she was always polite to Dominique, with a strange, beaten air of resignation. He told himself that he should be glad to be free of his mother; but he was not glad. Yet he could not grasp what Dominique had done to inspire that mounting dread within him. He could find no word or gesture for which to reproach her. But for twenty months it had been like tonight: he could not bear to remain alone with her–yet he did not want to escape her and she did not want to avoid him.
    “Nobody’s coming tonight?” he asked tonelessly, turning away from the fire.
    “No,” she said, and smiled, the smile serving as connection to her next words: “Shall I leave you alone, Peter?”
    “No!” It was almost a cry. I must not sound so desperate, he thought, while he was saying aloud: “Of course not. I’m glad to have an evening with my wife all to myself.”
    He felt a dim instinct telling him that he must solve this problem, must learn to make their moments together endurable, that he dare not run from it, for his own sake more than hers.
    “What would you like to do tonight, Dominique?” “Anything you wish.”
”Want to go to a movie?”
”Do you?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. It kills time.”
    “All right. Let’s kill time.’”
    “No. Why should we? That sounds awful.”
    “Does it?”
    “Why should we run from our own home? Let’s stay here.”
    “Yes, Peter.”
    He waited. But the silence, he thought, is a flight too, a worse kind of flight.
    “Want to play a hand of Russian Bank?” he asked.
    “Do you like Russian Bank?”
    “Oh, it kills ti–” He stopped. She smiled.
    “Dominique,” he said, looking at her, “you’re so beautiful. You’re always so…so utterly beautiful. I always want to tell you how I feel about it.”
    “I’d like to hear how you feel about it. Peter.”
    “I love to look at you. I always think of what Gordon Prescott said. He said that you are God’s perfect exercise in structural mathematics. And Vincent Knowlton said you’re a spring
    morning. And Ellsworth–Ellsworth said you’re a reproach to every other female shape on earth.”
    “And Ralston Holcombe?” she asked.
”Oh, never mind!” he snapped, and turned back to the fire.
    I know why I can’t stand the silence, he thought. It’s because it makes no difference to her at all whether I speak or not; as if I didn’t exist and never had existed…the thing more inconceivable than one’s death–never to have been born….He felt a sudden, desperate desire which he could identify–a desire to be real to her.
    “Dominique, do you know what I’ve been thinking?” he asked eagerly. “No. What have you been thinking?”
    “I’ve thought of it for some time–all by myself–I haven’t mentioned it to anyone. And nobody suggested it. It’s my own idea.”
    “Why, that’s fine. What is it?”
”I think I’d like to move to the country and build a house of our own. Would you like that?” “I’d like it very much. Just as you would. You want to design a home for yourself?”
”Hell, no. Bennett will dash one off for me. He does all our country homes. He’s a whiz at it.” “Will you like commuting?”
    “No, I think that will be quite an awful nuisance. But you know, everybody that’s anybody commutes nowadays. I always feel like a damn proletarian when I have to admit that I live in the city.”
    “Will you like to see trees and a garden and the earth around you?”
    “Oh, that’s a lot of nonsense. When will I have the time? A tree’s a tree. When you’ve seen a newsreel of the woods in spring, you’ve seen it all.”
    “Will you like to do some gardening? People say it’s very nice, working the soil yourself.”
    “Good God, no! What kind of grounds do you think we’d have? We can afford a gardener, and a good one–so the place will be something for the neighbors to admire.”
    “Will you like to take up some sport?” “Yes, I’ll like that.”
”Which one?”
    “I think I’ll do better with my golf. You know, belonging to a country club right where you’re one of the leading citizens in the community is different from occasional week ends. And the people you meet are different. Much higher class. And the contacts you make…” He caught himself, and added angrily: “Also, I’ll take up horseback riding.”
    “I like horseback riding. Do you?”
    “I’ve never had much time for it. Well, it does shake your insides unmercifully. But who the hell is Gordon Prescott to think he’s the only he-man on earth and plaster his photo in riding clothes right in his reception room?”
    “I suppose you will want to find some privacy?”
”Well, I don’t believe in that desert-island stuff. I think the house should stand in sight of a
    major highway, so people would point out, you know, the Keating estate. Who the hell is Claude Stengel to have a country home while I live in a rented flat? He started out about the same time I did, and look where he is and where I am, why, he’s lucky if two and a half men ever heard of him, so why should he park himself in Westchester and…”
    And he stopped. She sat looking at him, her face serene.
    “Oh God damn it!” he cried. “If you don’t want to move to the country, why don’t you just say so?”
    “I want very much to do anything you want, Peter. To follow any idea you get all by yourself.” He remained silent for a long time.
”What do we do tomorrow night?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
She rose, walked to a desk and picked up her calendar.
    “We have the Palmers for dinner tomorrow night,” she said.
    “Oh, Christ!” he moaned. “They’re such awful bores! Why do we have to have them?”
    She stood holding the calendar forward between the tips of her fingers, as if she were a photograph with the focus on the calendar and her own figure blurred in its background.
    “We have to have the Palmers,” she said, “so that we can get the commission for their new store building. We have to get that commission so that we can entertain the Eddingtons for dinner on Saturday. The Eddingtons have no commissions to give, but they’re in the Social Register. The Palmers bore you and the Eddingtons snub you. But you have to flatter people whom you despise in order to impress other people who despise you.”
    “Why do you have to say things like that?”
    “Would you like to look at this calendar, Peter?”
    “Well, that’s what everybody does. That’s what everybody lives for.”
    “Yes, Peter. Almost everybody.”
    “If you don’t approve, why don’t you say so?”
    “Have I said anything about not approving?”
    He thought back carefully. “No,” he admitted. “No, you haven’t….But it’s the way you put things.”
    “Would you rather I put it in a more involved way–as I did about Vincent Knowlton?”
”I’d rather…” Then he cried: “I’d rather you’d express an opinion, God damn it, just once!”
    She asked, in the same level monotone: “Whose opinion, Peter? Gordon Prescott’s? Ralston Holcombe’s? Ellsworth Toohey’s?”
    He turned to her, leaning on the arm of his chair, half rising, suddenly tense. The thing between them was beginning to take shape. He had a first hint of words that would name it.
    “Dominique,” he said softly, reasonably, “that’s it. Now I know. I know what’s been the matter all the time.”
    “Has anything been the matter?”
    “Wait. This is terribly important. Dominique, you’ve never said, not once, what you thought. Not about anything. You’ve never expressed a desire. Not of any kind.”
    “What’s wrong about that?”
    “But it’s…it’s like death. You’re not real. You’re only a body. Look, Dominique, you don’t know it, I’ll try to explain. You understand what death is? When a body can’t move any more, when it has no…no will, no meaning. You understand? Nothing. The absolute nothing. Well, your body moves–but that’s all. The other, the thing inside you, your–oh, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not talking religion, but there’s no other word for it, so I’ll say: your soul–your soul doesn’t exist. No will, no meaning. There’s no real you any more.”
    “What’s the real me?” she asked. For the first time, she looked attentive; not compassionate; but, at least, attentive.
    “What’s the real anyone?” he said, encouraged. “It’s not just the body. It’s…it’s the soul.” “What is the soul?”
”It’s–you. The thing inside you.”
”The thing that thinks and values and makes decisions?”
    “Yes! Yes, that’s it. And the thing that feels. You’ve–you’ve given it up.”
”So there are two things that one can’t give up: One’s thoughts and one’s desires?”
    “Yes! Oh, you do understand! So you see, you’re like a corpse to everybody around you. A kind of walking death. That’s worse than any active crime. It’s…”
    “Negation?”
    “Yes. Just blank negation. You’re not here. You’ve never been here. If you’d tell me that the curtains in this room are ghastly and if you’d rip them off and put up some you like–something of you would be real, here, in this room. But you never have. You’ve never told the cook what dessert you liked for dinner. You’re not here, Dominique. You’re not alive. Where’s your I?”
    “Where’s yours, Peter?” she asked quietly.
    He sat still, his eyes wide. She knew that his thoughts, in this moment, were clear and immediate like visual perception, that the act of thinking was an act of seeing a procession of years behind him.
    “It’s not true,” he said at last, his voice hollow. “It’s not true.” “What is not true?”
”What you said.”
”I’ve said nothing. I asked you a question.”
    His eyes were begging her to speak, to deny. She rose, stood before him, and the taut erectness of her body was a sign of life, the life he had missed and begged for, a positive quality of purpose, but the quality of a judge.
    “You’re beginning to see, aren’t you, Peter? Shall I make it clearer. You’ve never wanted me to be real. You never wanted anyone to be. But you didn’t want to show it. You wanted an act to help your act–a beautiful, complicated act, all twists, trimmings and words. All words. You didn’t like what I said about Vincent Knowlton. You liked it when I said the same thing under cover of virtuous sentiments. You didn’t want me to believe. You only wanted me to convince you that I believed. My real soul, Peter? It’s real only when it’s independent–you’ve discovered that, haven’t you? It’s real only when it chooses curtains and desserts–you’re right about that– curtains, desserts and religions, Peter, and the shapes of buildings. But you’ve never wanted that. You wanted a mirror. People want nothing but mirrors around them. To reflect them while they’re reflecting too. You know, like the senseless infinity you get from two mirrors facing
    each other across a narrow passage. Usually in the more vulgar kind of hotels. Reflections of reflections and echoes of echoes. No beginning and no end. No center and no purpose. I gave you what you wanted. I became what you are, what your friends are, what most of humanity is so busy being–only with the trimmings. I didn’t go around spouting book reviews to hide my emptiness of judgment–I said I had no judgment. I didn’t borrow designs to hide my creative impotence–I created nothing. I didn’t say that equality is a noble conception and unity the chief goal of mankind–I just agreed with everybody. You call it death, Peter? That kind of death–I’ve imposed it on you and on everyone around us. But you–you haven’t done that. People are comfortable with you, they like you, they enjoy your presence. You’ve spared them the blank death. Because you’ve imposed it–on yourself.”
    He said nothing. She walked away from him, and sat down again, waiting.
    He got up. He made a few steps toward her. He said: “Dominique…” Then he was on his knees before her, clutching her, his head buried against her legs.
    “Dominique, it’s not true–that I never loved you. I love you, I always have, it was not…just to show the others–that was not all–I loved you. There were two people–you and another person, a man, who always made me feel the same thing–not fear exactly, but like a wall, a steep wall to climb–like a command to rise–I don’t know where–but a feeling going up–I’ve always hated that man–but you, I wanted you–always–that’s why I married you–when I knew you despised me–so you should have forgiven me that marriage–you shouldn’t have taken your revenge like this–not like this, Dominique–Dominique, I can’t fight back, I–”
    “Who is the man you hated, Peter?” “It doesn’t matter.”
”Who is he?”
”Nobody. I…”
    “Name him.” “Howard Roark.”
    She said nothing for a long time. Then she put her hand on his hair. The gesture had the form of gentleness.
    “I never wanted to take a revenge on you, Peter,” she said softly. “Then–why?”
    “I married you for my own reasons. I acted as the world demands one should act. Only I can do nothing halfway. Those who can, have a fissure somewhere inside. Most people have many. They lie to themselves–not to know that. I’ve never lied to myself. So I had to do what you all do–only consistently and completely. I’ve probably destroyed you. If I could care, I’d say I’m sorry. That was not my purpose.”
    “Dominique, I love you. But I’m afraid. Because you’ve changed something in me, ever since our wedding, since I said yes to you–even if I were to lose you now, I couldn’t go back to what I was before–you took something I had…”
    “No. I took something you never had. I grant you that’s worse.”
    “W hat?”
    “It’s said that the worst thing one can do to a man is to kill his self-respect. But that’s not true. Self-respect is something that can’t be killed. The worst thing is to kill a man’s pretense at it.”
    “Dominique, I…I don’t want to talk.”
She looked down at his face resting against her knees, and he saw pity in her eyes, and for
    one moment he knew what a dreadful thing true pity is, but he kept no knowledge of it, because he slammed his mind shut before the words in which he was about to preserve it.
    She bent down and kissed his forehead. It was the first kiss she had ever given him.
    “I don’t want you to suffer, Peter,” she said gently. “This, now, is real–it’s I–it’s my own words– I don’t want you to suffer–I can’t feel anything else–but I feel that much.”
    He pressed his lips to her hand.
    When he raised his head, she looked at him as if, for a moment, he was her husband. She said: “Peter, if you could hold on to it–to what you are now–”
    “I love you,” he said.
They sat silently together for a long time. He felt no strain in the silence. The telephone rang.
    It was not the sound that destroyed the moment; it was the eagerness with which Keating jumped up and ran to answer it. She heard his voice through the open door, a voice indecent in its relief:
    “Hello?…Oh, hello, Ellsworth!…No, not a thing….Free as a lark….Sure, come over, come right over!…Okey-doke!”
    “It’s Ellsworth,” he said, returning to the living room. His voice was gay and it had a touch of insolence. “He wants to drop in.”
    She said nothing.
    He busied himself emptying ash trays that contained a single match or one butt, gathering newspapers, adding a log to the fire that did not need it, lighting more lamps. He whistled a tune from a screen operetta.
    He ran to open the door when he heard the bell.
    “How nice,” said Toohey, coming in. “A fire and just the two of you. Hello, Dominique. Hope I’m not intruding.”
    “Hello, Ellsworth,” she said.
    “You’re never intruding,” said Keating. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.” He pushed a chair to the fire. “Sit down here, Ellsworth. What’ll you have? You know, when I heard your voice on the phone…well, I wanted to jump and yelp like a pup.”
    “Don’t wag your tail, though,” said Toohey. “No, no drinks, thanks. How have you been, Dominique?”
    “Just as I was a year ago,” she said.
    “But not as you were two years ago?”
    “No.”
    “What did we do two years ago this time?” Keating asked idly.
    “You weren’t married,” said Toohey. “Prehistorical period. Let me see–what happened then? I think the Stoddard Temple was just being completed.”
    “Oh that,” said Keating.
Toohey asked: “Hear anything about your friend, Roark…Peter?”
    “No. I don’t think he’s worked for a year or more. He’s finished, this time.” “Yes, I think so….What have you been doing, Peter?”
”Nothing much….Oh, I’ve just read The Gallant Gallstone.”
”Liked it?”
    “Yes! You know, I think it’s a very important book. Because it’s true that there’s no such thing as free will. We can’t help what we are or what we do. It’s not our fault. Nobody’s to blame for anything. It’s all in your background and…and your glands. If you’re good, that’s no achievement of yours–you were lucky in your glands. If you’re rotten, nobody should punish you–you were unlucky, that’s all.” He was saying it defiantly, with a violence inappropriate to a literary discussion. He was not looking at Toohey nor at Dominique, but speaking to the room and to what that room had witnessed.
    “Substantially correct,” said Toohey. “To be logical, however, we should not think of punishment for those who are rotten. Since they suffered through no fault of their own, since they were unlucky and underendowed, they should deserve a compensation of some sort– more like a reward.”
    “Why–yes!” cried Keating. “That’s…that’s logical.”
”And just,” said Toohey.
”Got the Banner pretty much where you want it, Ellsworth?” asked Dominique. “What’s that in reference to?”
”The Gallant Gallstone.”
”Oh. No, I can’t say I have. Not quite. There are always the–imponderables.”
    “What are you talking about?” asked Keating. “Professional gossip,” said Toohey. He stretched his hands to the fire and flexed his fingers playfully. “By the way, Peter, are you doing anything about Stoneridge?”
    “God damn it,” said Keating. “What’s the matter?”
    “You know what’s the matter. You know the bastard better than I do. To have a project like that going up, now, when it’s manna in the desert, and of all people to have that son of a bitch Wynand doing it!”
    “What’s the matter with Mr. Wynand?”
    “Oh come, Ellsworth! You know very well if it were anyone else, I’d get that commission just like that”–he snapped his fingers–“I wouldn’t even have to ask, the owner’d come to me. Particularly when he knows that an architect like me is practically sitting on his fanny now, compared to the work our office could handle. But Mr. Gail Wynand! You’d think he was a holy Lama who’s just allergic to the air breathed by architects!”
    “I gather you’ve tried?”
    “Oh, don’t talk about it. It makes me sick. I think I’ve spent three hundred dollars feeding lunches and pouring liquor into all sorts of crappy people who said they could get me to meet him. All I got is hangovers. I think it’d be easier to meet the Pope.”
    “I gather you do want to get Stoneridge?”
”Are you baiting me, Ellsworth? I’d give my right arm for it.”
”That wouldn’t be advisable. You couldn’t make any drawings then–or pretend to. It would be
    preferable to give up something less tangible.”
    “I’d give my soul.”
    “Would you, Peter?” asked Dominique. “What’s on your mind, Ellsworth?” Keating snapped. “Just a practical suggestion,” said Toohey. “Who has been your most effective salesman in the past and got you some of your best commissions?”
    “Why–Dominique I guess.”
    “That’s right. And since you can’t get to Wynand and it wouldn’t do you any good if you did, don’t you think Dominique is the one who’ll be able to persuade him?” Keating stared at him. “Are you crazy, Ellsworth?” Dominique leaned forward. She seemed interested.
    “From what I’ve heard,” she said, “Gail Wynand does not do favors for a woman, unless she’s beautiful. And if she’s beautiful, he doesn’t do it as a favor.”
    Toohey looked at her, underscoring the fact that he offered no denial.
    “It’s silly,” snapped Keating angrily. “How would Dominique ever get to see him?”
    “By telephoning his office and making an appointment,” said Toohey.
    “Who ever told you he’d grant it?”
    “He did.”
    “When?!”
    “Late last night. Or early this morning, to be exact.”
    “Ellsworth!” gasped Keating. He added: “I don’t believe it.”
    “I do,” said Dominique, “or Ellsworth wouldn’t have started this conversation.” She smiled at Toohey. “So Wynand promised you to see me?”
    “Yes, my dear.”
”How did you work that?”
    “Oh, I offered him a convincing argument. However, it would be advisable not to delay it. You should telephone him tomorrow–if you wish to do it.”
    “Why can’t she telephone now?” said Keating. “Oh, I guess it’s too late. You’ll telephone first thing in the morning.”
    She looked at him, her eyes half closed, and said nothing.
    “It’s a long time since you’ve taken any active interest in Peter’s career,” said Toohey. “Wouldn’t you like to undertake a difficult feat like that–for Peter’s sake?”
    “If Peter wants me to.”
    “If I want you to?” cried Keating. “Are you both crazy? It’s the chance of a lifetime, the…” He saw them both looking at him curiously. He snapped: “Oh, rubbish!”
    “What is rubbish, Peter?” asked Dominique.
    “Are you going to be stopped by a lot of fool gossip? Why, any other architect’s wife’d crawl on her hands and knees for a chance like that to…”
    “No other architect’s wife would be offered the chance,” said Toohey. “No other architect has a wife like Dominique. You’ve always been so proud of that, Peter.”
    “Dominique can take care of herself in any circumstances.”
”There’s no doubt about that.”
”All right, Ellsworth,” said Dominique. “I’ll telephone Wynand tomorrow.” “Ellsworth, you’re wonderful!” said Keating, not looking at her.
”I believe I’d like a drink now,” said Toohey. “We should celebrate.”
    When Keating hurried out to the kitchen, Toohey and Dominique looked at each other. He smiled. He glanced at the door through which Keating had gone, then nodded to her faintly, amused.
    “You expected it,” said Dominique.
    “Of course.”
    “Now what’s the real purpose, Ellsworth?”
    “Why, I want to help you get Stoneridge for Peter. It’s really a terrific commission.”
    “Why are you so anxious to have me sleep with Wynand?”
    “Don’t you think it would be an interesting experience for all concerned?”
    “You’re not satisfied with the way my marriage has turned out, are you, Ellsworth?”
    “Not entirely. Just about fifty percent. Well, nothing’s perfect in this world. One gathers what one can and then one tries further.”
    “You were very anxious to have Peter marry me. You knew what the result would be, better than Peter or I.”
    “Peter didn’t know it at all.”
    “Well, it worked–fifty percent. You got Peter Keating where you wanted him–the leading architect of the country who’s now mud clinging to your galoshes.”
    “I’ve never liked your style of expression, but it’s always been accurate. I should have said: who’s now a soul wagging its tail. Your style is gentler.”
    “But the other fifty percent, Ellsworth? A failure?”
    “Approximately total. My fault. I should have known better than to expect anyone like Peter Keating, even in the role of husband, to destroy you.”
    “Well, you’re frank.”
    “I told you once it’s the only method that will work with you. Besides, surely it didn’t take you two years to discover what I wanted of that marriage?”
    “So you think Gail Wynand will finish the job?” “Might. What do you think?”
    “I think I’m only a side issue again. Didn’t you call it ‘gravy’ once? What have you got against W ynand?”
    He laughed; the sound betrayed that he had not expected the question. She said contemptuously: “Don’t show that you’re shocked, Ellsworth.”
    “All right. We’re taking it straight. I have nothing specific against Mr. Gail Wynand. I’ve been planning to have him meet you, for a long time. If you want minor details, he did something that annoyed me yesterday morning. He’s too observant. So I decided the time was right.”
    “And there was Stoneridge.”
    “And there was Stoneridge. I knew that part of it would appeal to you. You’d never sell yourself to save your country, your soul or the life of a man you loved. But you’ll sell yourself to get a commission he doesn’t deserve for Peter Keating. See what will be left of you afterward. Or of Gail Wynand. I’ll be interested to see it, too.”
    “Quite correct, Ellsworth.”
    “All of it? Even the part about a man you loved–if you did?”
    “Yes.”
    “You wouldn’t sell yourself for Roark? Though, of course, you don’t like to hear that name pronounced.”
    “Howard Roark,” she said evenly.
”You have a great deal of courage, Dominique.”
    Keating returned, carrying a tray of cocktails. His eyes were feverish and he made too many gestures.
    Toohey raised his glass. He said:
”To Gail Wynand and the New York Banner!”
    3.
GAIL WYNAND rose and met her halfway across his office. “How do you do, Mrs. Keating,” he said.
”How do you do, Mr. Wynand,” said Dominique.
    He moved a chair for her, but when she sat down he did not cross to sit behind his desk, he stood studying her professionally, appraisingly. His manner implied a self-evident necessity, as if his reason were known to her and there could be nothing improper in this behavior.
    “You look like a stylized version of your own stylized version,” he said. “As a rule seeing the models of art works tends to make one atheistic. But this time it’s a close one between that sculptor and God.”
    “What sculptor?”
”The one who did that statue of you.”
    He had felt that there was some story behind the statue and he became certain of it now, by something in her face, a tightening that contradicted, for a second, the trim indifference of her self-control.
    “Where and when did you see that statue, Mr. Wynand?” “In my art gallery, this morning.”
”Where did you get it?”
    It was his turn to show perplexity. “But don’t you know that?” “No.”
”Your friend Ellsworth Toohey sent it to me. As a present.” “To get this appointment for me?”
    “Not through as direct a motivation as I believe you’re thinking. But in substance–yes.” “He hasn’t told me that.”
”Do you mind my having that statue?”
”Not particularly.”
    “I expected you to say that you were delighted.”–“I’m not.”
    He sat down, informally, on the outer edge of his desk, his legs stretched out, his ankles crossed. He asked:
    “I gather you lost track of that statue and have been trying to find it?”
    “For two years.”
    “You can’t have it.” He added, watching her: “You might have Stoneridge.”
    “I shall change my mind. I’m delighted that Toohey gave it to you.”
    He felt a bitter little stab of triumph–and of disappointment, in thinking that he could read her mind and that her mind was obvious, after all. He asked:
    “Because it gave you this interview?”
    “No. Because you’re the person before last in the world whom I’d like to have that statue. But Toohey is last.”
    He lost the triumph; it was not a thing which a woman intent on Stoneridge should have said or thought. He asked:
    “You didn’t know that Toohey had it?” “No.”
    “We should get together on our mutual friend, Mr. Ellsworth Toohey. I don’t like being a pawn and I don’t think you do or could ever be made to. There are too many things Mr. Toohey chose not to tell. The name of that sculptor, for instance.”
    “He didn’t tell you that?”
”No.”
”Steven Mallory.”
”Mallory?…Not the one who tried to…” He laughed aloud. “What’s the matter?”
    “Toohey told me he couldn’t remember the name. That name.” “Does Mr. Toohey still astonish you?”
    “He has, several times, in the last few days. There’s a special kind of subtlety in being as blatant as he’s been. A very difficult kind. I almost like his artistry.”
    “I don’t share your taste.”
    “Not in any field? Not in sculpture–or architecture?”
    “I’m sure not in architecture.”
    “Isn’t that the utterly wrong thing for you to say?”
    “Probably.”
    He looked at her. He said: “You’re interesting.”
    “I didn’t intend to be.”
    “That’s your third mistake.”
    “Third?”
    “The first was about Mr. Toohey. In the circumstances, one would expect you to praise him to me. To quote him. To lean on his great prestige in matters of architecture.”
    “But one would expect you to know Ellsworth Toohey. That should disqualify any quotations.” “I intended to say that to you–had you given me the chance you won’t give me.”
”That should make it more entertaining.”
”You expected to be entertained?”
    “I am.”
    “About the statue?” It was the only point of weakness he had discovered.
    “No.” Her voice was hard. “Not about the statue.”
    “Tell me, when was it made and for whom?”
    “Is that another thing Mr. Toohey forgot?”
    “Apparently.”
    “Do you remember a scandal about a building called the Stoddard Temple? Two years ago. You were away at the time.”
    “The Stoddard Temple….How do you happen to know where I was two years ago?…Wait, the Stoddard Temple. I remember: a sacrilegious church or some such object that gave the Bible brigade a howling spree.”
    “Yes.”
    “There was…” He stopped. His voice sounded hard and reluctant–like hers. “There was the statue of a naked woman involved.”
    “Yes.” “I see.”
    He was silent for a moment. Then he said, his voice harsh, as if he were holding back some anger whose object she could not guess:
    “I was somewhere around Bali at the time. I’m sorry all New York saw that statue before I did. But I don’t read newspapers when I’m sailing. There’s a standing order to fire any man who brings a Wynand paper around the yacht.”
    “Have you ever seen pictures of the Stoddard Temple?” “No. Was the building worthy of the statue?”
”The statue was almost worthy of the building.”
”It has been destroyed, hasn’t it?”
    “Yes. With the help of the Wynand papers.”
    He shrugged. “I remember Alvah Scarret had a good time with it. A big story. Sorry I missed it. But Alvah did very well. Incidentally, how did you know that I was away and why has the fact of my absence remained in your memory?”
    “It was the story that cost me my job with you.”
    “Your job? With me?”
    “Didn’t you know that my name was Dominique Francon?”
    Under the trim jacket his shoulders made a sagging movement forward; it was surprise–and helplessness. He stared at her, quite simply. After a while, he said: “No.”
    She smiled indifferently. She said: “It appears that Toohey wanted to make it as difficult for both of us as he could.”
    “To hell with Toohey. This has to be understood. It doesn’t make sense. You’re Dominique Francon?”
    “I was.”
”You worked here, in this building, for years?”
”For six years.”
”Why haven’t I met you before?”
”I’m sure you don’t meet every one of your employees.” “I think you understand what I mean.”
”Do you wish me to state it for you?”
”Yes.”
”Why haven’t I tried to meet you before?”
”Yes.”
”I had no desire to.”
”That, precisely, doesn’t make sense.”
”Shall I let this go by or understand it?”
    “I’ll spare you the choice. With the kind of beauty you possess and with knowledge of the kind of reputation I am said to possess–why didn’t you attempt to make a real career for yourself on the Banner!”
    “I never wanted a real career on the Banner.”
    “Why?”
    “Perhaps for the same reason that makes you forbid Wynand papers on your yacht.”
    “It’s a good reason,” he said quietly. Then he asked, his voice casual again: “Let’s see, what was it you did to get fired? You went against our policy, I believe?”
    “I tried to defend the Stoddard Temple.”
    “Didn’t you know better than to attempt sincerity on the Banner?”
    “I intended to say that to you–if you’d given me the chance.”
    “Are you being entertained?”
    “I wasn’t, then. I liked working here.”
    “You’re the only one who’s ever said that in this building.”
    “I must be one of two.”
    “Who’s the other?”
    “Yourself, Mr. Wynand.”
    “Don’t be too sure of that.” Lifting his head, he saw the hint of amusement in her eyes and asked: “You said it just to trap me into that kind of a statement?”
    “Yes, I think so,” she answered placidly. “Dominique Francon…” he repeated, not addressing her. “I used to like your stuff. I almost wish you were here to ask for your old job.”
    “I’m here to discuss Stoneridge.”
    “Ah, yes, of course.” He settled back, to enjoy a long speech of persuasion. He thought it would be interesting to hear what arguments she’d choose and how she’d act in the role of petitioner. “Well, what do you wish to tell me about that?”
    “I should like you to give that commission to my husband. I understand, of course, that there’s no reason why you should do so–unless I agree to sleep with you in exchange. If you consider that a sufficient reason–I am willing to do it.”
    He looked at her silently, allowing no hint of personal reaction in his face. She sat looking up at him, faintly astonished by his scrutiny, as if her words had deserved no special attention. He could not force on himself, though he was seeking it fiercely, any other impression of her face than the incongruous one of undisturbed purity.
    He said:
”That is what I was to suggest. But not so crudely and not on our first meeting.” “I have saved you time and lies.”
”You love your husband very much?”
”I despise him.”
”You have a great faith in his artistic genius?”
”I think he’s a third-rate architect.”
”Then why are you doing this?”
    “It amuses me.”
”I thought I was the only who acted on such motives.”
    “You shouldn’t mind. I don’t believe you’ve ever found originality a desirable virtue, Mr. W ynand.”
    “Actually, you don’t care whether your husband gets Stoneridge or not?” “No.”
”And you have no desire to sleep with me?”
”None at all.”
    “I could admire a woman who’d put on an act like that. Only it’s not an act.”
    “It’s not. Please don’t begin admiring me. I have tried to avoid it.”
    Whenever he smiled no obvious movement was required of his facial muscles; the hint of mockery was always there and it merely came into sharper focus for a moment, to recede imperceptibly again. The focus was sharper now.
    “As a matter of fact,” he said, “your chief motive is I, after all. The desire to give yourself to me.” He saw the glance she could not control and added: “No, don’t enjoy the thought that I have fallen into so gross an error. I didn’t mean it in the usual sense. But in its exact opposite. Didn’t you say you considered me the person before last in the world? You don’t want Stoneridge. You want to sell yourself for the lowest motive to the lowest person you can find.”
    “I didn’t expect you to understand that,” she said simply.
    “You want–men do that sometimes, not women–to express through the sexual act your utter contempt for me.”
    “No, Mr. Wynand. For myself.”
    The thin line of his mouth moved faintly, as if his lips had caught the first hint of a personal revelation–an involuntary one and, therefore, a weakness–and were holding it tight while he spoke:
    “Most people go to very to very great lengths in order to convince themselves of their self- respect.”
    “Yes.”
    “And, of course, a quest for self-respect is proof of its lack.”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you see the meaning of a quest for self-contempt?”
    “That I lack it?”
    “And that you’ll never achieve it.”
    “I didn’t expect you to understand that either.”
    “I won’t say anything else–or I’ll stop being the person before last in the world and I’ll become unsuitable to your purpose.” He rose. “Shall I tell you formally that I accept your offer?”
    She inclined her head in agreement.
    “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I don’t care whom I choose to build Stoneridge. I’ve never hired a good architect for any of the things I’ve built. I give the public what it wants. I was stuck for a choice this time, because I’m tired of the bunglers who’ve worked for me, and it’s hard to decide without standards or reason. I’m sure you don’t mind my saying this. I’m really grateful to you for giving me a much better motive than any I could hope to find.”
    “I’m glad you didn’t say that you’ve always admired the work of Peter Keating.”
    “You didn’t tell me how glad you were to join the distinguished list of Gail Wynand’s mistresses.”
    “You may enjoy my admitting it, if you wish, but I think we’ll get along very well together.”
    “Quite likely. At least, you’ve given me a new experience: to do what I’ve always done–but honestly. Shall I now begin to give you my orders? I won’t pretend they’re anything else.”
    “If you wish.”
    “You’ll go with me for a two months’ cruise on my yacht. We’ll sail in ten days. When we come back, you’ll be free to return to your husband–with the contract for Stoneridge.”
    “Very well.”
”I should like to meet your husband. Will you both have dinner with me Monday night?” “Yes, if you wish.”
When she rose to leave, he asked:
”Shall I tell you the difference between you and your statue?”
”No.”
    “But I want to. It’s startling to see the same elements used in two compositions with opposite themes. Everything about you in that statue is the theme of exaltation. But your own theme is suffering.”
    “Suffering? I’m not conscious of having shown that.”
    “You haven’t. That’s what I meant. No happy person can be quite so impervious to pain.” #
    Wynand telephoned his art dealer and asked him to arrange a private showing of Steven Mallory’s work. He refused to meet Mallory in person; he never met those whose work he liked. The art dealer executed the order in great haste. Wynand bought five of the pieces he saw–and paid more than the dealer had hoped to ask. “Mr. Mallory would like to know,” said the dealer, “what brought him to your attention.”
    “I saw one of his works.” “Which one?”
”It doesn’t matter.”
    Toohey had expected Wynand to call for him after the interview with Dominique. Wynand had not called. But a few days later, meeting Toohey by chance in the city room, Wynand asked aloud:
    “Mr. Toohey, have so many people tried to kill you that you can’t remember their names?” Toohey smiled and said: “I’m sure quite so many would like to.”
”You flatter your fellow men,” said Wynand, walking away.

    Peter Keating stared at the brilliant room of the restaurant. It was the most exclusive place in town, and the most expensive. Keating gloated, chewing the thought that he was here as the guest of Gail Wynand.
    He tried not to stare at the gracious elegance of Wynand’s figure across the table. He blessed Wynand for having chosen to give this dinner in a public place. People were gaping at Wynand–discreetly and with practiced camouflage, but gaping nevertheless–and their attention included the two guests at Wynand’s table.
    Dominique sat between the two men. She wore a white silk dress with long sleeves and a cowl neck, a nun’s garment that acquired the startling effect of an evening gown only by being so flagrantly unsuited to that purpose. She wore no jewelry. Her gold hair looked like a hood. The dull white silk moved in angular planes with the movements of her body, revealing it in the manner of cold innocence, the body of a sacrificial object publicly offered, beyond the need of concealment or desire. Keating found it unattractive. He noticed that Wynand seemed to admire it.
    Someone at a distant table stared in their direction insistently, someone tall and bulky. Then the big shape rose to its feet–and Keating recognized Ralston Holcombe hurrying toward them.
    “Peter, my boy, so glad to see you,” boomed Holcombe, shaking his hand, bowing to Dominique, conspicuously ignoring Wynand. “Where have you been hiding? Why don’t we see you around any more?” They had had luncheon together three days ago.
    Wynand had risen and stood leaning forward a little, courteously. Keating hesitated; then, with obvious reluctance, said:
    “Mr. Wynand–Mr. Holcombe.”
”Not Mr. Gail Wynand?” said Holcombe with splendid innocence.
    “Mr. Holcombe, if you saw one of the cough-drop Smith brothers in real life, would you recognize him?” asked Wynand.
    “Why–I guess so,” said Holcombe, blinking.
    “My face, Mr. Holcombe, is just as much of a public bromide.”
    Holcombe muttered a few benevolent generalities and escaped.
    Wynand smiled affectionately. “You didn’t have to be afraid of introducing Mr. Holcombe to me, Mr. Keating, even though he is an architect.”
    “Afraid, Mr. Wynand?”
”Unnecessarily, since it’s all settled. Hasn’t Mrs. Keating told you that Stoneridge is yours?”
    “I…no, she hasn’t told me…I didn’t know….” Wynand was smiling, but the smile remained fixed, and Keating felt compelled to go on talking until some sign stopped him. “I hadn’t quite hoped…not so soon…of course, I thought this dinner might be a sign…help you to decide…” He blurted out involuntarily: “Do you always throw surprises like that–just like that?”
    “Whenever I can,” said Wynand gravely.
”I shall do my best to deserve this honor and live up to your expectations, Mr. Wynand.” “I have no doubt about that,” said Wynand.
He had said little to Dominique tonight. His full attention seemed centered on Keating.
    “The public has been kind to my past endeavors,” said Keating, “but I shall make Stoneridge my best achievement.”
    “That is quite a promise, considering the distinguished list of your works.”
    “I had not hoped that my works were of sufficient importance to attract your attention, Mr. W ynand.”
    “But I know them quite well. The Cosmo-Slotnick Building, which is pure Michelangelo.” Keating’s face spread in incredulous pleasure; he knew that Wynand was a great authority on art and would not make such comparisons lightly. “The Prudential Bank Building, which is genuine Palladio. The Slottern Department Store, which is snitched Christopher Wren.” Keating’s face had changed. “Look what an illustrious company I get for the price of one. Isn’t it quite a bargain?”
    Keating smiled, his face tight, and said:
    “I’ve heard about your brilliant sense of humor, Mr. Wynand.”
    “Have you heard about my descriptive style?”
    “What do you mean?”
    Wynand half turned in his chair and looked at Dominique, as if he were inspecting an inanimate object.
    “Your wife has a lovely body, Mr. Keating. Her shoulders are too thin, but admirably in scale with the rest of her. Her legs are too long, but that gives her the elegance of line you’ll find in a good yacht. Her breasts are beautiful, don’t you think?”
    “Architecture is a crude profession, Mr. Wynand,” Keating tried to laugh. “It doesn’t prepare one for the superior sort of sophistication.”
    “You don’t understand me, Mr. Keating?”
    “If I didn’t know you were a perfect gentleman, I might misunderstand it, but you can’t fool me.”
    “That is just what I am trying not to do.”
    “I appreciate compliments, Mr. Wynand, but I’m not conceited enough to think that we must talk about my wife.”
    “Why not, Mr. Keating? It is considered good form to talk of the things one has–or will have–in common.”
    “Mr. Wynand, I…I don’t understand.”
”Shall I be more explicit?”
”No, I…”
”No? Shall we drop the subject of Stoneridge?” “Oh, let’s talk about Stoneridge! I…”
    “But we are, Mr. Keating.”
    Keating looked at the room about them. He thought that things like this could not be done in such a place; the fastidious magnificence made it monstrous; he wished it were a dank cellar. He thought: blood on paving stones–all right, but not blood on a drawing-room rug….
    “Now I know this is a joke, Mr. Wynand,” he said.
    “It is my turn to admire your sense of humor, Mr. Keating.” “Things like…like this aren’t being done…”
    “That’s not what you mean at all, Mr. Keating. You mean, they’re being done all the time, but not talked about.”
    “I didn’t think…”
    “You thought it before you came here. You didn’t mind. I grant you I’m behaving abominably. I’m breaking all the rules of charity. It’s extremely cruel to be honest.”
    “Please, Mr. Wynand, let’s…drop it. I don’t know what…I’m supposed to do.”
    “That’s simple. You’re supposed to slap my face.” Keating giggled. “You were supposed to do that several minutes ago.”
    Keating noticed that his palms were wet and that he was trying to support his weight by holding on to the napkin on his lap. Wynand and Dominique were eating, slowly and graciously, as if they were at another table. Keating thought that they were not human bodies, either one of them; something had vanished; the light of the crystal fixtures in the room was the radiance of X-rays that ate through, not the bones, but deeper; they were souls, he thought, sitting at a dinner table, souls held with evening clothes, lacking the intermediate shape of flesh, terrifying in naked revelation–terrifying, because he expected to see torturers, but saw a great innocence. He wondered what they saw, what his own clothes contained if his physical shape had gone.
    “No?” said Wynand. “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Keating? But of course you don’t have to. Just say that you don’t want any of it. I won’t mind. There’s Mr. Ralston Holcombe across the room. He can build Stoneridge as well as you could.”
    “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Wynand,” whispered Keating. His eyes were fixed upon the tomato aspic on his salad plate; it was soft and shivering; it made him sick.
    Wynand turned to Dominique.
    “Do you remember our conversation about a certain quest, Mrs. Keating? I said it was a quest at which you would never succeed. Look at your husband. He’s an expert–without effort. That is the way to go about it. Match that, sometime. Don’t bother to tell me that you can’t. I know it. You’re an amateur, my dear.”
    Keating thought that he must speak again, but he couldn’t, not as long as that salad was there before him. The terror came from that plate, not from the fastidious monster across the table; the rest of the room was warm and safe. He lurched forward and his elbow swept the plate off the table.
    He made a kind of sound expressing regrets. Somebody’s shape came up, there were polite voices of apology, and the mess vanished from the carpet.
    Keating heard a voice saying: “Why are you doing this?” saw two faces turned to him and knew that he had said it.
    “Mr. Wynand is not doing it to torture you, Peter,” said Dominique calmly. “He’s doing it for me. To see how much I can take.”
    “That’s true, Mrs. Keating,” said Wynand. “Partly true. The other part is: to justify myself.” “In whose eyes?”
”Yours. And my own, perhaps.”
”Do you need to?”
    “Sometimes. The Banner is a contemptible paper, isn’t it? Well, I have paid with my honor for the privilege of holding a position where I can amuse myself by observing how honor operates in other men.”
    His own clothes, thought Keating, contained nothing now, because the two faces did not notice him any longer. He was safe; his place at that table was empty. He wondered, from a great, indifferent distance, why the two were looking at each other quietly, not like enemies, not like fellow executioners, but like comrades.
#
    Two days before they were to sail, Wynand telephoned Dominique late in the evening.
    “Could you come over right now?” he asked, and hearing a moment’s silence, added: “Oh, not what you’re thinking. I live up to my agreements. You’ll be quite safe. I just would like to see you tonight.”
    “All right,” she said, and was astonished to hear a quiet: “Thank you.”
    When the elevator door slid open in the private lobby of his penthouse, he was waiting there, but did not let her step out. He joined her in the elevator.
    “I don’t want you to enter my house,” he said. “We’re going to the floor below.” The elevator operator looked at him, amazed.
    The car stopped and opened before a locked door. Wynand unlocked it and let her step out first, following her into the art gallery. She remembered that this was the place no outsider ever entered. She said nothing. He offered no explanation.
    Four hours she walked silently through the vast rooms, looking at the incredible treasures of beauty. There was a deep carpet and no sound of steps, no sounds from the city outside, no windows. He followed her, stopping when she stopped. His eyes went with hers from object to object. At times his glance moved to her face. She passed, without stopping, by the statue from the Stoddard Temple.
    He did not urge her to stay nor to hurry, as if he had turned the place over to her. She decided when she wished to leave, and he followed her to the door. Then she asked:
    “Why did you want me to see this? It won’t make me think better of you. Worse, perhaps.”
    “Yes, I’d expect that,” he said quietly, “if I had thought of it that way. But I didn’t. I just wanted you to see it.”
    4.
    THE SUN had set when they stepped out of the car. In the spread of sky and sea, a green sky over a sheet of mercury, tracings of fire remained at the edges of the clouds and in the brass fittings of the yacht. The yacht was like a white streak of motion, a sensitive body strained against the curb of stillness.
    Dominique looked at the gold letters–I Do–on the delicate white bow.
    “What does that name mean?” she asked.
    “It’s an answer,” said Wynand, “to people long since dead. Though perhaps they are the only immortal ones. You see, the sentence I heard most often in my childhood was ‘You don’t run things around here.’”
    She remembered hearing that he had never answered this question before. He had answered
    her at once; he had not seemed conscious of making an exception. She felt a sense of calm in his manner, strange and new to him, an air of quiet finality.
    When they went aboard, the yacht started moving, almost as if Wynand’s steps on deck had served as contact. He stood at the rail, not touching her, he looked at the long, brown shore that rose and fell against the sky, moving away from them. Then he turned to her. She saw no new recognition in his eyes, no beginning, but only the continuation of a glance–as if he had been looking at her all the time.
    When they went below he walked with her into her cabin. He said: “Please let me know if there’s anything you wish,” and walked out through an inside door. She saw that it led to his bedroom. He closed the door and did not return.
    She moved idly across the cabin. A smear of reflection followed her on the lustrous surfaces of the pale satinwood paneling. She stretched out in a low armchair, her ankles crossed, her arms thrown behind her head, and watched the porthole turning from green to a dark blue. She moved her hand, switched on a light; the blue vanished and became a glazed black circle.
    The steward announced dinner. Wynand knocked at her door and accompanied her to the dining salon. His manner puzzled her: it was gay, but the sense of calm in the gaiety suggested a peculiar earnestness.
    She asked, when they were seated at the table: “Why did you leave me alone?”
”I thought you might want to be alone.”
”To get used to the idea?”
    “If you wish to put it that way.”
”I was used to it before I came to your office.”
    “Yes, of course. Forgive me for implying any weakness in you. I know better. By the way, you haven’t asked me where we’re going.”
    “That, too, would be weakness.”
    “True. I’m glad you don’t care. Because I never have any definite destination. This ship is not for going to places, but for getting away from them. When I stop at a port, it’s only for the sheer pleasure of leaving it. I always think: Here’s one more spot that can’t hold me.”
    “I used to travel a great deal. I always felt just like that. I’ve been told it’s because I’m a hater of mankind.”
    “You’re not foolish enough to believe that, are you?” “I don’t know.”
    “Surely you’ve seen through that particular stupidity. I mean the one that claims the pig is the symbol of love for humanity–the creature that accepts anything. As a matter of fact, the person who loves everybody and feels at home everywhere is the true hater of mankind. He expects nothing of men, so no form of depravity can outrage him.”
    “You mean the person who says that there’s some good in the worst of us?”
    “I mean the person who has the filthy insolence to claim that he loves equally the man who made that statue of you and the man who makes a Mickey Mouse balloon to sell on street corners. I mean the person who loves the men who prefer the Mickey Mouse to your statue– and there are many of that kind. I mean the person who loves Joan of Arc and the salesgirls in dress shops on Broadway–with an equal fervor. I mean the person who loves your beauty and
    the women he sees in a subway–the kind that can’t cross their knees and show flesh hanging publicly over their garters–with the same sense of exaltation. I mean the person who loves the clean, steady, unfrightened eyes of man looking through a telescope and the white stare of an imbecile–equally, I mean quite a large, generous, magnanimous company. Is it you who hate mankind, Mrs. Keating?”
    “You’re saying all the things that–since I can remember–since I began to see and think–have been…” She stopped.
    “Have been torturing you. Of course. One can’t love man without hating most of the creatures who pretend to bear his name. It’s one or the other. One doesn’t love God and sacrilege impartially. Except when one doesn’t know that sacrilege has been committed. Because one doesn’t know God.”
    “What will you say if I give you the answer people usually give me–that love is forgiveness?”
    “I’ll say it’s an indecency of which you’re not capable–even though you think you’re an expert in such matters.”
    “Or that love is pity.”
    “Oh, keep still. It’s bad enough to hear things like that. To hear them from you is revolting– even as a joke.”
    “What’s your answer?”
    “That love is reverence, and worship, and glory, and the upward glance. Not a bandage for dirty sores. But they don’t know it. Those who speak of love most promiscuously are the ones who’ve never felt it. They make some sort of feeble stew out of sympathy, compassion, contempt and general indifference, and they call it love. Once you’ve felt what it means to love as you and I know it–the total passion for the total height–you’re incapable of anything less.”
    “As–you and I–know it?”
    “It’s what we feel when we look at a thing like your statue. There’s no forgiveness in that, and no pity. And I’d want to kill the man who claims that there should be. But, you see, when he looks at your statue–he feels nothing. That–or a dog with a broken paw–it’s all the same to him. He even feels that he’s done something nobler by bandaging the dog’s paw than by looking at your statue. So if you seek a glimpse of greatness, if you want exaltation, if you ask for God and refuse to accept the washing of wounds as substitute–you’re called a hater of humanity, Mrs. Keating, because you’ve committed the crime of knowing a love humanity has not learned to deserve.”
    “Mr. Wynand, have you read what I got fired for?” “No. I didn’t then. I don’t dare to now “
”Why?”
    He ignored the question. He said, smiling: “And so, you came to me and said ‘You’re the vilest person on earth–take me so that I’ll learn self-contempt. I lack that which most people live by. They find life endurable, while I can’t.’ Do you see now what you’ve shown?”
    “I didn’t expect it to be seen.”
    “No. Not by the publisher of the New York Banner, of course. That’s all right. I expected a beautiful slut who was a friend of Ellsworth Toohey.”
    They laughed together. She thought it was strange that they could talk without strain–as if he had forgotten the purpose of this journey. His calm had become a contagious sense of peace between them.
    She watched the unobtrusively gracious way their dinner was served, she looked at the white
    tablecloth against the deep red of the mahogany walls. Everything on the yacht had an air that made her think it was the first truly luxurious place she had ever entered: the luxury was secondary, a background so proper to him that it could be ignored. The man humbled his own wealth. She had seen people of wealth, stiff and awed before that which represented their ultimate goal. The splendor of this place was not the aim, not the final achievement of the man who leaned casually across the table. She wondered what his aim had been.
    “This ship is becoming to you,” she said.
    She saw a look of pleasure in his eyes–and of gratitude.
    “Thank you….Is the art gallery?”
    “Yes. Only that’s less excusable.”
    “I don’t want you to make excuses for me.” He said it simply, without reproach.
    They had finished dinner. She waited for the inevitable invitation. It did not come. He sat smoking, talking about the yacht and the ocean.
    Her hand came to rest accidentally on the tablecloth, close to his. She saw him looking at it. She wanted to jerk her hand away, but forced herself to let it lie still. Now, she thought.
    He got up. “Let’s go on deck,” he said.
    They stood at the rail and looked at a black void. Space was not to be seen, only felt by the quality of the air against their faces. A few stars gave reality to the empty sky. A few sparks of white fire in the water gave life to the ocean.
    He stood, slouched carelessly, one arm raised, grasping a stanchion. She saw the sparks flowing, forming the edges of waves, framed by the curve of his body. That, too, was becoming to him.
    She said:
”May I name another vicious bromide you’ve never felt?”
”Which one?”
”You’ve never felt how small you were when looking at the ocean.”
    He laughed. “Never. Nor looking at the planets. Nor at mountain peaks. Nor at the Grand Canyon. Why should I? When I look at the ocean, I feel the greatness of man, I think of man’s magnificent capacity that created this ship to conquer all that senseless space. When I look at mountain peaks, I think of tunnels and dynamite. When I look at the planets, I think of airplanes.”
    “Yes. And that particular sense of sacred rapture men say they experience in contemplating nature–I’ve never received it from nature, only from…” She stopped.
    “From what?”
”Buildings,” she whispered. “Skyscrapers.” “Why didn’t you want to say that?” “I…don’t know.”
    “I would give the greatest sunset in the world for one sight of New York’s skyline. Particularly when one can’t see the details. Just the shapes. The shapes and the thought that made them. The sky over New York and the will of man made visible. What other religion do we need? And then people tell me about pilgrimages to some dank pesthole in a jungle where they go to do homage to a crumbling temple, to a leering stone monster with a pot belly, created by
    some leprous savage. Is it beauty and genius they want to see? Do they seek a sense of the sublime? Let them come to New York, stand on the shore of the Hudson, look and kneel. When I see the city from my window–no, I don’t feel how small I am–but I feel that if a war came to threaten this, I would like to throw myself into space, over the city, and protect these buildings with my body.”
    “Gail, I don’t know whether I’m listening to you or to myself.” “Did you hear yourself just now?”
She smiled. “Actually not. But I won’t take it back, Gail.”
    “Thank you–Dominique.” His voice was soft and amused. “But we weren’t talking about you or me. We were talking about other people.” He leaned with both forearms on the rail, he spoke watching the sparks in the water. “It’s interesting to speculate on the reasons that make men so anxious to debase themselves. As in that idea of feeling small before nature. It’s not a bromide, it’s practically an institution. Have you noticed how self-righteous a man sounds when he tells you about it? Look, he seems to say, I’m so glad to be a pygmy, that’s how virtuous I am. Have you heard with what delight people quote some great celebrity who’s proclaimed that he’s not so great when he looks at Niagara Falls? It’s as if they were smacking their lips in sheer glee that their best is dust before the brute force of an earthquake. As if they were sprawling on all fours, rubbing their foreheads in the mud to the majesty of a hurricane. But that’s not the spirit that leashed fire, steam, electricity, that crossed oceans in sailing sloops, that built airplanes and dams…and skyscrapers. What is it they fear? What is they hate so much, those who love to crawl? And why?”
    “When I find the answer to that,” she said, “I’ll make my peace with the world.”
    He went on talking–of his travels, of the continents beyond the darkness around them, the darkness that made of space a soft curtain pressed against their eyelids. She waited. She stopped answering. She gave him a chance to use the brief silences for ending this, for saying the words she expected. He would not say them.
    “Are you tired, my dear?” he asked.
    “No.”
    “I’ll get you a deck chair, if you want to sit down.”
    “No. I like standing here.”
    “It’s a little cold. But by tomorrow we’ll be far south and then you’ll see the ocean on fire, at night. It’s very beautiful.”
    He was silent. She heard the ship’s speed in the sound of the water, the rustling moan of protest against the thing that cut a long wound across the water’s surface.
    “When are we going below?” she asked. “We’re not going below.”
    He had said it quietly, with an odd kind of simplicity, as if he were standing helpless before a fact he could not alter.
    “Will you marry me?” he asked.
    She could not hide the shock; he had seen it in advance, he was smiling quietly, understanding.
    “It would be best to say nothing else.” He spoke carefully. “But you prefer to hear it stated– because that kind of silence between us is more than I have a right to expect. You don’t want to tell me much, but I’ve spoken for you tonight, so let me speak for you again. You’ve chosen me as the symbol of your contempt for men. You don’t love me. You wish to grant me nothing.
    I’m only your tool of self-destruction I know all that, I accept it and I want you to marry me. If you wish to commit an unspeakable act as your revenge against the world, such an act is not to sell yourself to your enemy, but to marry him. Not to match your worst against his worst, but your worst against his best. You’ve tried that once, but your victim wasn’t worthy of your purpose. You see, I’m pleading my case on your own terms. What mine are, what I want to find in that marriage is of no importance to you and I shall regard it in that manner. You don’t have to know about it. You don’t have to consider it. I exact no promises and impose no obligations on you. You’ll be free to leave me whenever you wish. Incidentally–since it is of no concern to you–I love you.”
    She stood, one arm stretched behind her, fingertips pressed to the rail. She said: “I did not want that.”
    “I know. But if you’re curious about it, I’ll tell you that you’ve made a mistake. You let me see the cleanest person I’ve ever seen.”
    “Isn’t that ridiculous, after the way we met?”
    “Dominique, I’ve spent my life pulling the strings of the world. I’ve seen all of it. Do you think I could believe any purity–unless it came to me twisted in some such dreadful shape as the one you chose? But what I feel must not affect your decision.”
    She stood looking at him, looking incredulously at all the hours past. Her mouth had the shape of gentleness. He saw it. She thought that every word he said today had been of her language, that this offer and the form he gave it were of her own world–and that he had destroyed his purpose by it, taken away from her the motive he suggested, made it impossible to seek degradation with a man who spoke as he did. She wanted suddenly to reach for him, to tell him everything, to find a moment’s release in his understanding, then ask him never to see her again.
    Then she remembered.
    He noticed the movement of her hand. Her fingers were not clinging tensely against the rail, betraying a need of support, giving importance to the moment; they relaxed and closed about the rail; as if she had taken hold of some reins, carelessly, because the occasion required no earnest effort any longer.
    She remembered the Stoddard Temple. She thought of the man before her, who spoke about the total passion for the total height and about protecting skyscrapers with his body–and she saw a picture on a page of the New York Banner, the picture of Howard Roark looking up at the Enright House, and the caption: “Are you happy, Mr. Superman?”
    She raised her face to him. She asked:
    “To marry you? To become Mrs. Wynand-Papers?”
    She heard the effort in his voice as he answered: “If you wish to call it that–yes.”
    “I will marry you.”
    “Thank you, Dominique.”
    She waited indifferently.
    When he turned to her, he spoke as he had spoken all day, a calm voice with an edge of gaiety.
    “We’ll cut the cruise short. We’ll take just a week–I want to have you here for a while. You’ll leave for Reno the day after we return. I’ll take care of your husband. He can have Stoneridge and anything else he wants and may God damn him. We’ll be married the day you come back.”
    “Yes, Gail. Now let’s go below.”
”Do you want it?”
”No. But I don’t want our marriage to be important.”
    “I want it to be important, Dominique. That’s why I won’t touch you tonight. Not until we’re married. I know it’s a senseless gesture. I know that a wedding ceremony has no significance for either one of us. But to be conventional is the only abnormality possible between us. That’s why I want it. I have no other way of making an exception.”
    “As you wish, Gail.”
    Then he pulled her to him and he kissed her mouth. It was the completion of his words, the finished statement, a statement of such intensity that she tried to stiffen her body, not to respond, and felt her body responding, forced to forget everything but the physical fact of a man who held her.
    He let her go. She knew he had noticed. He smiled and said:
”You’re tired, Dominique. Shall I say good night? I want to remain here for a while.” She turned obediently and walked alone down to her cabin.
    5.
”WHAT’S the matter? Don’t I get Stoneridge?” snapped Peter Keating.
    Dominique walked into the living room. He followed, waiting in the open door. The elevator boy brought in her luggage, and left. She said, removing her gloves:
    “You’ll get Stoneridge, Peter. Mr. Wynand will tell you the rest himself. He wants to see you tonight. At eight-thirty. At his home.”
    “Why in hell?” “He’ll tell you.”
    She slapped her gloves softly against her palm, a small gesture of finality, like a period at the end of a sentence. She turned to leave the room. He stood in her way.
    “I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t give a damn. I can play it your way. You’re great, aren’t you?– because you act like truck drivers, you and Mr. Gail Wynand? To hell with decency, to hell with the other fellow’s feelings? Well, I can do that too. I’ll use you both and I’ll get what I can out of it–and that’s all I care. How do you like it? No point when the worm refuses to be hurt? Spoils the fun?”
    “I think that’s much better, Peter. I’m glad.” He found himself unable to preserve this attitude when he entered Wynand’s study that evening. He could not escape the awe of being admitted into Gail Wynand’s home. By the time he crossed the room to the seat facing the desk he felt nothing but a sense of weight, and he wondered whether his feet had left prints on the soft carpet; like the leaded feet of a deep-sea diver. “What I have to tell you, Mr. Keating, should never have needed to be said or done,” said Wynand. Keating had never heard a man speak in a manner so consciously controlled. He thought crazily that it sounded as if Wynand held his fist closed over his voice and directed each syllable. “Any extra word I speak will be offensive, so I shall be brief. I am going to marry your wife. She is leaving for Reno tomorrow. Here is the contract for Stoneridge. I have signed it. Attached is a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It is in addition to what you will receive for your work under the contract. I’ll appreciate it if you will now make no comment of any kind. I realize that I could have had your consent for less, but I wish no discussion. It would be intolerable if we were to bargain
    about it. Therefore, will you please take this and consider the matter settled?”
    He extended the contract across the desk. Keating saw the pale blue rectangle of the check held to the top of the page by a paper clip. The clip flashed silver in the light of the desk lamp.
    Keating’s hand did not reach to meet the paper. He said, his chin moving awkwardly to frame the words: “I don’t want it. You can have my consent for nothing.” He saw a look of astonishment–and almost of kindness–on Wynand’s face.
    “You don’t want it? You don’t want Stoneridge either?”
    “I want Stoneridge!” Keating’s hand rose and snatched the paper. “I want it all! Why should you get away with it? Why should I care?”
    Wynand got up. He said, relief and regret in his voice: “Right, Mr. Keating. For a moment, you had almost justified your marriage. Let it remain what it was. Good night.”
    Keating did not go home. He walked to the apartment of Neil Dumont, his new designer and best friend. Neil Dumont was a lanky, anemic society youth, with shoulders stooped under the burden of too many illustrious ancestors. He was not a good designer, but he had connections; he was obsequious to Keating in the office, and Keating was obsequious to him after office hours.
    He found Dumont at home. Together, they got Gordon Prescott and Vincent Knowlton, and started out to make a wild night of it. Keating did not drink much. He paid for everything. He paid more than necessary. He seemed anxious to find things to pay for. He gave exorbitant tips. He kept asking: “We’re friends–aren’t we friends?–aren’t we?” He looked at the glasses around him and he watched the lights dancing in the liquid. He looked at the three pairs of eyes; they were blurred, but they turned upon him occasionally with contentment. They were soft and comforting.
    #
That evening, her bags packed and ready in her room, Dominique went to see Steven Mallory.
    She had not seen Roark for twenty months. She had called on Mallory once in a while. Mallory knew that these visits were breakdowns in a struggle she would not name; he knew that she did not want to come, that her rare evenings with him were time torn out of her life. He never asked any questions and he was always glad to see her. They talked quietly, with a feeling of companionship such as that of an old married couple; as if he had possessed her body, and the wonder of it had long since been consumed, and nothing remained but an untroubled intimacy. He had never touched her body, but he had possessed it in a deeper kind of ownership when he had done her statue, and they could not lose the special sense of each other it had given them.
    He smiled when he opened the door and saw her. “Hello, Dominique.”
”Hello, Steve. Interrupting you?”
”No. Come in.”
    He had a studio, a huge, sloppy place in an old building. She noticed the change since her last visit. The room had an air of laughter, like a breath held too long and released. She saw second-hand furniture, an Oriental rug of rare texture and sensuous color, jade ash trays, pieces of sculpture that came from historical excavations, anything he had wished to seize, helped by the sudden fortune of Wynand’s patronage. The walls looked strangely bare above the gay clutter. He had bought no paintings. A single sketch hung over his studio–Roark’s original drawing of the Stoddard Temple.
    She looked slowly about her, noting every object and the reason for its presence. He kicked two chairs toward the fireplace and they sat down, one at each side of the fire.
    He said, quite simply:
”Clayton, Ohio.”
”Doing what?”
”A new building for Janer’s Department Store. Five stories. On Main Street.” “How long has he been there?”
    “About a month.”
    It was the first question he answered whenever she came here, without making her ask it. His simple ease spared her the necessity of explanation or pretense; his manner included no comment.
    “I’m going away tomorrow, Steve.” “For long?”
”Six weeks. Reno.”
”I’m glad.”
    “I’d rather not tell you now what I’ll do when I come back. You won’t be glad.” “I’ll try to be–if it’s what you want to do.”
”It’s what I want to do.”
    One log still kept its shape on the pile of coals in the fireplace; it was checkered into small squares and it glowed without flame, like a solid string of lighted windows. He reached down and threw a fresh log on the coals. It cracked the string of windows in half and sent sparks shooting up against the sooted bricks.
    He talked about his own work. She listened, as if she were an emigrant hearing her homeland’s language for a brief while.
    In a pause, she asked:
”How is he, Steve?”
”As he’s always been. He doesn’t change, you know.”
He kicked the log. A few coals rolled out. He pushed them back. He said:
    “I often think that he’s the only one of us who’s achieved immortality. I don’t mean in the sense of fame and I don’t mean that he won’t die some day. But he’s living it. I think he is what the conception really means. You know how people long to be eternal. But they die with every day that passes. When you meet them, they’re not what you met last. In any given hour, they kill some part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict–and they call it growth. At the end there’s nothing left, nothing unreversed or unbetrayed; as if there had never been an entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out on an unformed mass. How do they expect a permanence which they have never held for a single moment? But Howard–one can imagine him existing forever.”
    She sat looking at the fire. It gave a deceptive semblance of life to her face. After a while he asked: “How do you like all the new things I got?”
    “I like them. I like your having them.”
    “I didn’t tell you what happened to me since I saw you last. The completely incredible. Gail W ynand…”
    “Yes, I know about that.”
    “You do? Wynand, of all people–what on earth made him discover me?”
    “I know that too. I’ll tell you when I come back.”
    “He has an amazing judgment. Amazing for him. He bought the best.”
    “Yes, he would.”
    Then she asked, without transition, yet he knew that she was not speaking of Wynand:
    “Steve, has he ever asked you about me?”
    “No.”
    “Have you told him about my coming here?”
    “No.”
    “Is that–for my sake, Steve?”
    “No. For his.”
    He knew he had told her everything she wanted to know.
    She said, rising:
    “Let’s have some tea. Show me where you keep your stuff. I’ll fix it.” #
    Dominique left for Reno early in the morning. Keating was still asleep and she did not awaken him to say good-bye.
    When he opened his eyes, he knew that she was gone, before he looked at the clock, by the quality of the silence in the house. He thought he should say “Good riddance,” but he did not say it and he did not feel it. What he felt was a vast, flat sentence without subject–“It’s no use”–related neither to himself nor to Dominique. He was alone and there was no necessity to pretend anything. He lay in bed, on his back, his arms flung out helplessly. His face looked humble and his eyes bewildered. He felt that it was an end and a death, but he did not mean the loss of Dominique.
    He got up and dressed. In the bathroom he found a hand towel she had used and discarded. He picked it up, he pressed his face to it and held it for a long time, not in sorrow, but in nameless emotion, not understanding, knowing only that he had loved her twice–on that evening when Toohey telephoned, and now. Then he opened his fingers and let the towel slip down to the floor, like a liquid running between his fingers.
    He went to his office and worked as usual. Nobody knew of his divorce and he felt no desire to inform anyone. Neil Dumont winked at him and drawled: “I say, Pete, you look peaked.” He shrugged and turned his back. The sight of Dumont made him sick today.
    He left the office early. A vague instinct kept pulling at him, like hunger, at first, then taking shape. He had to see Ellsworth Toohey. He had to reach Toohey. He felt like the survivor of a shipwreck swimming toward a distant light.
    That evening he dragged himself to Ellsworth Toohey’s apartment. When he entered, he felt dimly glad of his self-control, because Toohey seemed to notice nothing in his face.
    “Oh, hello, Peter,” said Toohey airily. “Your sense of timing leaves much to be desired. You catch me on the worst possible evening. Busy as all hell. But don’t let that bother you. What are friends for but to inconvenience one? Sit down, sit down, I’ll be with you in a minute.”
    “I’m sorry, Ellsworth. But…I had to.”
”Make yourself at home. Just ignore me for a minute, will you?”
    Keating sat down and waited. Toohey worked, making notes on sheets of typewritten copy. He sharpened a pencil, the sound grating like a saw across Keating’s nerves. He bent over his copy again, rustling the pages once in a while.
    Half an hour later he pushed the papers aside and smiled at Keating. “That’s that,” he said. Keating made a small movement forward. “Sit tight,” said Toohey, “just one telephone call I’ve got to make.”
    He dialed the number of Gus Webb. “Hello, Gus,” he said gaily. “How are you, you walking advertisement for contraceptives?” Keating had never heard that tone of loose intimacy from Toohey, a special tone of brotherhood that permitted sloppiness. He heard Webb’s piercing voice say something and laugh in the receiver. The receiver went on spitting out rapid sounds from deep down in its tube, like a throat being cleared. The words could not be recognized, only their quality; the quality of abandon and insolence, with high shrieks of mirth once in a while.
    Toohey leaned back in his chair, listening, half smiling. “Yes,” he said occasionally, “uh- huh….You said it, boy….Surer’n hell….” He leaned back farther and put one foot in a shining, pointed shoe on the edge of the desk. “Listen, boy, what I wanted to tell you is go easy on old Bassett for a while. Sure he likes your work, but don’t shock hell out of him for the time being. No roughhouse, see? Keep that big facial cavity of yours buttoned up….You know damn well who I am to tell you….That’s right….That’s the stuff, kid….Oh, he did? Good, angel- face….Well, bye-bye–oh, say, Gus, have you heard the one about the British lady and the plumber?” There followed a story. The receiver yelled raucously at the end. “Well, watch your step and your digestion, angel-face. Nighty-night.”
    Toohey dropped the receiver, said: “Now, Peter,” stretched, got up, walking to Keating and stood before him, rocking a little on his small feet, his eyes bright and kindly.
    “Now, Peter, what’s the matter? Has the world crashed about your nose?”
    Keating reached into his inside pocket and produced a yellow check, crumpled, much handled. It bore his signature and the sum of ten thousand dollars, made out to Ellsworth M. Toohey. The gesture with which he handed it to Toohey was not that of a donor, but of a beggar.
    “Please, Ellsworth…here…take this…for a good cause…for the Workshop of Social Study…or for anything you wish…you know best…for a good cause…”
    Toohey held the check with the tips of his fingers, like a soiled penny, bent his head to one side, pursing his lips in appreciation, and tossed the check on his desk.
    “Very handsome of you, Peter. Very handsome indeed. What’s the occasion?”
    “Ellsworth, you remember what you said once–that it doesn’t matter what we are or do, if we help others? That’s all that counts? That’s good, isn’t it? That’s clean?”
    “I haven’t said it once. I’ve said it a million times.”
    “And it’s really true?”
    “Of course it’s true. If you have the courage to accept it.”
    “You’re my friend, aren’t you? You’re the only friend I’ve got. I…I’m not even friendly with myself, but you are. With me, I mean, aren’t you, Ellsworth?”
    “But of course. Which is of more value than your own friendship with yourself–a rather queer conception, but quite valid.”
    “You understand. Nobody else does. And you like me.”
    “Devotedly. Whenever I have the time.”
    “Ah?”
    “Your sense of humor, Peter, where’s your sense of humor? What’s the matter? A bellyache? Or a soul-indigestion?”
    “Ellsworth, I…”
    “Yes?”
    “I can’t tell you. Even you.”
    “You’re a coward, Peter.”
    Keating stared helplessly: the voice had been severe and gentle, he did not know whether he should feel pain, insult or confidence.
    “You come here to tell me that it doesn’t matter what you do–and then you go to pieces over something or other you’ve done. Come on, be a man and say it doesn’t matter. Say you’re not important. Mean it. Show some guts. Forget your little ego.”
    “I’m not important, Ellsworth. I’m not important. Oh God, if only everybody’d say it like you do! I’m not important. I don’t want to be important.”
    “Where did that money come from?”
”I sold Dominique.”
”What are you talking about? The cruise?”
”Only it seems as if it’s not Dominique that I sold.” “What do you care if…”
    “She’s gone to Reno.” “W hat?”
    He could not understand the violence of Toohey’s reaction, but he was too tired to wonder. He told everything, as it had happened to him; it had not taken long to happen or to tell.
    “You damn fool! You shouldn’t have allowed it.” “What could I do? Against Wynand?”
”But to let him marry her!”
”Why not, Ellsworth? It’s better than…”
    “I didn’t think he’d ever…but…Oh, God damn it, I’m a bigger fool than you are!” “But it’s better for Dominique if…”
”To hell with your Dominique! It’s Wynand I’m thinking about!”
”Ellsworth, what’s the matter with you?…Why should you care?”
    “Keep still, will you? Let me think.”
    In a moment, Toohey shrugged, sat down beside Keating and slipped his arm about his shoulders.
    “I’m sorry, Peter,” he said. “I apologize. I’ve been inexcusably rude to you. It was just the shock. But I understand how you feel. Only you mustn’t take it too seriously. It doesn’t matter.” He spoke automatically. His mind was far away. Keating did not notice that. He heard the words. They were the spring in the desert. “It doesn’t matter. You’re only human. That’s all you want to be. Who’s any better? Who has the right to cast the first stone? We’re all human. It doesn’t matter.”

    “My God!” said Alvah Scarret. “He can’t! Not Dominique Francon!”
    “He will,” said Toohey. “As soon as she returns.”
    Scarret had been surprised that Toohey should invite him to lunch, but the news he heard wiped out the surprise in a greater and more painful one.
    “I’m fond of Dominique,” said Scarret, pushing his plate aside, his appetite gone. “I’ve always been very fond of her. But to have her as Mrs. Gail Wynand!”
    “These, exactly, are my own sentiments,” said Toohey.
    “I’ve always advised him to marry. It helps. Lends an air. An insurance of respectability, sort of, and he could do with one. He’s always skated on pretty thin ice. Got away with it, so far. But Dominique!”
    “Why do you find such a marriage unsuitable?”
    “Well…well, it’s not…Damn it, you know it’s not right!”
    “I know it. Do you?”
    “Look, she’s a dangerous kind of woman.”
    “She is. That’s your minor premise. Your major premise, however, is: he’s a dangerous kind of man.”
    “Well…in some ways…yes.”
    “My esteemed editor, you understand me quite well. But there are times when it’s helpful to formulate things. It tends toward future-co-operation. You and I have a great deal in common- though you have been somewhat reluctant to admit it. We are two variations on the same theme, shall we say? Or we play two ends against the same middle, if you prefer your own literary style. But our dear boss is quite another tune. A different leitmotif entirely-don’t you think so, Alvah? Our dear boss is an accident in our midst. Accidents are unreliable phenomena. You’ve been sitting on the edge of your seat for years-haven’t you?-watching Mr. Gail Wynand. So you know exactly what I’m talking about. You know also that Miss Dominique Francon is not our tune either. And you do not wish to see that particular influence enter the life of our boss. Do I have to state the issue any plainer?”
    “You’re a smart man, Ellsworth,” said Scarret heavily. “That’s been obvious for years.”
    “I’ll talk to him. You’d better not-he hates your guts, if you’ll excuse me. But I don’t think I’d do much good either. Not if he’s made up his mind.”
    “I don’t expect you to. You may try, if you wish, though it’s useless. We can’t stop that marriage. One of my good points is the fact that I admit defeat when it has to be admitted.”
    “But then, why did you–”
    “Tell you this? In the nature of a scoop, Alvah. Advance information.” “I appreciate it, Ellsworth. I sure do.”
    “It would be wise to go on appreciating it. The Wynand papers, Alvah, are not to be given up easily. In unity there is strength. Your style.”
    “What do you mean?”
”Only that we’re in for a difficult time, my friend. So we’d do better to stick together.” “Why, I’m with you, Ellsworth. I’ve always been.”
    “Inaccurate, but we’ll let it pass. We’re concerned only with the present. And the future. As a token of mutual understanding, how about getting rid of Jimmy Kearns at the first opportunity?”
    “I thought you’ve been driving at that for months! What’s the matter with Jimmy Kearns? He’s a bright kid. The best drama critic in town. He’s got a mind. Smart as a whip. Most promising.”
    “He’s got a mind–of his own. I don’t think you want any whips around the place–except the one you hold. I think you want to be careful about what the promise promises.”
    “Whom’ll I stick in his spot?” “Jules Fougler.”
”Oh, hell, Ellsworth!”
”Why not?”
    “That old son of a…We can’t afford him.”
    “You can if you want to. And look at the name he’s got.”
    “But he’s the most impossible old…”
    “Well, you don’t have to take him. We’ll discuss it some other time. Just get rid of Jimmy Kearns.”
    “Look, Ellsworth, I don’t play favorites; it’s all the same to me. I’ll give Jimmy the boot if you say so. Only I don’t see what difference it makes and what it’s got to do with what we were talking about.”
    “You don’t,” said Toohey. “You will.” #
    “Gail, you know that I want you to be happy,” said Alvah Scarret, sitting in a comfortable armchair in the study of Wynand’s penthouse that evening. “You know that. I’m thinking of nothing else.”
    Wynand lay stretched out on a couch, one leg bent, with the foot resting on the knee of the other. He smoked and listened silently.
    “I’ve known Dominique for years,” said Scarret. “Long before you ever heard of her. I love her. I love her, you might say, like a father. But you’ve got to admit that she’s not the kind of woman your public would expect to see as Mrs. Gail Wynand.”
    Wynand said nothing.
    “Your wife is a public figure, Gail. Just automatically. A public property. Your readers have a right to demand and expect certain things of her. A symbol value, if you know what I mean. Like the Queen of England, sort of. How do you expect Dominique to live up to that? How do
    you expect her to preserve any appearances at all? She’s the wildest person I know. She has a terrible reputation. But worst of all–think Gail!–a divorcee! And here we spend tons of good print, standing for the sanctity of the home and the purity of womanhood! How are you going to make your public swallow that one? How am I going to sell your wife to them?”
    “Don’t you think this conversation had better be stopped, Alvah?” “Yes, Gail,” said Scarret meekly.
    Scarret waited, with a heavy sense of aftermath, as if after a violent quarrel, anxious to make up.
    “I know, Gail!” he cried happily. “I know what we can do. We’ll put Dominique back on the paper and we’ll have her write a column–a different one–a syndicated column on the home. You know, household hints, kitchen, babies and all that. It’ll take the curse off. Show what a good little homebody she really is, her youthful mistakes notwithstanding. Make the women forgive her. We’ll have a special department–‘Mrs. Gail Wynand’s recipes.’ A few pictures of her will help–you know, gingham dresses and aprons and her hair done up in a more conventional way.”
    “Shut up, Alvah, before I slap your face,” said Wynand without raising his voice. “Yes, Gail.”
Scarret made a move to get up.
”Sit still. I haven’t finished.”
    Scarret waited obediently.
    “Tomorrow morning,” said Wynand, “you will send a memo to every one of our papers. You will tell them to look through their files and find any pictures of Dominique Francon they might have in connection with her old column. You will tell them to destroy the pictures. You will tell them that henceforward any mention of her name or the use of her picture in any of my papers will cost the job of the entire editorial staff responsible. When the proper time comes, you will have an announcement of my marriage appear in all our papers. That cannot be avoided. The briefest announcement you can compose. No commentaries. No stories. No pictures. Pass the word around and make sure it’s understood. It’s any man’s job, yours included, if this is disobeyed.”
    “No stories–when you marry her?”
    “No stories, Alvah.”
    “But good God! That’s news! The other papers…”
    “I don’t care what the other papers do about it.”
    “But–why, Gail?”
    “You wouldn’t understand.” #
    Dominique sat at the window, listening to the train wheels under the floor. She looked at the countryside of Ohio flying past in the fading daylight. Her head lay back against the seat and her hands lay limply at each side of her on the seat cushion. She was one with the structure of the car, she was carried forward just as the window frame, the floor, the walls of the compartment were carried forward. The corners blurred, gathering darkness; the window remained luminous, evening light rising from the earth. She let herself rest in that faint illumination; it entered the car and ruled it, so long as she did not turn on the light to shut it out.
    She had no consciousness of purpose. There was no goal to this journey, only the journey itself, only the motion and the metal sound of motion around her. She felt slack and empty,
    losing her identity in a painless ebb, content to vanish and let nothing remain defined save that particular earth in the window.
    When she saw, in the slowing movement beyond the glass, the name “Clayton” on a faded board under the eaves of a station building, she knew what she had been expecting. She knew why she had taken this train, not a faster one, why she had looked carefully at the timetable of its stops–although it had been just a column of meaningless names to her then. She seized her suitcase, coat and hat. She ran. She could not take time to dress, afraid that the floor under her feet would carry her away from here. She ran down the narrow corridor of the car, down the steps. She leaped to the station platform, feeling the shock of winter cold on her bare throat. She stood looking at the station building. She heard the train moving behind her, clattering away.
    Then she put on her coat and hat. She walked across the platform, into the waiting room, across a wooden floor studded with lumps of dry chewing gum, through the heavy billows of heat from an iron stove, to the square beyond the station.
    She saw a last band of yellow in the sky above the low roof lines. She saw a pitted stretch of paving bricks, and small houses leaning against one another; a bare tree with twisted branches, skeletons of weeds at the doorless opening of an abandoned garage, dark shop fronts, a drugstore still open on a corner, its lighted window dim, low over the ground.
    She had never been here before, but she felt this place proclaiming its ownership of her, closing in about her with ominous intimacy. It was as if every dark mass exercised a suction like the pull of the planets in space, prescribing her orbit. She put her hand on a fire hydrant and felt the cold seeping through her glove into her skin. This was the way the town told her, a direct penetration which neither her clothes nor her mind could stop. The peace of the inevitable remained. Only now she had to act, but the actions were simple, set in advance. She asked a passer-by: “Where is the site of the new building of Janer’s Department Store?”
    She walked patiently through the dark streets. She walked past desolate winter lawns and sagging porches; past vacant lots where weeds rustled against tin cans; past closed grocery stores and a steaming laundry; past an uncurtained window where a man in shirt sleeves sat by a fire, reading a paper. She turned corners and crossed streets, with the feel of cobblestones under the thin soles of her pumps. Rare passersby looked, astonished, at her air of foreign elegance. She noticed it; she felt an answering wonder. She wanted to say: But don’t you understand?–I belong here more than you do. She stopped, once in a while, closing her eyes; she found it difficult to breathe.
    She came to Main Street and walked slower. There were a few lights, cars parked diagonally at the curb, a movie theater, a store window displaying pink underwear among kitchen utensils. She walked stiffly, looking ahead.
    She saw a glare of light on the side of an old building, on a blind wall of yellow bricks showing the sooted floor lines of the neighboring structure that had been torn down. The light came from an excavation pit. She knew this was the site. She hoped it was not. If they worked late, he would be here. She did not want to see him tonight. She had wanted only to see the place and the building; she was not ready for more; she had wanted to see him tomorrow. But she could not stop now. She walked to the excavation. It lay on a corner, open to the street, without fence. She heard the grinding clatter of iron, she saw the arm of a derrick, the shadows of men on the slanting sides of fresh earth, yellow in the light. She could not see the planks that led up to the sidewalk, but she heard the sound of steps and then she saw Roark coming up to the street. He was hatless, he had a loose coat hanging open.
    He stopped. He looked at her. She thought that she was standing straight; that it was simple and normal, she was seeing the gray eyes and the orange hair as she had always seen them. She was astonished that he moved toward her with a kind of urgent haste, that his hand closed over her elbow too firmly and he said: “You’d better sit down.”
    Then she saw she could not have stood up without that hand on her elbow. He took her suitcase. He led her across the dark side street and made her sit down on the steps of a vacant house. She leaned back against a closed door. He sat down beside her. He kept his hand tight on her elbow, not a caress, but an impersonal hold of control over both of them.
    After a while he dropped his hand. She knew that she was safe now. She could speak. “That’s your new building?”
”Yes. You walked here from the station?”
”Yes.”
    “It’s a long walk.” “I think it was.”
    She thought that they had not greeted each other and that it was right. This was not a reunion, but just one moment out of something that had never been interrupted. She thought how strange it would be if she ever said “Hello” to him; one did not greet oneself each morning.
    “What time did you get up today?” she asked.
    “At seven.”
    “I was in New York then. In a cab, going to Grand Central. Where did you have breakfast?”
    “In a lunch wagon.”
    “The kind that stays open all night?”
    “Yes. Mostly for truck drivers.”
    “Do you go there often?”
    “Whenever I want a cup of coffee.”
    “And you sit at a counter? And there are people around, looking at you?”
    “I sit at a counter when I have the time. There are people around. I don’t think they look at me much.”
    “And afterward? You walk to work?” “Yes.”
    “You walk every day? Down any of these streets? Past any window? So that if one just wanted to reach and open the window…”
    “People don’t stare out of windows here.”
    From the vantage of the high stoop they could see the excavation across the street, the earth, the workmen, the rising steel columns in a glare of harsh light. She thought it was strange to see fresh earth in the midst of pavement and cobblestones; as if a piece had been torn from the clothing of a town, showing naked flesh. She said:
    “You’ve done two country homes in the last two years.”
”Yes. One in Pennsylvania and one near Boston.”
”They were unimportant houses.”
”Inexpensive, if that’s what you mean. But very interesting to do.” “How long will you remain here?”
    “Another month.”
    “Why do you work at night?” “It’s a rush job.”
    Across the street the derrick was moving, balancing a long girder in the air. She saw him watching it, and she knew he was not thinking of it, but there was the instinctive response in his eyes, something physically personal, intimacy with any action taken for his building.
    “Roark…”
    They had not pronounced each other’s names. It had the sensuous pleasure of a surrender long delayed–to pronounce the name and to have him hear it.
    “Roark, it’s the quarry again.”
He smiled. “If you wish. Only it isn’t.”
”After the Enright House? After the Cord Building?”
”I don’t think of it that way.”
”How do you think of it?”
”I love doing it. Every building is like a person. Single and unrepeatable.”
    He was looking across the street. He had not changed. There was the old sense of lightness in him, of ease in motion, in action, in thought. She said, her sentence without beginning or end:
    “…doing five-story buildings for the rest of your life…” “If necessary. But I don’t think it will be like that.” “What are you waiting for?”
”I’m not waiting.”
    She closed her eyes, but she could not hide her mouth; her mouth held bitterness, anger and pain.
    “Roark, if you’d been in the city, I wouldn’t have come to see you.” “I know it.”
    “But it was you–in another place–in some nameless hole of a place like this. I had to see it. I had to see the place.”
    “When are you going back?”
”You know I haven’t come to remain?”
”Yes.”
”Why?”
”You’re still afraid of lunch wagons and windows.”
”I’m not going back to New York. Not at once.”
”No?”
”You haven’t asked me anything, Roark. Only whether I walked from the station.”
    “What do you want me to ask you?”
    “I got off the train when I saw the name of the station,” she said, her voice dull. “I didn’t intend coming here. I was on my way to Reno.”
    “And after that?”
”I will marry again.”
”Do I know your fiancé?”
”You’ve heard of him. His name is Gail Wynand.”
    She saw his eyes. She thought she should want to laugh; she had brought him at last to a shock she had never expected to achieve. But she did not laugh. He thought of Henry Cameron; of Cameron saying: I have no answer to give them, Howard. I’m leaving you to face them. You’ll answer them. All of them, the Wynand papers and what makes the Wynand papers possible and what lies behind that.
    “Roark.”
He didn’t answer.
”That’s worse than Peter Keating, isn’t it?” she asked. “Much worse.”
”Do you want to stop me?”
”No.”
    He had not touched her since he had released her elbow, and that had been only a touch proper in an ambulance. She moved her hand and let it rest against his. He did not withdraw his fingers and he did not pretend indifference. She bent over, holding his hand, not raising it from his knee, and she pressed her lips to his hand. Her hat fell off, he saw the blond head at his knees, he felt her mouth kissing his hand again and again. His fingers held hers, answering, but that was the only answer.
    She raised her head and looked at the street. A lighted window hung in the distance, behind a grillwork of bare branches. Small houses stretched off into the darkness, and trees stood by the narrow sidewalks.
    She noticed her hat on the steps below and bent to pick it up. She leaned with her bare hand flat against the steps. The stone was old, worn smooth, icy. She felt comfort in the touch. She sat for a moment, bent over, palm pressed to the stone; to feel these steps–no matter how many feet had used them–to feel them as she had felt the fire hydrant.
    “Roark, where do you live?” “In a rooming house.” “What kind of a room?” “Just a room.”
    “What’s in it? What kind of walls?” “Some sort of wallpaper. Faded.” “What furniture?”
”A table, chairs, a bed.”
    “No, tell me in detail.”
    “There’s a clothes closet, then a chest of drawers, the bed in the corner by the window, a large table at the other side–”
    “By the wall?”
    “No, I put it across the corner, to the window–I work there. Then there’s a straight chair, an armchair with a bridge lamp and a magazine rack I never use. I think that’s all.”
    “No rugs? Or curtains?”
    “I think there’s something at the window and some kind of rug. The floor is nicely polished, it’s beautiful old wood.”
    “I want to think of your room tonight–on the train.” He sat looking across the street. She said: “Roark, let me stay with you tonight.”
”No.”
    She let her glance follow his to the grinding machinery below. After a while she asked:
    “How did you get this store to design?”
    “The owner saw my buildings in New York and liked them.”
    A man in overalls stepped out of the excavation pit, peered into the darkness at them and called: “Is that you up there, boss?”
    “Yes,” Roark called back.
    “Come here a minute, will you?”
    Roark walked to him across the street. She could not hear their conversation, but she heard Roark saying gaily: “That’s easy,” and then they both walked down the planks to the bottom. The man stood talking, pointing up, explaining. Roark threw his head back, to glance up at the rising steel frame; the light was full on his face, and she saw his look of concentration, not a smile, but an expression that gave her a joyous feeling of competence, of disciplined reason in action. He bent, picked up a piece of board, took a pencil from his pocket. He stood with one foot on a pile of planks, the board propped on his knee, and drew rapidly, explaining something to the man who nodded, pleased. She could not hear the words, but she felt the quality of Roark’s relation to that man, to all the other men in that pit, an odd sense of loyalty and of brotherhood, but not the kind she had ever heard named by these words. He finished, handed the board to the man, and they both laughed at something. Then he came back and sat down on the steps beside her.
    “Roark,” she said. “I want to remain here with you for all the years we might have.”
    He looked at her, attentively, waiting.
    “I want to live here.” Her voice had the sound of pressure against a dam. “I want to live as you live. Not to touch my money–I’ll give it away, to anyone, to Steve Mallory, if you wish, or to one of Toohey’s organizations, it doesn’t matter. We’ll take a house here–like one of these–and I’ll keep it for you–don’t laugh, I can–I’ll cook, I’ll wash your clothes, I’ll scrub the floor. And you’ll give up architecture.”
    He had not laughed. She saw nothing but an unmoving attention prepared to listen on. “Roark, try to understand, please try to understand. I can’t bear to see what they’re doing to
    you, what they’re going to do. It’s too great–you and building and what you feel about it. You can’t go on like that for long. It won’t last. They won’t let you. You’re moving to some terrible kind of disaster. It can’t end any other way. Give it up. Take some meaningless job–like the quarry. We’ll live here. We’ll have little and we’ll give nothing. We’ll live only for what we are and for what we know.”
    He laughed. She heard, in the sound of it, a surprising touch of consideration for her–the attempt not to laugh; but he couldn’t stop it.
    “Dominique.” The way he pronounced the name remained with her and made it easier to hear the words that followed: “I wish I could tell you that it was a temptation, at least for a moment. But it wasn’t.” He added: “If I were very cruel, I’d accept it. Just to see how soon you’d beg me to go back to building.”
    “Yes…Probably…”
    “Marry Wynand and stay married to him. It will be better than what you’re doing to yourself right now.”
    “Do you mind…if we just sit here for a little while longer…and not talk about that…but just talk, as if everything were right…just an armistice for half an hour out of years….Tell me what you’ve done every day you’ve been here, everything you can remember….”
    Then they talked, as if the stoop of the vacant house were an airplane hanging in space, without sight of earth or sky; he did not look across the street.
    Then he glanced at his wrist watch and said:
    “There’s a train for the West in an hour. Shall I go with you to the station?”
    “Do you mind if we walk there?”
    “All right.”
    She stood up. She asked:
    “Until–when, Roark?”
    His hand moved over the streets. “Until you stop hating all this, stop being afraid of it, learn not to notice it.”
    They walked together to the station. She listened to the sound of his steps with hers in the empty streets. She let her glance drag along the walls they passed, like a clinging touch. She loved this place, this town and everything that was part of it.
    They were walking past a vacant lot. The wind blew an old sheet of newspaper against her legs. It clung to her with a tight insistence that seemed conscious, like the peremptory caress of a cat. She thought, anything of this town had that intimate right to her. She bent, picked up the paper and began folding it, to keep it
    “What are you doing?” he asked.
”Something to read on the train,” she said stupidly.
    He snatched the paper from her, crumpled it and flung it away into the weeds. She said nothing and they walked on.
    A single light bulb hung over the empty station platform. They waited. He stood looking up the tracks, where the train was to appear. When the tracks rang, shuddering, when the white ball of a headlight spurted out of the distance and stood still in the sky, not approaching, only widening, growing in furious speed, he did not move or turn to her. The rushing beam flung his shadow across the platform, made it sweep over the planks and vanish. For an instant she saw the tall, straight line of his body against the glare. The engine passed them and the car
    rattled, slowing down. He looked at the windows rolling past. She could not see his face, only the outline of his cheekbone.
    When the train stopped, he turned to her. They did not shake hands, they did not speak. They stood straight, facing each other for a moment, as if at attention; it was almost like a military salute. Then she picked up her suitcase and went aboard the train. The train started moving a minute later.
    6.
    “CHUCK: And why not a muskrat? Why should man imagine himself superior to a muskrat? Life beats in all the small creatures of field and wood. Life singing of eternal sorrow. An old sorrow. The Song of Songs. We don’t understand–but who cares about understanding? Only public accountants and chiropodists. Also mailmen. We only love. The Sweet Mystery of Love. That’s all there is to it. Give me love and shove all your philosophers up your stovepipe. When Mary took the homeless muskrat, her heart broke open and life and love rushed in. Muskrats make good imitation mink coats, but that’s not the point. Life is the point.
    “Jake: (rushing in) Say, folks, who’s got a stamp with a picture of George Washington on it? “Curtain.”
    Ike slammed his manuscript shut and took a long swig of air. His voice was hoarse after two hours of reading aloud and he had read the climax of his play on a single long breath. He looked at his audience, his mouth smiling in self-mockery, his eyebrows raised insolently, but his eyes pleading.
    Ellsworth Toohey, sitting on the floor, scratched his spine against a chair leg and yawned. Gus Webb, stretched out on his stomach in the middle of the room, rolled over on his back. Lancelot Clokey, the foreign correspondent, reached for his highball glass and finished it off. Jules Fougler, the new drama critic of the Banner, sat without moving; he had not moved for two hours. Lois Cook, hostess, raised her arms, twisting them, stretching, and said:
    “Jesus, Ike, it’s awful.”
    Lancelot Clokey drawled, “Lois, my girl, where do you keep your gin? Don’t be such a damn miser. You’re the worst hostess I know.”
    Gus Webb said, “I don’t understand literature. It’s nonproductive and a waste of time. Authors will be liquidated.”
    Ike laughed shrilly. “A stinker, huh?” He waved his script. “A real super-stinker. What do you think I wrote it for? Just show me anyone who can write a bigger flop. Worst play you’ll ever hear in your life.”
    It was not a formal meeting of the Council of American Writers, but an unofficial gathering. Ike had asked a few of his friends to listen to his latest work. At twenty-six he had written eleven plays, but had never had one produced.
    “You’d better give up the theater, Ike,” said Lancelot Clokey. “Writing is a serious business and not for any stray bastard that wants to try it.” Lancelot Clokey’s first book–an account of his personal adventures in foreign countries–was in its tenth week on the best-seller list.
    “Why isn’t it, Lance?” Toohey drawled sweetly.
”All right,” snapped Clokey, “all right. Give me a drink.”
    “It’s awful,” said Lois Cook, her head lolling wearily from side to side. “It’s perfectly awful. It’s so awful it’s wonderful.”
    “Balls,” said Gus Webb. “Why do I ever come here?”
    Ike flung his script at the fireplace. It struck against the wire screen and landed, face down, open, the thin pages crushed.
    “If Ibsen can write plays, why can’t I?” he asked. “He’s good and I’m lousy, but that’s not a sufficient reason.”
    “Not in the cosmic sense,” said Lancelot Clokey. “Still, you’re lousy.” “You don’t have to say it. I said so first.”
”This is a great play,” said a voice.
    The voice was slow, nasal and bored. It had spoken for the first time that evening, and they all turned to Jules Fougler. A cartoonist had once drawn a famous picture of him; it consisted of two sagging circles, a large one and a small one: the large one was his stomach, the small one–his lower lip. He wore a suit, beautifully tailored, of a color to which he referred as “merde d’oie.” He kept his gloves on at all times and he carried a cane. He was an eminent drama critic.
    Jules Fougler stretched out his cane, caught the playscript with the hook of the handle and dragged it across the floor to his feet. He did not pick it up, but he repeated, looking down at it:
    “This is a great play.”
    “Why?” asked Lancelot Clokey.
    “Because I say so,” said Jules Fougler.
    “Is that a gag, Jules?” asked Lois Cook.
    “I never gag,” said Jules Fougler. “It is vulgar.”
    “Send me a coupla seats to the opening,” sneered Lancelot Clokey.
    “Eight-eighty for two seats to the opening,” said Jules Fougler. “It will be the biggest hit of the season.”
    Jules Fougler turned and saw Toohey looking at him. Toohey smiled but the smile was not light or careless; it was an approving commentary upon something he considered as very serious indeed. Fougler’s glance was contemptuous when turned to the others, but it relaxed for a moment of understanding when it rested on Toohey.
    “Why don’t you join the Council of American Writers, Jules?” asked Toohey.
”I am an individualist,” said Fougler. “I don’t believe in organizations. Besides, is it necessary?”
    “No, not necessary at all,” said Toohey cheerfully. “Not for you, Jules. There’s nothing I can teach you.”
    “What I like about you, Ellsworth, is that it’s never necessary to explain myself to you.” “Hell, why explain anything here? We’re six of a kind.”
”Five,” said Fougler. “I don’t like Gus Webb.”
”Why don’t you?” asked Gus. He was not offended.
    “Because he doesn’t wash his ears,” answered Fougler, as if the question had been asked by a third party.
    “Oh, that,” said Gus.
    Ike had risen and stood staring at Fougler, not quite certain whether he should breathe.
    “You like my play, Mr. Fougler?” he asked at last, his voice small.
    “I haven’t said I liked it,” Fougler answered coldly. “I think it smells. That is why it’s great.”
    “Oh,” said Ike. He laughed. He seemed relieved. His glance went around the faces in the room, a glance of sly triumph.
    “Yes,” said Fougler, “my approach to its criticism is the same as your approach to its writing. Our motives are identical.”
    “You’re a grand guy, Jules.”
”Mr. Fougler, please.”
”You’re a grand guy and the swellest bastard on earth, Mr. Fougler.” Fougler turned the pages of the script at his feet with the tip of his cane. “Your typing is atrocious, Ike,” he said.
”Hell, I’m not a stenographer. I’m a creative artist.”
    “You will be able to afford a secretary after this show opens. I shall be obliged to praise it–if for no other reason than to prevent any further abuse of a typewriter, such as this. The typewriter is a splendid instrument, not to be outraged.”
    “All right, Jules,” said Lancelot Clokey, “it’s all very witty and smart and you’re sophisticated and brilliant as all get-out–but what do you actually want to praise that crap for?”
    “Because it is–as you put it–crap.”
    “You’re not logical, Lance,” said Ike. “Not in the cosmic sense, you aren’t. To write a good play and to have it praised is nothing. Anybody can do that. Anybody with talent–and talent is only a glandular accident. But to write a piece of crap and have it praised–well, you match that.”
    “He has,” said Toohey.
    “That’s a matter of opinion,” said Lancelot Clokey. He upturned his empty glass over his mouth and sucked at a last piece of ice.
    “Ike understands things much better than you do, Lance,” said Jules Fougler. “He has just proved himself to be a real thinker–in that little speech of his. Which, incidentally, was better than his whole play.”
    “I’ll write my next play about that,” said Ike.
    “Ike has stated his reasons,” Fougler continued. “And mine. And also yours, Lance. Examine my case, if you wish. What achievement is there for a critic in praising a good play? None whatever. The critic is then nothing but a kind of glorified messenger boy between author and public. What’s there in that for me? I’m sick of it. I have a right to wish to impress my own personality upon people. Otherwise, I shall become frustrated–and I do not believe in frustration. But if a critic is able to put over a perfectly worthless play–ah, you do perceive the difference! Therefore, I shall make a hit out of–what’s the name of your play, Ike?”
    “No skin off your ass,” said Ike. “I beg your pardon?”
”That’s the title.”
    “Oh, I see. Therefore, I shall make a hit out of No Skin Off Your Ass.” Lois Cook laughed loudly.
    “You all make too damn much fuss about everything,” said Gus Webb, lying flat, his hands entwined under his head.
    “Now if you wish to consider your own case, Lance,” Fougler went on. “What satisfaction is there for a correspondent in reporting on world events? The public reads about all sorts of international crises and you’re lucky if they ever notice your by-line. But you’re every bit as good as any general, admiral or ambassador. You have a right to make people conscious of yourself. So you’ve done the wise thing. You’ve written a remarkable collection of bilge–yes, bilge–but morally justified. A clever book. World catastrophes used as a backdrop for your own nasty little personality. How Lancelot Clokey got drunk at an international conference. What beauties slept with Lancelot Clokey during an invasion. How Lancelot Clokey got dysentery in a land of famine. Well, why not, Lance? It went over, didn’t it? Ellsworth put it over, didn’t he?”
    “The public appreciates good human-interest stuff,” said Lancelot Clokey, looking angrily into his glass.
    “Oh, can the crap, Lance!” cried Lois Cook. “Who’re you acting for here? You know damn well it wasn’t any kind of a human interest, but plain Ellsworth Toohey.”
    “I don’t forget what I owe Ellsworth,” said Clokey sullenly. “Ellsworth’s my best friend. Still, he couldn’t have done it if he didn’t have a good book to do it with.”
    Eight months ago Lancelot Clokey had stood with a manuscript in his hand before Ellsworth Toohey, as Ike stood before Fougler now, not believing it when Toohey told him that his book would top the bestseller list. But two hundred thousand copies sold had made it impossible for Clokey ever to recognize any truth again in any form.
    “Well, he did it with The Gallant Gallstone,” said Lois Cook placidly, “and a worse piece of trash never was put down on paper. I ought to know. But he did it.”
    “And almost lost my job doing it,” said Toohey indifferently.
”What do you do with your liquor, Lois?” snapped Clokey. “Save it to take a bath in?” “All right, blotter,” said Lois Cook, rising lazily.
    She shuffled across the room, picked somebody’s unfinished drink off the floor, drank the remnant, walked out and came back with an assortment of expensive bottles. Clokey and Ike hurried to help themselves.
    “I think you’re unfair to Lance, Lois,” said Toohey. “Why shouldn’t he write an autobiography?” “Because his life wasn’t worth living, let alone recording.”
”Ah, but that is precisely why I made it a bestseller.”
”You’re telling me?”
    “I like to tell someone.”
    There were many comfortable chairs around him, but Toohey preferred to remain on the floor. He rolled over to his stomach, propping his torso upright on his elbows, and he lolled, pleasurably, switching his weight from elbow to elbow, his legs spread out in a wide fork on the carpet. He seemed to enjoy unrestraint.
    “I like to tell someone. Next month I’m pushing the autobiography of a small-town dentist who’s really a remarkable person–because there’s not a single remarkable day in his life nor sentence in his book. You’ll like it, Lois. Can you imagine a solid bromide undressing his soul
    as if it were a revelation?”
    “The little people,” said Ike tenderly. “I love the little people. We must love the little people of this earth.”
    “Save that for your next play,” said Toohey.
”I can’t,” said Ike. “It’s in this one.”
”What’s the big idea, Ellsworth?” snapped Clokey.
    “Why, it’s simple, Lance. When the fact that one is a total nonentity who’s done nothing more outstanding than eating, sleeping and chatting with neighbors becomes a fact worthy of pride, of announcement to the world and of diligent study by millions of readers–the fact that one has built a cathedral becomes unrecordable and unannounceable. A matter of perspectives and relativity. The distance permissible between the extremes of any particular capacity is limited. The sound perception of an ant does not include thunder.”
    “You talk like a decadent bourgeois, Ellsworth,” said Gus Webb. “Pipe down, Sweetie-pie,” said Toohey without resentment.
    “It’s all very wonderful,” said Lois Cook, “except that you’re doing too well, Ellsworth. You’ll run me out of business. Pretty soon if I still want to be noticed, I’ll have to write something that’s actually good.”
    “Not in this century, Lois,” said Toohey. “And perhaps not in the next. It’s later than you think.” “But you haven’t said…!” Ike cried suddenly, worried.
”What haven’t I said?”
”You haven’t said who’s going to produce my play!”
    “Leave that to me,” said Jules Fougler.
    “I forgot to thank you, Ellsworth,” said Ike solemnly. “So now I thank you. There are lots of bum plays, but you picked mine. You and Mr. Fougler.”
    “Your bumness is serviceable, Ike.” “Well, that’s something.”
”It’s a great deal.”
”How–for instance?”
    “Don’t talk too much, Ellsworth,” said Gus Webb. “You’ve got a talking jag.”
    “Shut your face, Kewpie-doll. I like to talk. For instance, Ike? Well, for instance, suppose I didn’t like Ibsen–”
    “Ibsen is good,” said Ike.
    “Sure he’s good, but suppose I didn’t like him. Suppose I wanted to stop people from seeing his plays. It would do me no good whatever to tell them so. But if I sold them the idea that you’re just as great as Ibsen–pretty soon they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
    “Jesus, can you?”
”It’s only an example, Ike.” “But it would be wonderful!”
    “Yes. It would be wonderful. And then it wouldn’t matter what they went to see at all. Then nothing would matter–neither the writers nor those for whom they wrote.”
    “How’s that Ellsworth?”
    “Look, Ike, there’s no room in the theater for both Ibsen and you. You do understand that, don’t you?”
    “In a manner of speaking–yes.”
”Well, you do want me to make room for you, don’t you?”
    “All of this useless discussion has been covered before and much better,” said Gus Webb. “Shorter. I believe in functional economy.”
    “Where’s it covered, Gus?” asked Lois Cook. “‘Who had been nothing shall be all,’ sister.” “Gus is crude, but deep,” said Ike. “I like him.” “Go to hell,” said Gus.
    Lois Cook’s butler entered the room. He was a stately, elderly man and he wore full-dress evening clothes. He announced Peter Keating.
    “Pete?” said Lois Cook gaily. “Why, sure, shove him in, shove him right in.”
Keating entered and stopped, startled, when he saw the gathering.
”Oh…hello, everybody,” he said bleakly. “I didn’t know you had company, Lois.”
”That’s not company. Come in, Pete, sit down, grab yourself a drink, you know everybody.” “Hello, Ellsworth,” said Keating, his eyes resting on Toohey for support.
    Toohey waved his hand, scrambled to his feet and settled down in an armchair, crossing his legs gracefully. Everybody in the room adjusted himself automatically to a sudden control: to sit straighter, to bring knees together, to pull in a relaxed mouth. Only Gus Webb remained stretched as before.
    Keating looked cool and handsome, bringing into the unventilated room the freshness of a walk through cold streets. But he was pale, and his movements were slow, tired.
    “Sorry if I intrude, Lois,” he said. “Had nothing to do and felt so damn lonely, thought I’d drop in.” He slurred over the word “lonely,” throwing it away with a self-deprecatory smile. “Damn tired of Neil Dumont and the bunch. Wanted more uplifting company–sort of spiritual food, huh?”
    “I’m a genius,” said Ike. “I’ll have a play on Broadway. Me and Ibsen. Ellsworth said so.” “Ike has just read his new play to us,” said Toohey. “A magnificent piece of work.” “You’ll love it, Peter,” said Lancelot Clokey. “It’s really great.”
    “It is a masterpiece,” said Jules Fougler. “I hope you will prove yourself worthy of it, Peter. It is the kind of play that depends upon what the members of the audience are capable of bringing with them into the theater. If you are one of those literal-minded people, with a dry soul and a limited imagination, it is not for you. But if you are a real human being with a big, big heart full of laughter, who has preserved the uncorrupted capacity of his childhood for pure emotion– you will find it an unforgettable experience.”
    “Except as ye become as little children ye shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven,” said Ellsworth Toohey.
    “Thanks, Ellsworth,” said Jules Fougler. “That will be the lead of my review.”
    Keating looked at Ike, at the others, his eyes eager. They all seemed remote and pure, far above him in the safety of their knowledge, but their faces had hints of smiling warmth, a benevolent invitation extended downward.
    Keating drank the sense of their greatness, that spiritual food he sought in common here, and felt himself rising through them. They saw their greatness made real by him. A circuit was established in the room and the circle closed. Everybody was conscious of that, except Peter Keating.
    #
Ellsworth Toohey came out in support of the cause of modern architecture.
    In the past ten years, while most of the new residences continued to be built as faithful historical copies, the principles of Henry Cameron had won the field of commercial structures: the factories, the office buildings, the skyscrapers. It was a pale, distorted victory; a reluctant compromise that consisted of omitting columns and pediments, allowing a few stretches of wall to remain naked, apologizing for a shape–good through accident–by finishing it off with an edge of simplified Grecian volutes. Many stole Cameron’s forms; few understood his thinking. The sole part of his argument irresistible to the owners of new structures was financial economy; he won to that extent.
    In the countries of Europe, most prominently in Germany, a new school of building had been growing for a long time: it consisted of putting up four walls and a flat top over them, with a few openings. This was called new architecture. The freedom from arbitrary rules, for which Cameron had fought, the freedom that imposed a great new responsibility on the creative builder, became mere elimination of all effort, even the effort of mastering historical styles. It became a rigid set of new rules–the discipline of conscious incompetence, creative poverty made into a system, mediocrity boastfully confessed.
    “A building creates its own beauty, and its ornament is derived from the rules of its theme and its structure,” Cameron had said. “A building needs no beauty, no ornament and no theme,” said the new architects. It was safe to say it. Cameron and a few men had broken the path and paved it with their lives. Other men, of whom there were greater numbers, the men who had been safe in copying the Parthenon, saw the danger and found a way to security: to walk Cameron’s path and make it lead them to a new Parthenon, an easier Parthenon in the shape of a packing crate of glass and concrete. The palm tree had broken through; the fungus came to feed on it, to deform it, to hide it, to pull it back into the common jungle.
    The jungle found its words.
    In “One Small Voice,” subtitled “I Swim with the Current,” Ellsworth Toohey wrote: #
    “We have hesitated for a long time to acknowledge the powerful phenomenon known as Modern Architecture. Such caution is requisite in anyone who stands in the position of mentor to the public taste. Too often, isolated manifestations of anomaly can be mistaken for a broad popular movement, and one should be careful not to ascribe to them a significance they do not deserve. But Modern Architecture has stood the test of time, has answered a demand of the masses, and we are glad to salute it.
    “It is not amiss to offer a measure of recognition to the pioneers of this movement, such as the late Henry Cameron. Premonitory echoes of the new grandeur can be found in some of his work. But like all pioneers he was still bound by the inherited prejudices of the past, by the sentimentality of the middle class from which he came. He succumbed to the superstition of beauty and ornament, even though the ornament was of his own devising, and, consequently, inferior to that of established historical forms.
    “It remained for the power of a broad, collective movement to bring Modern Architecture to its
    full and true expression. Now it can be seen–growing throughout the world–not as a chaos of individual fancies, but as a cohesive, organized discipline which makes severe demands upon the artist, among them the demand to subordinate himself to the collective nature of his craft.
    “The rules of this new architecture have been formulated by the vast process of popular creation. They are as strict as the rules of Classicism. They demand unadorned simplicity–like the honesty of the unspoiled common man. Just as in the passing age of international bankers every building had to have an ostentatious cornice, so now the coming age ordains that every building have a flat roof. Just as the imperialist era of humanity required that every house have corner windows–symbol of the sunshine distributed equally to all.
    “The discriminating will see the social significance eloquent in the forms of this new architecture. Under the old system of exploitation, the most useful social elements–the workers–were never permitted to realize their importance; their practical functions were kept hidden and disguised; thus a master had his servants dressed up in fancy gold-braided livery. This was reflected in the architecture of the period: the functional elements of a building–its doors, windows, stairways–were hidden under the scrolls of pointless ornamentation. But in a modern building, it is precisely these useful elements–symbols of toil–that come starkly in the open. Do we not hear in this the voice of a new world where the worker shall come into his own?
    “As the best example of Modern Architecture in America, we call to your attention the new plant of the Bassett Brush Company, soon to be completed. It is a small building, but in its modest proportions it embodies all the grim simplicity of the new discipline and presents an invigorating example of the Grandeur of the Little. It was designed by Augustus Webb, a young architect of great promise.”
    #
Meeting Toohey a few days later, Peter Keating asked, disturbed: “Say, Ellsworth, did you mean it?”
”W hat?”
”About modern architecture.”
”Of course I meant it. How did you like my little piece?”
    “Oh, I thought it was very beautiful. Very convincing. But say, Ellsworth, why…why did you pick Gus Webb? After all, I’ve done some modernistic things in the last few years. The Palmer Building was quite bare, and the Mowry Building was nothing but roof and windows, and the Sheldon Warehouse was…”
    “Now, Peter, don’t be a hog. I’ve done pretty well by you, haven’t I? Let me give somebody else a boost once in a while.”
    At a luncheon where he had to speak on architecture, Peter Keating stated:
    “In reviewing my career to date, I came to the conclusion that I have worked on a true principle: the principle that constant change is a necessity of life. Since buildings are an indispensable part of life, it follows that architecture must change constantly. I have never developed any architectural prejudices for myself, but insisted on keeping my mind open to all the voices of the times. The fanatics who went around preaching that all structures must be modern were just as narrow-minded as the hidebound conservatives who demanded that we employ nothing but historical styles. I do not apologize for those of my buildings which were designed in the Classical tradition. They were an answer to the need of their era. Neither do I apologize for the buildings which I designed in the modern style. They represent the coming better world. It is my opinion that in the humble realization of this principle lies the reward and the joy of being an architect.”
    There was gratifying publicity, and many flattering comments of envy in professional circles, when the news of Peter Keating’s selection to build Stoneridge was made public. He tried to recapture his old pleasure in such manifestations. He failed. He still felt something that
    resembled gladness, but it was faded and thin.
    The effort of designing Stoneridge seemed a load too vast to lift. He did not mind the circumstances through which he had obtained it; that, too, had become pale and weightless in his mind, accepted and almost forgotten. He simply could not face the task of designing the great number of houses that Stoneridge required. He felt very tired. He felt tired when he awakened in the morning, and he found himself waiting all day for the time when he would be able to go back to bed.
    He turned Stoneridge over to Neil Dumont and Bennett. “Go ahead,” he said wearily, “do what you want.”
    “What style, Pete?” Dumont asked. “Oh, make it some sort of period–the small home owners won’t go for it otherwise. But trim it down a little–for the press comments. Give it historical touches and a modern feeling. Any way you wish. I don’t care.”
    Dumont and Bennett went ahead. Keating changed a few roof lines on their sketches, a few windows. The preliminary drawings were approved by Wynand’s office. Keating did not know whether Wynand had approved in person. He did not see Wynand again.
    Dominique had been away a month, when Guy Francon announced his retirement. Keating had told him about the divorce, offering no explanation. Francon had taken the news calmly. He had said: “I expected it. It’s all right, Peter. It’s probably not your fault nor hers.” He had not mentioned it since. Now he gave no explanation of his retirement, only: “I told you it was coming, long ago. I’m tired. Good luck, Peter.”
    The responsibility of the firm on his lonely shoulders and the prospect of his solitary name on the office door left Keating uneasy. He needed a partner. He chose Neil Dumont. Neil had grace and distinction. He was another Lucius Heyer. The firm became Peter Keating & Cornelius Dumont. Some sort of drunken celebration of the event was held by a few friends, but Keating did not attend it. He had promised to attend, but he forgot about it, went for a solitary weekend in the snowbound country, and did not remember the celebration until the morning after it was held, when he was walking alone down a frozen country road.
    Stoneridge was the last contract signed by the firm of Francon & Keating.
    7.
    WHEN Dominique stepped off the train in New York, Wynand was there to meet her. She had not written to him nor heard from him during the weeks of her residence in Reno; she had notified no one of her return. But his figure standing on the platform, standing calmly, with an air of finality, told her that he had kept in touch with her lawyers, had followed every step of the divorce proceedings, had known the date when the decree was granted, the hour when she took the train and the number of her compartment.
    He did not move forward when he saw her. It was she who walked to him, because she knew that he wanted to see her walking, if only the short space between them. She did not smile, but her face had the lovely serenity that can become a smile without transition.
    “Hello, Gail.” “Hello, Dominique.”
    She had not thought of him in his absence, not sharply, not with a personal feeling of his reality, but now she felt an immediate recognition, a sense of reunion with someone known and needed.
    He said: “Give me your baggage checks, I’ll have it attended to later; my car is outside.” She handed him the checks and he slipped them into his pocket. They knew they must turn
    and walk up the platform to the exit, but the decisions both had made in advance broke down in the same instant, because they did not turn, but remained standing, looking at each other.
    He made the first effort to correct the breach. He smiled lightly.
    “If I had the right to say it, I’d say that I couldn’t have endured the waiting had I known that you’d look as you do. But since I have no such right, I’m not going to say it.”
    She laughed. “All right, Gail. That was a form of pretense, too–our being too casual. It makes things more important, not less, doesn’t it? Let’s say whatever we wish.”
    “I love you,” he said, his voice expressionless, as if the words were a statement of pain and not addressed to her.
    “I’m glad to be back with you, Gail. I didn’t know I would be, but I’m glad.”
    “In what way, Dominique?”
    “I don’t know. In a way of contagion from you, I think. In a way of finality and peace.”
    Then they noticed that this was said in the middle of a crowded platform, with people and baggage racks hurrying past.
    They walked out to the street, to his car. She did not ask where they were going; and did not care. She sat silently beside him. She felt divided, most of her swept by a wish not to resist, and a small part of her left to wonder about it. She felt a desire to let him carry her–a feeling of confidence without appraisal, not a happy confidence, but confidence. After a while, she noticed that her hand lay in his, the length of her gloved fingers held to the length of his, only the spot of her bare wrist pressed to his skin. She had not noticed him take her hand; it seemed so natural and what she had wanted from the moment of seeing him. But she could not allow herself to want it.
    “Where are we going, Gail?” she asked.
”To get the license. Then to the judge’s office. To be married.”
    She sat up slowly, turning to face him. She did not withdraw her hand, but her fingers became rigid, conscious, taken away from him.
    “No,” she said.
    She smiled and held the smile too long, in deliberate, fixed precision. He looked at her calmly.
    “I want a real wedding, Gail. I want it at the most ostentatious hotel in town. I want engraved invitations, guests, mobs of guests, celebrities, flowers, flash bulbs and newsreel cameras. I want the kind of wedding the public expects of Gail Wynand.”
    He released her fingers, simply, without resentment. He looked abstracted for a moment, as if he were calculating a problem in arithmetic, not too difficult. Then he said:
    “All right. That will take a week to arrange. I could have it done tonight, but if it’s engraved invitations, we must give the guests a week’s notice at the least. Otherwise it would look abnormal and you want a normal Gail Wynand wedding. I’ll have to take you to a hotel now, where you can live for a week. I had not planned for this, so I’ve made no reservations. Where would you like to stay?”
    “At your penthouse.”
”No.”
”The Nordland, then.”
He leaned forward and said to the chauffeur:
    “The Nordland, John.”
In the lobby of the hotel, he said to her:
    “I will see you a week from today, Tuesday, at the Noyes-Belmont, at four o’clock in the afternoon. The invitations will have to be in the name of your father. Let him know that I’ll get in touch with him. I’ll attend to the rest.”
    He bowed, his manner unchanged, his calm still holding the same peculiar quality made of two things: the mature control of a man so certain of his capacity for control that it could seem casual, and a childlike simplicity of accepting events as if they were subject to no possible change.
    She did not see him during that week. She found herself waiting impatiently.
    She saw him again when she stood beside him, facing a judge who pronounced the words of the marriage ceremony over the silence of six hundred people in the floodlighted ballroom of the Noyes-Belmont Hotel.
    The background she had wished was set so perfectly that it became its own caricature, not a specific society wedding, but an impersonal prototype of lavish, exquisite vulgarity. He had understood her wish and obeyed scrupulously; he had refused himself the relief of exaggeration, he had not staged the event crudely, but made it beautiful in the exact manner Gail Wynand, the publisher, would have chosen had he wished to be married in public. But Gail Wynand did not wish to be married in public.
    He made himself fit the setting, as if he were part of the bargain, subject to the same style. When he entered, she saw him looking at the mob of guests as if he did not realize that such a mob was appropriate to a Grand Opera premiere or a royal rummage sale, not to the solemn climax of his life. He looked correct, incomparably distinguished.
    Then she stood with him, the mob becoming a heavy silence and a gluttonous stare behind him, and they faced the judge together. She wore a long, black dress with a bouquet of fresh jasmine, his present, attached by a black band to her wrist. Her face in the halo of a black lace hat was raised to the judge who spoke slowly, letting his words hang one by one in the air.
    She glanced at Wynand. He was not looking at her nor at the judge. Then she saw that he was alone in that room. He held this moment and he made of it, of the glare, of the vulgarity, a silent height of his own. He had not wished a religious ceremony, which he did not respect, and he could have less respect for the state’s functionary reciting a formula before him–but he made the rite an act of pure religion. She thought, if she were being married to Roark in such a setting, Roark would stand like this.
    Afterward, the mockery of the monster reception that followed left him immune. He posed with her for the battery of press cameras and he complied gracefully with all the demands of the reporters, a special, noisier mob within the mob. He stood with her in the receiving line, shaking an assembly belt of hands that unrolled past them for hours. He looked untouched by the lights, the haystacks of Easter lilies, the sounds of a string orchestra, the river of people flowing on and breaking into a delta when it reached the champagne; untouched by these guests who had come here driven by boredom, by an envious hatred, a reluctant submission to an invitation bearing his dangerous name, a scandal-hungry curiosity. He looked as if he did not know that they took his public immolation as their rightful due, that they considered their presence as the indispensable seal of sacrament upon the occasion, that of all the hundreds he and his bride were the only ones to whom the performance was hideous.
    She watched him intently. She wanted to see him take pleasure in all this, if only for a moment. Let him accept and join, just once, she thought, let him show the soul of the New York Banner in its proper element. She saw no acceptance. She saw a hint of pain, at times; but even the pain did not reach him completely. And she thought of the only other man she knew who had spoken about suffering that went down only to a certain point.
    When the last congratulations had drifted past them, they were free to leave by the rules of
    the occasion. But he made no move to leave. She knew he was waiting for her decision. She walked away from him into the currents of guests; she smiled, bowed and listened to offensive nonsense, a glass of champagne in her hand.
    She saw her father in the throng. He looked proud and wistful; he seemed bewildered. He had taken the announcement of her marriage quietly; he had said: “I want you to be happy, Dominique. I want it very much. I hope he’s the right man.” His tone had said that he was not certain.
    She saw Ellsworth Toohey in the crowd. He noticed her looking at him and turned away quickly. She wanted to laugh aloud; but the matter of Ellsworth Toohey caught off guard did not seem important enough to laugh about now.
    Alvah Scarret pushed his way toward her. He was making a poor effort at a suitable expression, but his face looked hurt and sullen. He muttered something rapid about his wishes for her happiness, but then he said distinctly and with a lively anger:
    “But why, Dominique? Why?”
    She could not quite believe that Alvah Scarret would permit himself the crudeness of what the question seemed to mean. She asked coldly:
    “What are you talking about, Alvah?” “The veto, of course.”
”What veto?”
    “You know very well what veto. Now I ask you, with every sheet in the city here, every damn one of them, the lousiest tabloid included, and the wire services too–everything but the Banner! Everything but the Wynand papers! What am I to tell people? How am I to explain? Is that a thing for you to do to a former comrade of the trade?”
    “You’d better repeat that, Alvah.”
    “You mean you didn’t know that Gail wouldn’t allow a single one of our guys here? That we won’t have any stories tomorrow, not a spread, not a picture, nothing but two lines on page eighteen?”
    “No,” she said, “I didn’t know it.”
    He wondered at the sudden jerk of her movement as she turned away from him. She handed the champagne glass to the first stranger in sight, whom she mistook for a waiter. She made her way through the crowd to Wynand.
    “Let’s go, Gail.” “Yes, my dear.”
    She stood, incredulously, in the middle of the drawing room of his penthouse, thinking that this place was now her home and how right it looked to be her home.
    He watched her. He showed no desire to speak or touch her, only to observe her here, in his house, brought here, lifted high over the city; as if the significance of the moment were not to be shared, not even with her.
    She moved slowly across the room, took off her hat, leaned against the edge of a table. She wondered why her normal desire to say little, to hold things closed, broke down before him, why she felt compelled to simple frankness, such as she could offer no one else.
    “You’ve had your way after all, Gail. You were married as you wanted to be married.” “Yes, I think so.”
    “It was useless to try to torture you.”
”Actually, yes. But I didn’t mind it too much.”
”You didn’t?”
”No. If that’s what you wanted it was only a matter of keeping my promise.” “But you hated it, Gail.”
    “Utterly. What of it? Only the first moment was hard–when you said it in the car. Afterward, I was rather glad of it.” He spoke quietly, matching her frankness; she knew he would leave her the choice–he would follow her manner–he would keep silent or admit anything she wished to be admitted.
    “Why?”
    “Didn’t you notice your own mistake–if it was a mistake? You wouldn’t have wanted to make me suffer if you were completely indifferent to me.”
    “No. It was not a mistake.”
    “You’re a good loser, Dominique.”
    “I think that’s also contagion from you, Gail. And there’s something I want to thank you for.”
    “W hat?”
    “That you barred our wedding from the Wynand papers.” He looked at her, his eyes alert in a special way for a moment, then he smiled.
    “It’s out of character–your thanking me for that.”
    “It was out of character for you to do it.”
    “I had to. But I thought you’d be angry.”
    “I should have been. But I wasn’t. I’m not. I thank you.”
    “Can one feel gratitude for gratitude? It’s a little hard to express, but that’s what I feel, Dominique.”
    She looked at the soft light on the walls around her. That lighting was part of the room, giving the walls a special texture of more than material or color. She thought that there were other rooms beyond these walls, rooms she had never seen which were hers now. And she found that she wanted them to be hers.
    “Gail, I haven’t asked you what we are to do now. Are we going away? Are we having a honeymoon? Funny, I haven’t even wondered about it. I thought of the wedding and nothing beyond. As if it stopped there and you took over from then on. Also out of character, Gail.”
    “But not in my favor, this time. Passivity is not a good sign. Not for you.”
”It might be–if I’m glad of it.”
”Might. Though it won’t last. No, we’re not going anywhere. Unless you wish to go.” “No.”
    “Then we stay here. Another peculiar manner of making an exception. The proper manner for you and me. Going away has always been running–for both of us. This time, we don’t run.”
    “Yes, Gail.”
    When he held her and kissed her, her arm lay bent, pressed between her body and his, her hand at her shoulder–and she felt her cheek touching the faded jasmine bouquet on her wrist, its perfume still intact, still a delicate suggestion of spring.
    When she entered his bedroom, she found that it was not the place she had seen photographed in countless magazines. The glass cage had been demolished. The room built in its place was a solid vault without a single window. It was lighted and air-conditioned, but neither light nor air came from the outside.
    She lay in his bed and she pressed her palms to the cold, smooth sheet at her sides, not to let her arms move and touch him. But her rigid indifference did not drive him to helpless anger. He understood. He laughed. She heard him say–his voice rough, without consideration, amused–“It won’t do, Dominique.” And she knew that this barrier would not be held between them, that she had no power to hold it. She felt the answer in her body, an answer of hunger, of acceptance, of pleasure. She thought that it was not a matter of desire, not even a matter of the sexual act, but only that man was the life force and woman could respond to nothing else; that this man had the will of life, the prime power, and this act was only its simplest statement, and she was responding not to the act nor to the man, but to that force within him.
    #
”Well?” asked Ellsworth Toohey. “Now do you get the point?”
    He stood leaning informally against the back of Scarret’s chair, and Scarret sat staring down at a hamper full of mail by the side of his desk.
    “Thousands,” sighed Scarret, “thousands, Ellsworth. You ought to see what they call him. Why didn’t he print the story of his wedding? What’s he ashamed of? What’s he got to hide? Why didn’t he get married in church, like any decent man? How could he marry a divorcee? That’s what they’re all asking. Thousands. And he won’t even look at the letters. Gail Wynand, the man they called the seismograph of public opinion.”
    “That’s right,” said Toohey. “That kind of a man.”
    “Here’s a sample,” Scarret picked up a letter from his desk and read aloud: “‘I’m a respectable woman and mother of five children and I certainly don’t think I want to bring up my children with your newspaper. Have taken same for fourteen years, but now that you show that you’re the kind of man that has no decency and making a mockery of the holy institution of marriage which is to commit adultery with a fallen woman also another man’s wife who gets married in a black dress as she jolly well ought to, I won’t read your newspaper any more as you’re not a man fit for children, and I’m certainly disappointed in you. Very truly yours. Mrs. Thomas Parker.’ I read it to him. He just laughed.”
    “Uh-huh,” said Toohey.
”What’s got into him?”
”It’s nothing that got into him, Alvah. It’s something that got out at last.”
    “By the way, did you know that many papers dug up their old pictures of Dominique’s nude statue from that goddamn temple and ran it right with the wedding story–to show Mrs. Wynand’s interest in art, the bastards! Are they glad to get back at Gail! Are they giving it to him, the lice! Wonder who reminded them of that one.”
    “I wouldn’t know.”
    “Well, of course, it’s just one of those storms in a teacup. They’ll forget all about it in a few weeks. I don’t think it will do much harm.”
    “No. Not this incident alone. Not by itself.” “Huh? Are you predicting something?”
    “Those letters predict it, Alvah. Not the letters as such. But that he wouldn’t read them.”
    “Oh, it’s no use getting too silly either. Gail knows where to stop and when. Don’t make a mountain out of a mo–” He glanced up at Toohey and his voice switched to: “Christ, yes, Ellsworth, you’re right. What are we going to do?”
    “Nothing, my friend, nothing. Not for a long time yet.” Toohey sat down on the edge of Scarret’s desk and let the tip of his pointed shoe play among the envelopes in the hamper, tossing them up, making them rustle. He had acquired a pleasant habit of dropping in and out of Scarret’s office at all hours. Scarret had come to depend on him.
    “Say, Ellsworth,” Scarret asked suddenly, “are you really loyal to the Banner!”
    “Alvah, don’t talk in dialect. Nobody’s really that stuffy,”
    “No, I mean it….Well, you know what I mean.”
    “Haven’t the faintest idea. Who’s ever disloyal to his bread and butter?”
    “Yeah, that’s so….Still, you know, Ellsworth, I like you a lot, only I’m never sure when you’re just talking my language or when it’s really yours.”
    “Don’t go getting yourself into psychological complexities. You’ll get all tangled up. What’s on your mind?”
    “Why do you still write for the New Frontiers!”
    “For money.”
    “Oh, come, that’s chicken feed to you.”
    “Well, it’s a prestige magazine. Why shouldn’t I write for them? You haven’t got an exclusive on me.”
    “No, and I don’t care who you write for on the side. But the New Frontiers has been damn funny lately.”
    “About what?”
”About Gail Wynand.” “Oh, rubbish, Alvah!”
    “No sir, this isn’t rubbish. You just haven’t noticed, guess you don’t read it close enough, but I’ve got an instinct about things like that and I know. I know when it’s just some smart young punk taking potshots or when a magazine means business.”
    “You’re nervous, Alvah, and you’re exaggerating. The New Frontiers is a liberal magazine and they’ve always sniped at Gail Wynand. Everybody has. He’s never been any too popular in the trade, you know. Hasn’t hurt him, though, has it?”
    “This is different. I don’t like it when there’s a system behind it, a kind of special purpose, like a lot of little trickles dribbling along, all innocently, and pretty soon they make a little stream, and it all fits pat, and pretty soon…”
    “Getting a persecution mania, Alvah?”
    “I don’t like it. It was all right when people took cracks at his yachts and women and a few municipal election scandals–which were never proved,” he added hastily. “But I don’t like it when it’s that new intelligentsia slang that people seem to be going for nowadays: Gail Wynand, the exploiter, Gail Wynand, the pirate of capitalism, Gail Wynand, the disease of an era. It’s still crap, Ellsworth, only there’s dynamite in that kind of crap.”
    “It’s just the modern way of saying the same old things, nothing more. Besides, I can’t be responsible for the policy of a magazine just because I sell them an article once in a while.”
    “Yeah, but…That’s not what I hear.” “What do you hear?”
”I hear you’re financing the damn thing.” “Who, me? With what?”
    “Well, not you yourself exactly. But I hear it was you who got young Ronny Pickering, the booze hound, to give them a shot in the arm to the tune of one hundred thousand smackers, just about when New Frontiers was going the way of all frontiers.”
    “Hell, that was just to save Ronny from the town’s more expensive gutters. The kid was going to the dogs. Gave him a sort of higher purpose in life. And put one hundred thousand smackers to better use than the chorus cuties who’d have got it out of him anyway.”
    “Yeah, but you could’ve attached a little string to the gift, slipped word to the editors that they’d better lay off Gail or else.”
    “The New Frontiers is not the Banner, Alvah. It’s a magazine of principles. One doesn’t attach strings to its editors and one doesn’t tell them ‘or else.’”
    “In this game, Ellsworth? Whom are you kidding?”
    “Well, if it will set your mind at rest, I’ll tell you something you haven’t heard. It’s not supposed to be known–it was done through a lot of proxies. Did you know that I just got Mitchell Layton to buy a nice fat chunk of the Banner?”
    “No!” “Yes.”
    “Christ, Ellsworth, that’s great! Mitchell Layton? We can use a reservoir like that and…Wait a minute. Mitchell Layton?”
    “Yes. What’s wrong with Mitchell Layton?”
    “Isn’t he the little boy who couldn’t digest grandpaw’s money?”
    “Grandpaw left him an awful lot of money.”
    “Yeah, but he’s a crackpot. He’s the one who’s been a Yogi, then a vegetarian, then a Unitarian, then a nudist–and now he’s gone to build a palace of the proletariat in Moscow.”
    “So what?”
”But Jesus!–a Red among our stockholders?”
    “Mitch isn’t a Red. How can one be a Red with a quarter of a billion dollars? He’s just a pale tea-rose. Mostly yellow. But a nice kid at heart.”
    “But–on the Banner!”
    “Alvah, you’re an ass. Don’t you see? I’ve made him put some dough into a good, solid, conservative paper. That’ll cure him of his pink notions and set him in the right direction. Besides, what harm can he do? Your dear Gail controls his papers, doesn’t he?”
    “Does Gail know about this?”
    “No. Dear Gail hasn’t been as watchful in the last five years as he used to be. And you’d better not tell him. You see the way Gail’s going. He’ll need a little pressure. And you’ll need the dough. Be nice to Mitch Layton. He can come in handy.”
    “That’s so.”
    “It is. You see? My heart’s in the right place. I’ve helped a puny little liberal mag like the New Frontiers, but I’ve also brought a much more substantial hunk of cash to a big stronghold of arch-conservatism such as the New York Banner.”
    “So you have. Damn decent of you, too, considering that you’re a kind of radical yourself.”
    “Now are you going to talk about any disloyalty?”
    “Guess not. Guess you’ll stand by the old Banner.”
    “Of course I will. Why, I love the Banner. I’d do anything for it. Why, I’d give my life for the New York Banner.”
    8.
    WALKING the soil of a desert island holds one anchored to the rest of the earth; but in their penthouse, with the telephone disconnected, Wynand and Dominique had no feeling of the fifty-seven floors below them, of steel shafts braced against granite–and it seemed to them that their home was anchored in space, not an island, but a planet. The city became a friendly sight, an abstraction with which no possible communication could be established, like the sky, a spectacle to be admired, but of no direct concern in their lives.
    For two weeks after their wedding they never left the penthouse. She could have pressed the button of the elevator and broken these weeks any time she wished; she did not wish it. She had no desire to resist, to wonder, to question. It was enchantment and peace.
    He sat talking to her for hours when she wanted. He was content to sit silently, when she preferred, and look at her as he looked at the objects in his art gallery, with the same distant, undisturbing glance. He answered any question she put to him. He never asked questions. He never spoke of what he felt. When she wished to be alone, he did not call for her. One evening she sat reading in her room and saw him standing at the frozen parapet of the dark roof garden outside, not looking back at the house, only standing in the streak of light from her window.
    When the two weeks ended, he went back to his work, to the office of the Banner. But the sense of isolation remained, like a theme declared and to be preserved through all their future days. He came home in the evening and the city ceased to exist. He had no desire to go anywhere. He invited no guests.
    He never mentioned it, but she knew that he did not want her to step out of the house, neither with him nor alone. It was a quiet obsession which he did not expect to enforce. When he came home, he asked: “Have you been out?”–never: “Where have you been?” It was not jealousy–the “where” did not matter. When she wanted to buy a pair of shoes, he had three stores send a collection of shoes for her choice–it prevented her visit to a store. When she said she wanted to see a certain picture, he had a projection room built on the roof.
    She obeyed, for the first few months. When she realized that she loved their isolation, she broke it at once. She made him accept invitations and she invited guests to their house. He complied without protest.
    But he maintained a wall she could not break–the wall he had erected between his wife and his newspapers. Her name never appeared in their pages. He stopped every attempt to draw Mrs. Gail Wynand into public life–to head committees, sponsor charity drives, endorse crusades. He did not hesitate to open her mail–if it bore an official letterhead that betrayed its
    purpose–to destroy it without answer and to tell her that he had destroyed it. She shrugged and said nothing.
    Yet he did not seem to share her contempt for his papers. He did not allow her to discuss them. She could not discover what he thought of them, nor what he felt. Once, when she commented on an offensive editorial, he said coldly:
    “I’ve never apologized for the Banner. I never will.”
    “But this is really awful, Gail.”
    “I thought you married me as the publisher of the Banner.”
    “I thought you didn’t like to think of that.”
    “What I like or dislike doesn’t concern you. Don’t expect me to change the Banner or sacrifice it. I wouldn’t do that for anyone on earth.”
    She laughed. “I wouldn’t ask it, Gail.” He did not laugh in answer.
    In his office in the Banner Building, he worked with a new energy, a kind of elated, ferocious drive that surprised the men who had known him in his most ambitious years. He stayed in the office all night when necessary, as he had not done for a long time. Nothing changed in his methods and policy. Alvah Scarret watched him with satisfaction. “We were wrong about him, Ellsworth,” said Scarret to his constant companion, “it’s the same old Gail, God bless him. Better than ever.”
    “My dear Alvah,” said Toohey, “nothing is ever as simple as you think–nor as fast.” “But he’s happy. Don’t you see that he’s happy?”
    “To be happy is the most dangerous thing that could have happened to him. And, as a humanitarian for once, I mean this for his own sake.”
    Sally Brent decided to outwit her boss. Sally Brent was one of the proudest possessions of the Banner, a stout, middle-aged woman who dressed like a model for a style show of the twenty- first century and wrote like a chambermaid. She had a large personal following among the readers of the Banner. Her popularity made her overconfident.
    Sally Brent decided to do a story on Mrs. Gail Wynand. It was just her type of story and there it was, simply going to waste. She gained admittance to Wynand’s penthouse, using the tactics of gaining admittance to places where one is not wanted which she had been taught as a well- trained Wynand employee. She made her usual dramatic entrance, wearing a black dress with a fresh sunflower on her shoulder–her constant ornament that had become a personal trade-mark–and she said to Dominique breathlessly: “Mrs. Wynand, I’ve come here to help you deceive your husband!”
    Then she winked at her own naughtiness and explained: “Our dear Mr. Wynand has been unfair to you, my dear, depriving you of your rightful fame, for some reason which I just simply can’t understand. But we’ll fix him, you and I. What can a man do when we girls get together? He simply doesn’t know what good copy you are. So just give me your story, and I’ll write it, and it will be so good that he just simply won’t be able not to run it.”
    Dominique was alone at home, and she smiled in a manner which Sally Brent had never seen before, so the right adjectives did not occur to Sally’s usually observant mind. Dominique gave her the story. She gave the exact kind of story Sally had dreamed about.
    “Yes, of course I cook his breakfast,” said Dominique. “Ham and eggs is his favorite dish, just plain ham and eggs…Oh yes, Miss Brent, I’m very happy. I open my eyes in the morning and I say to myself, it can’t be true, it’s not poor little me who’s become the wife of the great Gail Wynand who had all the glamorous beauties of the world to choose from. You see, I’ve been
    in love with him for years. He was just a dream to me, a beautiful, impossible dream. And now it’s like a dream come true….Please, Miss Brent, take this message from me to the women of America: Patience is always rewarded and romance is just around the corner. I think it’s a beautiful thought and perhaps it will help other girls as it has helped me….Yes, all I want of life is to make Gail happy, to share his joys and sorrows, to be a good wife and mother.”
    Alvah Scarret read the story and liked it so much that he lost all caution. “Run it off, Alvah,” Sally Brent urged him, “just have a proof run off and leave it on his desk. He’ll okay it, see if he won’t.” That evening Sally Brent was fired. Her costly contract was bought off–it had three more years to run–and she was told never to enter the Banner Building again for any purpose whatsoever.
    Scarret protested in panic: “Gail, you can’t fire Sally! Not Sally!”
    “When I can’t fire anyone I wish on my paper, I’ll close it and blow up the God-damn building,” said Wynand calmly.
    “But her public! We’ll lose her public!” “To hell with her public.”
    That night, at dinner, Wynand took from his pocket a crumpled wad of paper–the proof cut of the story–and threw it, without a word, at Dominique’s face across the table. It hit her cheek and fell to the floor. She picked it up, unrolled it, saw what it was and laughed aloud.
    Sally Brent wrote an article on Gail Wynand’s love life. In a gay, intellectual manner, in the terms of sociological study, the article presented material such as no pulp magazine would have accepted. It was published in the New Frontiers.
#
    Wynand bought Dominique a necklace designed at his special order. It was made of diamonds without visible settings, spaced wide apart in an irregular pattern, like a handful scattered accidentally, held together by platinum chains made under a microscope, barely noticeable. When he clasped it about her neck, it looked like drops of water fallen at random.
    She stood before a mirror. She slipped her dressing gown off her shoulders and let the raindrops glitter on her skin. She said:
    “That life story of the Bronx housewife who murdered her husband’s young mistress is pretty sordid, Gail. But I think there’s something dirtier–the curiosity of the people who like to read about it. And then there’s something dirtier still–the people who pander to that curiosity. Actually, it was that housewife–she has piano legs and such a baggy neck in her pictures– who made this necklace possible. It’s a beautiful necklace. I shall be proud to wear it.”
    He smiled; the sudden brightness of his eyes had an odd quality of courage.
    “That’s one way of looking at it,” he said. “There’s another. I like to think that I took the worst refuse of the human spirit–the mind of that housewife and the minds of the people who like to read about her–and I made of it this necklace on your shoulders. I like to think that I was an alchemist capable of performing so great a purification.”
    She saw no apology, no regret, no resentment as he looked at her. It was a strange glance; she had noticed it before; a glance of simple worship. And it made her realize that there is a stage of worship which makes the worshiper himself an object of reverence.
    She was sitting before her mirror when he entered her dressing room on the following night. He bent down, he pressed his lips to the back of her neck–and he saw a square of paper attached to the corner of her mirror. It was the decoded copy of the cablegram that had ended her career on the Banner. FIRE THE BITCH. G W
    He lifted his shoulders, to stand erect behind her. He asked: “How did you get that?”
    “Ellsworth Toohey gave it to me. I thought it was worth preserving. Of course, I didn’t know it would ever become so appropriate.”
    He inclined his head gravely, acknowledging the authorship, and said nothing else.
    She expected to find the cablegram gone next morning. But he had not touched it. She would not remove it. It remained on display on the corner of her mirror. When he held her in his arms, she often saw his eyes move to that square of paper. She could not tell what he thought.

    In the spring, a publishers’ convention took him away from New York for a week. It was their first separation. Dominique surprised him by coming to meet him at the airport when he returned. She was gay and gentle; her manner held a promise he had never expected, could not trust, and found himself trusting completely.
    When he entered the drawing room of their penthouse and slumped down, half stretching on a couch, she knew that he wanted to lie still here, to feel the recaptured safety of his own world. She saw his eyes, open, delivered to her, without defense. She stood straight, ready. She said:
    “You’d better dress, Gail. We’re going to the theater tonight.”
    He lifted himself to a sitting posture. He smiled, the slanting ridges standing out on his forehead. She had a cold feeling of admiration for him: the control was perfect, all but these ridges. He said:
    “Fine. Black tie or white?”
”White. I have tickets for No Skin Off Your Nose. They were very hard to get.”
    It was too much; it seemed too ludicrous to be part of this moment’s contest between them. He broke down by laughing frankly, in helpless disgust.
    “Good God, Dominique, not that one!”
    “Why, Gail, it’s the biggest hit in town. Your own critic, Jules Fougler”–he stopped laughing. He understood–“said it was the great play of our age. Ellsworth Toohey said it was the fresh voice of the coming new world. Alvah Scarret said it was not written in ink, but in the milk of human kindness. Sally Brent–before you fired her–said it made her laugh with a lump in her throat. Why, it’s the godchild of the Banner. I thought you would certainly want to see it.”
    “Yes, of course,” he said.
He got up and went to dress.
    No Skin Off Your Nose had been running for many months. Ellsworth Toohey had mentioned regretfully in his column that the title of the play had had to be changed slightly–“as a concession to the stuffy prudery of the middle class which still controls our theater. It is a crying example of interference with the freedom of the artist. Now don’t let’s hear any more of that old twaddle about ours being a free society. Originally, the title of this beautiful play was an authentic line drawn from the language of the people, with the brave, simple eloquence of folk expression.”
    Wynand and Dominique sat in the center of the fourth row, not looking at each other, listening to the play. The things being done on the stage were merely trite and crass; but the undercurrent made them frightening. There was an air about the ponderous inanities spoken, which the actors had absorbed like an infection; it was in their smirking faces, in the slyness of their voices; in their untidy gestures. It was an air of inanities uttered as revelations and insolently demanding acceptance as such; an air, not of innocent presumption, but of conscious effrontery; as if the author knew the nature of his work and boasted of his power to make it appear sublime in the minds of his audience and thus destroy the capacity for the
    sublime within them. The work justified the verdict of its sponsors: it brought laughs, it was amusing; it was an indecent joke, acted out not on the stage but in the audience. It was a pedestal from which a god had been torn, and in his place there stood, not Satan with a sword, but a corner lout sipping a bottle of Coca-Cola.
    There was silence in the audience, puzzled and humble. When someone laughed, the rest joined in, with relief, glad to learn that they were enjoying themselves. Jules Fougler had not tried to influence anybody; he had merely made clear–well in advance and through many channels–that anyone unable to enjoy this play was, basically, a worthless human being. “It’s no use asking for explanations,” he had said. “Either you’re fine enough to like it or you aren’t.”
    In the intermission Wynand heard a stout woman saying: “It’s wonderful. I don’t understand it, but I have the feeling that it’s something very important.” Dominique asked him: “Do you wish to go, Gail?” He said: “No. We’ll stay to the end.”
    He was silent in the car on their way home. When they entered their drawing room, he stood waiting, ready to hear and accept anything. For a moment she felt the desire to spare him. She felt empty and very tired. She did not want to hurt him; she wanted to seek his help.
    Then she thought again what she had thought in the theater. She thought that this play was the creation of the Banner, this was what the Banner had forced into life, had fed, upheld, made to triumph. And it was the Banner that had begun and ended the destruction of the Stoddard Temple….The New York Banner, November 2, 1930–“One Small Voice”–“Sacrilege” by Ellsworth M. Toohey–“The Churches of our Childhood” by Alvah Scarret–“Are you happy, Mr. Superman?”…And now that destruction was not an event long since past–this was not a comparison between two mutually unmeasurable entities, a building and a play–it was not an accident, nor a matter of persons, of Ike, Fougler, Toohey, herself…and Roark. It was a contest without time, a struggle of two abstractions, the thing that had created the building against the things that made the play possible–two forces, suddenly naked to her in their simple statement–two forces that had fought since the world began–and every religion had known of them–and there had always been a God and a Devil–only men had been so mistaken about the shapes of their Devil–he was not single and big, he was many and smutty and small. The Banner had destroyed the Stoddard Temple in order to make room for this play–it could not do otherwise–there was no middle choice, no escape, no neutrality–it was one or the other–it had always been–and the contest had many symbols, but no name and no statement….Roark, she heard herself screaming inside, Roark…Roark…Roark…
    “Dominique…what’s the matter?”
    She heard Wynand’s voice. It was soft and anxious. He had never allowed himself to betray anxiety. She grasped the sound as a reflection of her own face, of what he had seen in her face.
    She stood straight, and sure of herself, and very silent inside. “I’m thinking of you, Gail,” she said.
He waited.
    “Well, Gail? The total passion for the total height?” She laughed, letting her arms swing sloppily in the manner of the actors they had seen. “Say, Gail, have you got a two-cent stamp with a picture of George Washington on it?…How old are you, Gail? How hard have you worked? Your life is more than half over, but you’ve seen your reward tonight. Your crowning achievement. Of course, no man is ever quite equal to his highest passion. Now if you strive and make a great effort, some day you’ll rise to the level of that play!”
    He stood quietly, hearing it, accepting.
    “I think you should take a manuscript of that play and place it on a stand in the center of your gallery downstairs. I think you should rechristen your yacht and call her No Skin Off Your Nose. I think you should take me–”
    “Keep still.”
    “–and put me in the cast and make me play the role of Mary every evening. Mary who adopts the homeless muskrat and…”
    “Dominique, keep still.”
    “Then talk. I want to hear you talk.”
    “I’ve never justified myself to anyone.”
    “Well, boast then. That would do just as well.”
    “If you want to hear it, it made me sick, that play. As you knew it would. That was worse than the Bronx housewife.”
    “Much worse.”
    “But I can think of something worse still. Writing a great play and offering it for tonight’s audience to laugh at. Letting oneself be martyred by the kind of people we saw frolicking tonight.”
    He saw that something had reached her; he could not tell whether it was an answer of surprise or of anger. He did not know how well she recognized these words. He went on:
    “It did make me sick. But so have a great many things which the Banner has done. It was worse tonight, because there was a quality about it that went beyond the usual. A special kind of malice. But if this is popular with fools, it’s the Banner’s legitimate province. The Banner was created for the benefit of fools. What else do you want me to admit?”
    “What you felt tonight.”
    “A minor kind of hell. Because you sat there with me. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? To make me feel the contrast. Still, you miscalculated. I looked at the stage and I thought, this is what people are like, such are their spirits, but I–I’ve found you, I have you–and the contrast was worth the pain. I did suffer tonight, as you wanted, but it was a pain that went only down to a certain point and then…”
    “Shut up!” she screamed. “Shut up, God damn you!”
    They stood for a moment, both astonished. He moved first; he knew she needed his help; he grasped her shoulders. She tore herself away. She walked across the room, to the window; she stood looking at the city, at the great buildings spread in black and fire below her.
    After a while she said, her voice toneless:
    “I’m sorry, Gail.”
    He did not answer.
    “I had no right to say those things to you.” She did not turn, her arms raised, holding the frame of the window. “We’re even, Gail. I’m paid back, if that will make it better for you. I broke first.”
    “I don’t want you to be paid back.” He spoke quietly. “Dominique, what was it?” “Nothing.”
    “What did I make you think of? It wasn’t what I said. It was something else. What did the words mean to you?”
    “Nothing.”
”A pain that went only down to a certain point. It was that sentence. Why?” She was looking at
    the city. In the distance she could see the shaft of the Cord Building. “Dominique, I’ve seen what you can take. It must be something very terrible if it could do that to you. I must know. There’s nothing impossible. I can help you against it, whatever it is.” She did not answer. “At the theater, it was not just that fool play. There was something else for you tonight. I saw your face. And then it was the same thing again here. What is it?”
    “Gail,” she said softly, “will you forgive me?”
    He let a moment pass; he had not been prepared for that.
    “What have I to forgive you?”
    “Everything. And tonight.”
    “That was your privilege. The condition on which you married me. To make me pay for the Banner.”
    “I don’t want to make you pay for it.”
”Why don’t you want it any more?”
”It can’t be paid for.”
In the silence she listened to his steps pacing the room behind her. “Dominique. What was it?”
    “The pain that stops at a certain point? Nothing. Only that you had no right to say it. The men who have, pay for that right, a price you can’t afford. But it doesn’t matter now. Say it if you wish. I have no right to say it either.”
    “That wasn’t all.”
    “I think we have a great deal in common, you and I. We’ve committed the same treason somewhere. No, that’s a bad word….Yes, I think it’s the right word. It’s the only one that has the feeling of what I mean.”
    “Dominique, you can’t feel that.” His voice sounded strange. She turned to him. “Why?”
”Because that’s what I felt tonight. Treason.”
”Toward whom?”
    “I don’t know. If I were religious, I’d say ‘God.’ But I’m not religious.” “That’s what I meant, Gail.”
”Why should you feel it? The Banner is not your child.”
”There are other forms of the same guilt.”
    Then he walked to her across the long room, he held her in his arms, he said:
    “You don’t know the meaning of the kind of words you use. We have a great deal in common, but not that. I’d rather you went on spitting at me than trying to share my offenses.”
    She let her hand rest against the length of his cheek, her fingertips at his temple. He asked:
”Will you tell me–now–what it was?”
    “Nothing. I undertook more than I could carry. You’re tired, Gail. Why don’t you go on upstairs? Leave me here for a little while. I just want to look at the city. Then I’ll join you and I’ll be all right.”
    9.
    DOMINIQUE stood at the rail of the yacht, the deck warm under her flat sandals, the sun on her bare legs, the wind blowing her thin white dress. She looked at Wynand stretched in a deck chair before her.
    She thought of the change she noticed in him again aboard ship. She had watched him through the months of their summer cruise. She had seen him once running down a companionway; the picture remained in her mind; a tall white figure thrown forward in a streak of speed and confidence; his hand grasped a railing, risking deliberately the danger of a sudden break, gaining a new propulsion. He was not the corrupt publisher of a popular empire. He was an aristocrat aboard a yacht. He looked, she thought, like what one believes aristocracy to be when one is young: a brilliant kind of gaiety without guilt.
    She looked at him in the deck chair. She thought that relaxation was attractive only in those for whom it was an unnatural state; then even limpness acquired purpose. She wondered about him; Gail Wynand, famous for his extraordinary capacity; but this was not merely the force of an ambitious adventurer who had created a chain of newspapers; this–the quality she saw in him here–the thing stretched out under the sun like an answer–this was greater, a first cause, a faculty out of universal dynamics.
    “Gail,” she said suddenly, involuntarily. He opened his eyes to look at her.
    “I wish I had taken a recording of that,” he said lazily. “You’d be startled to hear what it sounded like. Quite wasted here. I’d like to play it back in a bedroom.”
    “I’ll repeat it there, if you wish.”
    “Thank you, dearest. And I promise not to exaggerate or presume too much. You’re not in love with me. You’ve never loved anyone.”
    “Why do you think that?”
    “If you loved a man, it wouldn’t be just a matter of a circus wedding and an atrocious evening in the theater. You’d put him through total hell.”
    “How do you know that, Gail?”
    “Why have you been staring at me ever since we met? Because I’m not the Gail Wynand you’d heard about. You see, I love you. And love is exception-making. If you were in love you’d want to be broken, trampled, ordered, dominated, because that’s the impossible, the inconceivable for you in your relations with people. That would be the one gift, the great exception you’d want to offer the man you loved. But it wouldn’t be easy for you.”
    “If that’s true, then you…”
    “Then I become gentle and humble–to your great astonishment–because I’m the worst scoundrel living.”
    “I don’t believe that, Gail.”
”No? I’m not the person before last any more?”
    “Not any more.”
    “Well, dearest, as a matter of fact, I am.”
    “Why do you want to think that?”
    “I don’t want to. But I like to be honest. That has been my only private luxury. Don’t change your mind about me. Go on seeing me as you saw me before we met.”
    “Gail, that’s not what you want.”
    “It doesn’t matter what I want. I don’t want anything–except to own you. Without any answer from you. It has to be without answer. If you begin to look at me too closely, you’ll see things you won’t like at all.”
    “What things?”
    “You’re so beautiful, Dominique. It’s such a lovely accident on God’s part that there’s one person who matches inside and out.”
    “What things, Gail?”
    “Do you know what you’re actually in love with? Integrity. The impossible. The clean, consistent, reasonable, self-faithful, the all-of-one-style, like a work of art. That’s the only field where it can be found–art. But you want it in the flesh. You’re in love with it. Well, you see, I’ve never had any integrity.”
    “How sure are you of that, Gail?” “Have you forgotten the Banner?” “To hell with the Banner.”
    “All right, to hell with the Banner. It’s nice to hear you say that. But the Banner’s not the major symptom. That I’ve never practiced any sort of integrity is not so important. What’s important is that I’ve never felt any need for it. I hate the conception of it. I hate the presumptuousness of the idea.”
    “Dwight Carson…” she said. He heard the sound of disgust in her voice.
    He laughed. “Yes, Dwight Carson. The man I bought. The individualist who’s become a mob- glorifier and, incidentally, a dipsomaniac. I did that. That was worse than the Banner, wasn’t it? You don’t like to be reminded of that?”
    “No.”
    “But surely you’ve heard enough screaming about it. All the giants of the spirit whom I’ve broken. I don’t think anybody ever realized how much I enjoyed doing it. It’s a kind of lust. I’m perfectly indifferent to slugs like Ellsworth Toohey or my friend Alvah, and quite willing to leave them in peace. But just let me see a man of slightly higher dimension–and I’ve got to make a sort of Toohey out of him. I’ve got to. It’s like a sex urge.”
    “Why?”
”I don’t know.”
”Incidentally, you misunderstand Ellsworth Toohey.”
”Possibly. You don’t expect me to waste mental effort to untangle that snail’s shell?” “And you contradict yourself.”
”Where?”
    “Why didn’t you set out to destroy me?”
    “The exception-making, Dominique. I love you. I had to love you. God help you if you were a man.”
    “Gail–why?”
”Why have I done all that?” “Yes.”
    “Power, Dominique. The only thing I ever wanted. To know that there’s not a man living whom I can’t force to do–anything. Anything I choose. The man I couldn’t break would destroy me. But I’ve spent years finding out how safe I am. They say I have no sense of honor, I’ve missed something in life. Well, I haven’t missed very much, have I? The thing I’ve missed–it doesn’t exist.”
    He spoke in a normal tone of voice, but he noticed suddenly that she was listening with the intent concentration needed to hear a whisper of which one can afford to lose no syllable.
    “What’s the matter, Dominique? What are you thinking about?”
    “I’m listening to you, Gail.”
    She did not say she was listening to his words and to the reason behind them. It was suddenly so clear to her that she heard it as an added clause to each sentence, even though he had no knowledge of what he was confessing.
    “The worst thing about dishonest people is what they think of as honesty,” he said. “I know a woman who’s never held to one conviction for three days running, but when I told her she had no integrity, she got very tight-lipped and said her idea of integrity wasn’t mine; it seems she’d never stolen any money. Well, she’s one that’s in no danger from me whatever. I don’t hate her. I hate the impossible conception you love so passionately, Dominique.”
    “Do you?”
”I’ve had a lot of fun proving it.”
    She walked to him and sat down on the deck beside his chair, the planks smooth and hot under her bare legs. He wondered why she looked at him so gently. He frowned. She knew that some reflection of what she had understood remained in her eyes–and she looked away from him.
    “Gail, why tell me all that? It’s not what you want me to think of you.”
    “No. It isn’t. Why tell you now? Want the truth? Because it has to be told. Because I want to be honest with you. Only with you and with myself. But I wouldn’t have the courage to tell you anywhere else. Not at home. Not ashore. Only here–because here it doesn’t seem quite real. Does it?”
    “No.”
    “I think I hoped that here you’d accept it–and still think of me as you did when you spoke my name in that way I wanted to record.”
    She put her head against his chair, her face pressed to his knees, her hand dropped, fingers half-curled, on the glistening planks of the deck. She did not want to show what she had actually heard him saying about himself today.
#
    On a night of late fall they stood together at the roof-garden parapet, looking at the city. The long shafts made of lighted windows were like streams breaking out of the black sky, flowing
    down in single drops to feed the great pool of fire below.
    “There they are, Dominique–the great buildings. The skyscrapers. Do you remember? They were the first link between us. We’re both in love with them, you and I.”
    She thought she should resent his right to say it. But she felt no resentment.
    “Yes, Gail. I’m in love with them.”
    She looked at the vertical threads of light that were the Cord Building, she raised her fingers off the parapet, just enough to touch the place of its unseen form on the distant sky. She felt no reproach from it.
    “I like to see a man standing at the foot of a skyscraper,” he said. “It makes him no bigger than an ant–isn’t that the correct bromide for the occasion? The God-damn fools! It’s man who made it–the whole incredible mass of stone and steel. It doesn’t dwarf him, it makes him greater than the structure. It reveals his true dimensions to the world. What we love about these buildings, Dominique, is the creative faculty, the heroic in man.”
    “Do you love the heroic in man, Gail?” “I love to think of it. I don’t believe it.”
    She leaned against the parapet and watched the green lights stretched in a long straight line far below. She said:
    “I wish I could understand you.”
”I thought I should be quite obvious. I’ve never hidden anything from you.”
    He watched the electric signs that flashed in disciplined spasms over the black river. Then he pointed to a blurred light, far to the south, a faint reflection of blue.
    “That’s the Banner Building. See, over there?–that blue light. I’ve done so many things, but I’ve missed one, the most important. There’s no Wynand Building in New York. Some day I’ll build a new home for the Banner. It will be the greatest structure of the city and it will bear my name. I started in a miserable dump, and the paper was called the Gazette. I was only a stooge for some very filthy people. But I thought, then, of the Wynand Building that would rise some day. I’ve thought of it all the years since.”
    “Why haven’t you built it?”
    “I wasn’t ready for it.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m not ready for it now. I don’t know why. I know only that it’s very important to me. It will be the final symbol. I’ll know the right time when it comes.”
    He turned to look out to the west, to a path of dim scattered lights. He pointed:
    “That’s where I was born. Hell’s Kitchen.” She listened attentively; he seldom spoke of his beginning. “I was sixteen when I stood on a roof and looked at the city, like tonight. And decided what I would be.”
    The quality of his voice became a line underscoring the moment, saying: Take notice, this is important. Not looking at him, she thought this was what he had waited for, this should give her the answer, the key to him. Years ago, thinking of Gail Wynand, she had wondered how such a man faced his life and his work; she expected boasting and a hidden sense of shame, or impertinence flaunting its own guilt. She looked at him. His head lifted, his eyes level on the sky before him, he conveyed none of the things she had expected; he conveyed a quality incredible in this connection: a sense of gallantry.
    She knew it was a key, but it made the puzzle greater. Yet something within her understood, knew the use of that key and made her speak.
    “Gail, fire Ellsworth Toohey.” He turned to her, bewildered. “Why?”
    “Gail, listen.” Her voice had an urgency she had never shown in speaking to him. “I’ve never wanted to stop Toohey. I’ve even helped him. I thought he was what the world deserved. I haven’t tried to save anything from him…or anyone. I never thought it would be the Banner– the Banner which he fits best–that I’d want to save from him.”
    “What on earth are you talking about?”
    “Gail, when I married you, I didn’t know I’d come to feel this kind of loyalty to you. It contradicts everything I’ve done, it contradicts so much more than I can tell you–it’s a sort of catastrophe for me, a turning point–don’t ask me why–it will take me years to understand–I know only that this is what I owe you. Fire Ellsworth Toohey. Get him out before it’s too late. You’ve broken many much less vicious men and much less dangerous. Fire Toohey, go after him and don’t rest until you’ve destroyed every last bit of him.”
    “Why? Why should you think of him just now?” “Because I know what he’s after.”
”What is he after?”
”Control of the Wynand papers.”
    He laughed aloud; it was not derision or indignation; just pure gaiety greeting the point of a silly joke.
    “Gail…” she said helplessly.
”Oh for God’s sake, Dominique! And here I’ve always respected your judgment.” “You’ve never understood Toohey.”
    “And I don’t care to. Can you see me going after Ellsworth Toohey? A tank to eliminate a bedbug? Why should I fire Elsie? He’s the kind that makes money for me. People love to read his twaddle. I don’t fire good booby-traps like that. He’s as valuable to me as a piece of flypaper.”
    “That’s the danger. Part of it.”
    “His wonderful following? I’ve had bigger and better sob-sisters on my payroll. When a few of them had to be kicked out, that was the end of them. Their popularity stopped at the door of the Banner. But the Banner went on.”
    “It’s not his popularity. It’s the special nature of it. You can’t fight him on his terms. You’re only a tank–and that’s a very clean, innocent weapon. An honest weapon that goes first, out in front, and mows everything down or takes every counterblow. He’s a corrosive gas. The kind that eats lungs out. I think there really is a secret to the core of evil and he has it. I don’t know what it is. I know how he uses it and what he’s after.”
    “Control of the Wynand papers?”
”Control of the Wynand papers–as one of the means to an end.” “What end?”
    “Control of the world.”
    He said with patient disgust: “What is this, Dominique? What sort of gag and what for?”
    “I’m serious, Gail. I’m terribly serious.”
    “Control of the world, my dear, belongs to men like me. The Tooheys of this earth wouldn’t know how to dream about it.”
    “I’ll try to explain. It’s very difficult. The hardest thing to explain is the glaringly evident which everybody has decided not to see. But if you’ll listen…”
    “I won’t listen. You’ll forgive me, but discussing the idea of Ellsworth Toohey as a threat to me is ridiculous. Discussing it seriously is offensive.”
    “Gail, I…”
    “No. Darling, I don’t think you really understand much about the Banner. And I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to take any part in it. Forget it. Leave the Banner to me.”
    “Is it a demand, Gail?”
    “It’s an ultimatum.”
    “All right.”
    “Forget it. Don’t go acquiring horror complexes about anyone as big as Ellsworth Toohey. It’s not like you.”
    “All right, Gail. Let’s go in. It’s too cold for you here without an overcoat.”
    He chuckled softly–it was the kind of concern she had never shown for him before. He took her hand and kissed her palm, holding it against his face.
#
    For many weeks, when left alone together, they spoke little and never about each other. But it was not a silence of resentment; it was the silence of an understanding too delicate to limit by words. They would be in a room together in the evening, saying nothing, content to feel each other’s presence. They would look at each other suddenly–and both would smile, the smile like hands clasped.
    Then, one evening, she knew he would speak. She sat at her dressing-table. He came in and stood leaning against the wall beside her. He looked at her hands, at her naked shoulders, but she felt as if he did not see her; he was looking at something greater than the beauty of her body, greater than his love for her; he was looking at himself–and this, she knew, was the one incomparable tribute.
    “I breathe for my own necessity, for the fuel of my body, for my survival…I’ve given you, not my sacrifice or my pity, but my ego and my naked need…” She heard Roark’s words, Roark’s voice speaking for Gail Wynand–and she felt no sense of treason to Roark in using the words of his love for the love of another man.
    “Gail,” she said gently, “some day I’ll have to ask your forgiveness for having married you.” He shook his head slowly, smiling. She said:
    “I wanted you to be my chain to the world. You’ve become my defense, instead. And that makes my marriage dishonest.”
    “No. I told you I would accept any reason you chose.”
    “But you’ve changed everything for me. Or was it I that changed it? I don’t know. We’ve done something strange to each other. I’ve given you what I wanted to lose. That special sense of
    living I thought this marriage would destroy for me. The sense of life as exaltation. And you– you’ve done all the things I would have done. Do you know how much alike we are?”
    “I knew that from the first.”
    “But it should have been impossible. Gail, I want to remain with you now–for another reason. To wait for an answer. I think when I learn to understand what you are, I’ll understand myself. There is an answer. There is a name for the thing we have in common. I don’t know it. I know it’s very important.”
    “Probably. I suppose I should want to understand it. But I don’t. I can’t care about anything now. I can’t even be afraid.”
    She looked up at him and said very calmly: “I am afraid, Gail.”
”Of what, dearest?”
”Of what I’m doing to you.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t love you, Gail.”
    “I can’t care even about that.”
    She dropped her head and he looked down at the hair that was like a pale helmet of polished metal.
    “Dominique.”
She raised her face to him obediently.
    “I love you, Dominique. I love you so much that nothing can matter to me–not even you. Can you understand that? Only my love–not your answer. Not even your indifference. I’ve never taken much from the world. I haven’t wanted much. I’ve never really wanted anything. Not in the total, undivided way, not with the kind of desire that becomes an ultimatum, ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and one can’t accept the ‘no’ without ceasing to exist. That’s what you are to me. But when one reaches that stage, it’s not the object that matters, it’s the desire. Not you, but I. The ability to desire like that. Nothing less is worth feeling or honoring. And I’ve never felt that before. Dominique, I’ve never known how to say ‘mine’ about anything. Not in the sense I say it about you. Mine. Did you call it a sense of life as exaltation? You said that. You understand. I can’t be afraid. I love you, Dominique–I love you–you’re letting me say it now–I love you.”
    She reached over and took the cablegram off her mirror. She crumpled it, her fingers twisting slowly in a grinding motion against her palm. He stood listening to the crackle of the paper. She leaned forward, opened her hand over the wastebasket, and let the paper drop. Her hand remained still for a moment, the fingers extended, slanting down, as they had opened.
    Part Four: HOWARD ROARK
    1.
    THE LEAVES streamed down, trembling in the sun. They were not green; only a few, scattered through the torrent, stood out in single drops of a green so bright and pure that it hurt the eyes; the rest were not a color, but a light, the substance of fire on metal, living sparks
    without edges. And it looked as if the forest were a spread of light boiling slowly to produce this color, this green rising in small bubbles, the condensed essence of spring. The trees met, bending over the road, and the spots of sun on the ground moved with the shifting of the branches, like a conscious caress. The young man hoped he would not have to die.
    Not if the earth could look like this, he thought. Not if he could hear the hope and the promise like a voice, with leaves, tree trunks and rocks instead of words. But he knew that the earth looked like this only because he had seen no sign of men for hours; he was alone, riding his bicycle down a forgotten trail through the hills of Pennsylvania where he had never been before, where he could feel the fresh wonder of an untouched world.
    He was a very young man. He had just graduated from college–in this spring of the year 1935–and he wanted to decide whether life was worth living. He did not know that this was the question in his mind. He did not think of dying. He thought only that he wished to find joy and reason and meaning in life–and that none had been offered to him anywhere.
    He had not liked the things taught to him in college. He had been taught a great deal about social responsibility, about a life of service and self-sacrifice. Everybody had said it was beautiful and inspiring. Only he had not felt inspired. He had felt nothing at all.
    He could not name the thing he wanted of life. He felt it here, in this wild loneliness. But he did not face nature with the joy of a healthy animal–as a proper and final setting; he faced it with the joy of a healthy man–as a challenge; as tools, means and material. So he felt anger that he should find exultation only in the wilderness, that this great sense of hope had to be lost when he would return to men and men’s work. He thought that this was not right; that man’s work should be a higher step, an improvement on nature, not a degradation. He did not want to despise men; he wanted to love and admire them. But he dreaded the sight of the first house, poolroom and movie poster he would encounter on his way.
    He had always wanted to write music, and he could give no other identity to the thing he sought. If you want to know what it is, he told himself, listen to the first phrases of Tchaikovsky’s First Concerto–or the last movement of Rachmaninoff’s Second. Men have not found the words for it nor the deed nor the thought, but they have found the music. Let me see that in one single act of man on earth. Let me see it made real. Let me see the answer to the promise of that music. Not servants nor those served; not altars and immolations; but the final, the fulfilled, innocent of pain. Don’t help me or serve me, but let me see it once, because I need it. Don’t work for my happiness, my brothers–show me yours–show me that it is possible–show me your achievement–and the knowledge will give me courage for mine.
    He saw a blue hole ahead, where the road ended on the crest of a ridge. The blue looked cool and clean like a film of water stretched in the frame of green branches. It would be funny, he thought, if I came to the edge and found nothing but that blue beyond; nothing but the sky ahead, above and below. He closed his eyes and went on, suspending the possible for a moment, granting himself a dream, a few instants of believing that he would reach the crest, open his eyes and see the blue radiance of the sky below.
    His foot touched the ground, breaking his motion; he stopped and opened his eyes. He stood still.
    In the broad valley, far below him, in the first sunlight of early morning, he saw a town. Only it was not a town. Towns did not look like that. He had to suspend the possible for a while longer, to seek no questions or explanations, only to look.
    There were small houses on the ledges of the hill before him, flowing down to the bottom. He knew that the ledges had not been touched, that no artifice had altered the unplanned beauty of the graded steps. Yet some power had known how to build on these ledges in such a way that the houses became inevitable, and one could no longer imagine the hills as beautiful without them–as if the centuries and the series of chances that produced these ledges in the struggle of great blind forces had waited for their final expression, had been only a road to a goal–and the goal was these buildings, part of the hills, shaped by the hills, yet ruling them by giving them meaning.
    The houses were plain field stone–like the rocks jutting from the green hillsides–and of glass,
    great sheets of glass used as if the sun were invited to complete the structures, sunlight becoming part of the masonry. There were many houses, they were small, they were cut off from one another, and no two of them were alike. But they were like variations of a single theme, like a symphony played by an inexhaustible imagination, and one could still hear the laughter of the force that had been let loose on them, as if that force had run, unrestrained, challenging itself to be spent, but had never reached its end. Music, he thought, the promise of the music he had invoked, the sense of it made real–there it was before his eyes–he did not see it–he heard it in chords–he thought that there was a common language of thought, sight and sound–was it mathematics?–the discipline of reason–music was mathematics–and architecture was music in stone–he knew he was dizzy because this place below him could not be real.
    He saw trees, lawns, walks twisting up the hillsides, steps cut in the stone, he saw fountains, swimming pools, tennis courts–and not a sign of life. The place was uninhabited.
    It did not shock him, not as the sight of it had shocked him. In a way, it seemed proper; this was not part of known existence. For the moment he had no desire to know what it was.
    After a long time he glanced about him–and then he saw that he was not alone. Some steps away from him a man sat on a boulder, looking down at the valley. The man seemed absorbed in the sight and had not heard his approach. The man was tall and gaunt and had orange hair.
    He walked straight to the man, who turned his eyes to him; the eyes were gray and calm; the boy knew suddenly that they felt the same thing, and he could speak as he would not speak to a stranger anywhere else.
    “That isn’t real, is it?” the boy asked, pointing down.
”Why, yes, it is, now,” the man answered.
”It’s not a movie set or a trick of some kind?”
”No. It’s a summer resort. It’s just been completed. It will be opened in a few weeks.” “Who built it?”
    “I did.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Howard Roark.”
    “Thank you,” said the boy. He knew that the steady eyes looking at him understood everything these two words had to cover. Howard Roark inclined his head, in acknowledgment.
    Wheeling his bicycle by his side, the boy took the narrow path down the slope of the hill to the valley and the houses below. Roark looked after him. He had never seen that boy before and he would never see him again. He did not know that he had given someone the courage to face a lifetime.

    Roark had never understood why he was chosen to build the summer resort at Monadnock Valley.
    It had happened a year and a half ago, in the fall of 1933. He had heard of the project and gone to see Mr. Caleb Bradley, the head of some vast company that had purchased the valley and was doing a great deal of loud promotion. He went to see Bradley as a matter of duty, without hope, merely to add another refusal to his long list of refusals. He had built nothing in New York since the Stoddard Temple.
    When he entered Bradley’s office, he knew that he must forget Monadnock Valley because this man would never give it to him. Caleb Bradley was a short, pudgy person with a
    handsome face between rounded shoulders. The face looked wise and boyish, unpleasantly ageless; he could have been fifty or twenty; he had blank blue eyes, sly and bored.
    But it was difficult for Roark to forget Monadnock Valley. So he spoke of it, forgetting that speech was useless here. Mr. Bradley listened, obviously interested, but obviously not in what Roark was saying. Roark could almost feel some third entity present in the room. Mr. Bradley said little, beyond promising to consider it and to get in touch with him. But then he said a strange thing. He asked, in a voice devoid of all clue to the purpose of the question, neither in approval nor scorn: “You’re the architect who built the Stoddard Temple, aren’t you, Mr. Roark?” “Yes,” said Roark. “Funny that I hadn’t thought of you myself,” said Mr. Bradley. Roark went away, thinking that it would have been funny if Mr. Bradley had thought of him.
    Three days later, Bradley telephoned and invited him to his office. Roark came and met four other men–the Board of the Monadnock Valley Company. They were well-dressed men, and their faces were as closed as Mr. Bradley’s. “Please tell these gentlemen what you told me, Mr. Roark,” Bradley said pleasantly.
    Roark explained his plan. If what they wished to build was an unusual summer resort for people of moderate incomes–as they had announced–then they should realize that the worst curse of poverty was the lack of privacy; only the very rich or the very poor of the city could enjoy their summer vacations; the very rich, because they had private estates; the very poor, because they did not mind the feel and smell of one another’s flesh on public beaches and public dance floors; the people of good taste and small income had no place to go, if they found no rest or pleasure in herds. Why was it assumed that poverty gave one the instincts of cattle? Why not offer these people a place where, for a week or a month, at small cost, they could have what they wanted and needed? He had seen Monadnock Valley. It could be done. Don’t touch those hillsides, don’t blast and level them down. Not one huge ant pile of a hotel– but small houses hidden from one another, each a private estate, where people could meet or not, as they pleased. Not one fish-market tank of a swimming pool–but many private swimming pools, as many as the company wished to afford–he could show them how it could be done cheaply. Not one stock-farm corral of tennis courts for exhibitionists–but many private tennis courts. Not a place where one went to meet “refined company” and land a husband in two weeks–but a resort for people who enjoyed their own presence well enough and sought only a place where they would be left free to enjoy it.
    The men listened to him silently. He saw them exchanging glances once in a while. He felt certain that they were the kind of glances people exchange when they cannot laugh at the speaker aloud. But it could not have been that–because he signed a contract to build the Monadnock Valley summer resort, two days later.
    He demanded Mr. Bradley’s initials on every drawing that came out of his drafting rooms; he remembered the Stoddard Temple. Mr. Bradley initialed, signed, okayed; he agreed to everything; he approved everything. He seemed delighted to let Roark have his way. But this eager complaisance had a peculiar undertone–as if Mr. Bradley were humoring a child.
    He could learn little about Mr. Bradley. It was said that the man had made a fortune in real estate, in the Florida boom. His present company seemed to command unlimited funds, and the names of many wealthy backers were mentioned as shareholders. Roark never met them. The four gentlemen of the Board did not appear again, except on short visits to the construction site, where they exhibited little interest. Mr. Bradley was in full charge of everything–but beyond a close watch over the budget he seemed to like nothing better than to leave Roark in full charge.
    In the eighteen months that followed, Roark had no time to wonder about Mr. Bradley. Roark was building his greatest assignment.
    For the last year he lived at the construction site, in a shanty hastily thrown together on a bare hillside, a wooden enclosure with a bed, a stove and a large table. His old draftsmen came to work for him again, some abandoning better jobs in the city, to live in shacks and tents, to work in naked plank barracks that served as architect’s office. There was so much to build that none of them thought of wasting structural effort on their own shelters. They did not realize, until much later, that they had lacked comforts; and then they did not believe it– because the year at Monadnock Valley remained in their minds as the strange time when the
    earth stopped turning and they lived through twelve months of spring. They did not think of the snow, the frozen clots of earth, wind whistling through the cracks of planking, thin blankets over army cots, stiff fingers stretched over coal stoves in the morning, before a pencil could be held steadily. They remembered only the feeling which is the meaning of spring–one’s answer to the first blades of grass, the first buds on tree branches, the first blue of the sky–the singing answer, not to grass, trees and sky, but to the great sense of beginning, of triumphant progression, of certainty in an achievement that nothing will stop. Not from leaves and flowers, but from wooden scaffoldings, from steam shovels, from blocks of stone and sheets of glass rising out of the earth they received the sense of youth, motion, purpose, fulfillment.
    They were an army and it was a crusade. But none of them thought of it in these words, except Steven Mallory. Steven Mallory did the fountains and all the sculpture work of Monadnock Valley. But he came to live at the site long before he was needed. Battle, thought Steven Mallory, is a vicious concept. There is no glory in war, and no beauty in crusades of men. But this was a battle, this was an army and a war–and the highest experience in the life of every man who took part in it. Why? Where was the root of the difference and the law to explain it? He did not speak of it to anyone. But he saw the same feeling in Mike’s face, when Mike arrived with the gang of electricians. Mike said nothing, but he winked at Mallory in cheerful understanding. “I told you not to worry,” Mike said to him once, without preamble, “at the trial that was. He can’t lose, quarries or no quarries, trials or no trials. They can’t beat him, Steve, they just can’t, not the whole goddamn world.”
    But they had really forgotten the world, thought Mallory. This was a new earth, their own. The hills rose to the sky around them, as a wall of protection. And they had another protection–the architect who walked among them, down the snow or the grass of the hillsides, over the boulders and the piled planks, to the drafting tables, to the derricks, to the tops of rising walls– the man who had made this possible–the thought in the mind of that man–and not the content of that thought, nor the result, not the vision that had created Monadnock Valley, nor the will that had made it real–but the method of his thought, the rule of its function–the method and rule which were not like those of the world beyond the hills. That stood on guard over the valley and over the crusaders within it.
    And then he saw Mr. Bradley come to visit the site, to smile blandly and depart again. Then Mallory felt anger without reason–and fear. “Howard,” Mallory said one night, when they sat together at a fire of dry branches on the hillside over the camp, “it’s the Stoddard Temple again.”
    “Yes,” said Roark. “I think so. But I can’t figure out in just what way or what they’re after.”
    He rolled over on his stomach and looked down at the panes of glass scattered through the darkness below; they caught reflections from somewhere and looked like phosphorescent, self-generated springs of light rising out of the ground. He said:
    “It doesn’t matter, Steve, does it? Not what they do about it nor who comes to live here. Only that we’ve made it. Would you have missed this, no matter what price they make you pay for it afterward?”
    “No,” said Mallory. #
    Roark had wanted to rent one of the houses for himself and spend the summer there, the first summer of Monadnock Valley’s existence. But before the resort was open, he received a wire from New York.
    “I told you I would, didn’t I? It took five years to get rid of my friends and brothers, but the Aquitania is now mine–and yours. Come to finish it. Kent Lansing.”
    So he went back to New York–to see the rubble and cement dust cleared away from the hulk of the Unfinished Symphony, to see derricks swing girders high over Central Park, to see the gaps of windows filled, the broad decks spread over the roofs of the city, the Aquitania Hotel completed, glowing at night in the Park’s skyline.
    He had been very busy in the last two years. Monadnock Valley had not been his only
    commission. From different states, from unexpected parts of the country, calls had come for him: private homes, small office buildings, modest shops. He had built them–snatching a few hours of sleep on trains and planes that carried him from Monadnock Valley to distant small towns. The story of every commission he received was the same: “I was in New York and I liked the Enright House.” “I saw the Cord Building.” “I saw a picture of that temple they tore down.” It was as if an underground stream flowed through the country and broke out in sudden springs that shot to the surface at random, in unpredictable places. They were small, inexpensive jobs–but he was kept working.
    That summer, with Monadnock Valley completed, he had no time to worry about its future fate. But Steven Mallory worried about it. “Why don’t they advertise it, Howard? Why the sudden silence? Have you noticed? There was so much talk about their grand project, so many little items in print–before they started. There was less and less while we were doing it. And now? Mr. Bradley and company have gone deaf-mute. Now, when you’d expect them to stage a press agent’s orgy. Why?”
    “I wouldn’t know,” said Roark. “I’m an architect, not a rental agent. Why should you worry? We’ve done our job, let them do theirs in their own way.”
    “It’s a damn queer way. Did you see their ads–the few they’ve let dribble out? They say all the things you told them, about rest, peace and privacy–but how they say it! Do you know what those ads amount to in effect? ‘Come to Monadnock Valley and be bored to death.’ It sounds– it actually sounds as if they were trying to keep people away.”
    “I don’t read ads, Steve.”
    But within a month of its opening every house in Monadnock Valley was rented. The people who came were a strange mixture: society men and women who could have afforded more fashionable resorts, young writers and unknown artists, engineers and newspapermen and factory workers. Suddenly, spontaneously, people were talking about Monadnock Valley. There was a need for that kind of a resort, a need no one had tried to satisfy. The place became news, but it was private news; the papers had not discovered it. Mr. Bradley had no press agents; Mr. Bradley and his company had vanished from public life. One magazine, unsolicited, printed four pages of photographs of Monadnock Valley, and sent a man to interview Howard Roark. By the end of summer the houses were leased in advance for the following year. In October, early one morning, the door of Roark’s reception room flew open and Steven Mallory rushed in, making straight for Roark’s office. The secretary tried to stop him; Roark was working and no interruptions were allowed. But Mallory shoved her aside and tore into the office, slamming the door behind. She noticed that he held a newspaper in his hand.
    Roark glanced up at him, from the drafting table, and dropped his pencil. He knew that this was the way Mallory’s face had looked when he shot at Ellsworth Toohey.
    “Well, Howard? Do you want to know why you got Monadnock Valley?”
    He threw the newspaper down on the table. Roark saw the heading of a story on the third page: “Caleb Bradley arrested.”
    “It’s all there,” said Mallory. “Don’t read it. It will make you sick.” “All right, Steve, what is it?”
”They sold two hundred percent of it.”
”Who did? Of what?”
    “Bradley and his gang. Of Monadnock Valley.” Mallory spoke with a forced, vicious, self- torturing precision. “They thought it was worthless–from the first. They got the land practically for nothing–they thought it was no place for a resort at all–out of the way, with no bus lines or movie theaters around–they thought the time wasn’t right and the public wouldn’t go for it. They made a lot of noise and sold snares to a lot of wealthy suckers–it was just a huge fraud. They sold two hundred percent of the place. They got twice what it cost them to build it. They
    were certain it would fail. They wanted it to fail. They expected no profits to distribute. They had a nice scheme ready for how to get out of it when the place went bankrupt. They were prepared for anything–except for seeing it turn into the kind of success it is. And they couldn’t go on–because now they’d have to pay their backers twice the amount the place earned each year. And it’s earning plenty. And they thought they had arranged for certain failure. Howard, don’t you understand? They chose you as the worst architect they could find!”
    Roark threw his head back and laughed. “God damn you, Howard! It’s not funny!”
    “Sit down, Steve. Stop shaking. You look as if you’d just seen a whole field of butchered bodies.”
    “I have. I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen the root. I’ve seen what makes such fields possible. What do the damn fools think of as horror? Wars, murders, fires, earthquakes? To hell with that! This is horror–that story in the paper. That’s what men should dread and fight and scream about and call the worst shame on their record. Howard, I’m thinking of all the explanations of evil and all the remedies offered for it through the centuries. None of them worked. None of them explained or cured anything. But the root of evil–my drooling beast–it’s there. Howard, in that story. In that–and in the souls of the smug bastards who’ll read it and say: ‘Oh well, genius must always struggle, it’s good for ’em’–and then go and look for some village idiot to help, to teach him how to weave baskets. That’s the drooling beast in action. Howard, think of Monadnock. Close your eyes and see it. And then think that the men who ordered it, believed it was the worst thing they could build! Howard, there’s something wrong, something very terribly wrong in the world if you were given your greatest job–as a filthy joke!”
    “When will you stop thinking about that? About the world and me? When will you learn to forget it? When will Dominique…”
    He stopped. They had not mentioned that name in each other’s presence for five years. He saw Mallory’s eyes, intent and shocked. Mallory realized that his words had hurt Roark, hurt him enough to force this admission. But Roark turned to him and said deliberately:
    “Dominique used to think just as you do.”
    Mallory had never spoken of what he guessed about Roark’s past. Their silence had always implied that Mallory understood, that Roark knew it, and that it was not to be discussed. But now Mallory asked:
    “Are you still waiting for her to come back? Mrs. Gail Wynand–God damn her!” Roark said without emphasis:
”Shut up, Steve.”
Mallory whispered: “I’m sorry.”
    Roark walked to his table and said, his voice normal again:
    “Go home, Steve, and forget about Bradley. They’ll all be suing one another now, but we won’t be dragged in and they won’t destroy Monadnock. Forget it, and get out, I have to work.”
    He brushed the newspaper off the table, with his elbow, and bent over the sheets of drafting paper.
#
    There was a scandal over the revelations of the financing methods behind Monadnock Valley, there was a trial, a few gentlemen sentenced to the penitentiary, and a new management taking Monadnock over for the shareholders. Roark was not involved. He was busy, and he forgot to read the accounts of the trial in the papers. Mr. Bradley admitted–in apology to his partners–that he would be damned if he could have expected a resort built on a crazy, unsociable plan ever to become successful. “I did all I could–I chose the worst fool I could
    find.”
    Then Austen Heller wrote an article about Howard Roark and Monadnock Valley. He spoke of all the buildings Roark had designed, and he put into words the things Roark had said in structure. Only they were not Austen Heller’s usual quiet words–they were a ferocious cry of admiration and of anger. “And may we be damned if greatness must reach us through fraud!”
    The article started a violent controversy in art circles.
”Howard,” Mallory said one day, some months later, “you’re famous.” “Yes,” said Roark, “I suppose so.”
    “Three-quarters of them don’t know what it’s all about, but they’ve heard the other one-quarter fighting over your name and so now they feel they must pronounce it with respect. Of the fighting quarter, four-tenths are those who hate you, three-tenths are those who feel they must express an opinion in any controversy, two-tenths are those who play safe and herald any ‘discovery,’ and one-tenth are those who understand. But they’ve all found out suddenly that there is a Howard Roark and that he’s an architect. The A.G.A. Bulletin refers to you as a great but unruly talent–and the Museum of the Future has hung up photographs of Monadnock, the Enright House, the Cord Building and the Aquitania, under beautiful glass– next to the room where they’ve got Gordon L. Prescott. And still–I’m glad.”
    Kent Lansing said, one evening: “Heller did a grand job. Do you remember, Howard, what I told you once about the psychology of a pretzel? Don’t despise the middleman. He’s necessary. Someone had to tell them. It takes two to make a very great career: the man who is great, and the man–almost rarer–who is great enough to see greatness and say so.”
    Ellsworth Toohey wrote: “The paradox in all this preposterous noise is the fact that Mr. Caleb Bradley is the victim of a grave injustice. His ethics are open to censure, but his esthetics were unimpeachable. He exhibited sounder judgment in matters of architectural merit than Mr. Austen Heller, the outmoded reactionary who has suddenly turned art critic. Mr. Caleb Bradley was martyred by the bad taste of his tenants. In the opinion of this column his sentence should have been commuted in recognition of his artistic discrimination. Monadnock Valley is a fraud–but not merely a financial one.”
    There was little response to Roark’s fame among the solid gentlemen of wealth who were the steadiest source of architectural commissions. The men who had said: “Roark? Never heard of him,” now said: “Roark? He’s too sensational.”
    But there were men who were impressed by the simple fact that Roark had built a place which made money for owners who didn’t want to make money; this was more convincing than abstract artistic discussions. And there was the one-tenth who understood. In the year after Monadnock Valley Roark built two private homes in Connecticut, a movie theater in Chicago, a hotel in Philadelphia.
    In the spring of 1936 a western city completed plans for a World’s Fair to be held next year, an international exposition to be known as “The March of the Centuries.” The committee of distinguished civic leaders in charge of the project chose a council of the country’s best architects to design the fair. The civic leaders wished to be conspicuously progressive. Howard Roark was one of the eight architects chosen.
    When he received the invitation, Roark appeared before the committee and explained that he would be glad to design the fair–alone.
    “But you can’t be serious, Mr. Roark,” the chairman declared. “After all, with a stupendous undertaking of this nature, we want the best that can be had. I mean, two heads are better than one, you know, and eight heads…why, you can see for yourself–the best talents of the country, the brightest names–you know, friendly consultation, co-operation and collaboration– you know what makes great achievements.”
    “I do.”
    “Then you realize…”
”If you want me, you’ll have to let me do it all, alone. I don’t work with councils.”
    “You wish to reject an opportunity like this, a shot in history, a chance of world fame, practically a chance of immortality…”
    “I don’t work with collectives. I don’t consult, I don’t cooperate, I don’t collaborate.”
    There was a great deal of angry comment on Roark’s refusal, in architectural circles. People said: “The conceited bastard!” The indignation was too sharp and raw for a mere piece of professional gossip; each man took it as a personal insult; each felt himself qualified to alter, advise and improve the work of any man living.
    “The incident illustrates to perfection,” wrote Ellsworth Toohey, “the antisocial nature of Mr. Howard Roark’s egotism, the arrogance of the unbridled individualism which he has always personified.”
    Among the eight chosen to design “The March of the Centuries” were Peter Keating, Gordon L. Prescott, Ralston Holcombe. “I won’t work with Howard Roark,” said Peter Keating, when he saw the list of the council, “you’ll have to choose. It’s he or I.” He was informed that Mr. Roark had declined. Keating assumed leadership over the council. The press stories about the progress of the fair’s construction referred to “Peter Keating and his associates.”
    Keating had acquired a sharp, intractable manner in the last few years. He snapped orders and lost his patience before the smallest difficulty; when he lost his patience, he screamed at people: he had a vocabulary of insults that carried a caustic, insidious, almost feminine malice; his face was sullen.
    In the fall of 1936 Roark moved his office to the top floor of the Cord Building. He had thought when he designed that building, that it would be the place of his office some day. When he saw the inscription: “Howard Roark, Architect,” on his new door, he stopped for a moment; then he walked into the office. His own room, at the end of a long suite, had three walls of glass, high over the city. He stopped in the middle of the room. Through the broad panes, he could see the Fargo Store, the Enright House, the Aquitania Hotel. He walked to the windows facing south and stood there for a long time. At the tip of Manhattan, far in the distance, he could see the Dana Building by Henry Cameron.
    On an afternoon of November, returning to his office after a visit to the site of a house under construction on Long Island, Roark entered the reception room, shaking his drenched raincoat, and saw a look of suppressed excitement on the face of his secretary; she had been waiting impatiently for his return.
    “Mr. Roark, this is probably something very big,” she said. “I made an appointment for you for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. At his office.”
    “Whose office?”
”He telephoned half an hour ago. Mr. Gail Wynand.”
    2.
    A SIGN hung over the entrance door, a reproduction of the paper’s masthead: #
THE NEW YORK BANNER
#
    The sign was small, a statement of fame and power that needed no emphasis; it was like a fine, mocking smile that justified the building’s bare ugliness; the building was a factory scornful of all ornament save the implications of that masthead.
    The entrance lobby looked like the mouth of a furnace; elevators drew a stream of human fuel and spat it out. The men did not hurry, but they moved with subdued haste, the propulsion of purpose; nobody loitered in that lobby. The elevator doors clicked like valves, a pulsating rhythm in their sound. Drops of red and green light flashed on a wall board, signaling the progress of cars high in space.
    It looked as if everything in that building were run by such control boards in the hands of an authority aware of every motion, as if the building were flowing with channeled energy, functioning smoothly, soundlessly, a magnificent machine that nothing could destroy. Nobody paid any attention to the redheaded man who stopped in the lobby for a moment.
    Howard Roark looked up at the tiled vault. He had never hated anyone. Somewhere in this building was its owner, the man who had made him feel his nearest approach to hatred.
    Gail Wynand glanced at the small clock on his desk. In a few minutes he had an appointment with an architect. The interview, he thought, would not be difficult; he had held many such interviews in his life; he merely had to speak, he knew what he wanted to say, and nothing was required of the architect except a few sounds signifying understanding.
    His glance went from the clock back to the sheets of proofs on his desk. He read an editorial by Alvah Scarret on the public feeding of squirrels in Central Park, and a column by Ellsworth Toohey on the great merits of an exhibition of paintings done by the workers of the City Department of Sanitation. A buzzer rang on his desk, and his secretary’s voice said: “Mr. Howard Roark, Mr. Wynand.”
    “Okay,” said Wynand, flicking the switch off. As his hand moved back, he noticed the row of buttons at the edge of his desk, bright little knobs with a color code of their own, each representing the end of a wire that stretched to some part of the building, each wire controlling some man, each man controlling many men under his orders, each group of men contributing to the final shape of words on paper to go into millions of homes, into millions of human brains–these little knobs of colored plastic, there under his fingers. But he had no time to let the thought amuse him, the door of his office was opening, he moved his hand away from the buttons.
    Wynand was not certain that he missed a moment, that he did not rise at once as courtesy demanded, but remained seated, looking at the man who entered; perhaps he had risen immediately and it only seemed to him that a long time preceded his movement. Roark was not certain that he stopped when he entered the office, that he did not walk forward, but stood looking at the man behind the desk; perhaps there had been no break in his steps and it only seemed to him that he had stopped. But there had been a moment when both forgot the terms of immediate reality, when Wynand forgot his purpose in summoning this man, when Roark forgot that this man was Dominique’s husband, when no door, desk or stretch of carpet existed, only the total awareness, for each, of the man before him, only two thoughts meeting in the middle of the room–“This is Gail Wynand”–“This is Howard Roark.”
    Then Wynand rose, his hand motioned in simple invitation to the chair beside his desk, Roark approached and sat down, and they did not notice that they had not greeted each other.
    Wynand smiled, and said what he had never intended to say. He said very simply: “I don’t think you’ll want to work for me.”
”I want to work for you,” said Roark, who had come here prepared to refuse. “Have you seen the kind of things I’ve built?”
    “Yes.”
Wynand smiled. “This is different. It’s not for my public. It’s for me.” “You’ve never built anything for yourself before?”
    “No–if one doesn’t count the cage I have up on a roof and this old printing factory here. Can you tell me why I’ve never built a structure of my own, with the means of erecting a city if I wished? I don’t know. I think you’d know.” He forgot that he did not allow men he hired the presumption of personal speculation upon him.
    “Because you’ve been unhappy,” said Roark.
    He said it simply, without insolence; as if nothing but total honesty were possible to him here. This was not the beginning of an interview, but the middle; it was like a continuation of something begun long ago. Wynand said:
    “Make that clear.”
”I think you understand.”
”I want to hear you explain it.”
    “Most people build as they live–as a matter of routine and senseless accident. But a few understand that building is a great symbol. We live in our minds, and existence is the attempt to bring that life into physical reality, to state it in gesture and form. For the man who understands this, a house he owns is a statement of his life. If he doesn’t build, when he has the means, it’s because his life has not been what he wanted.”
    “You don’t think it’s preposterous to say that to me of all people?”
    “No.”
    “I don’t either.” Roark smiled. “But you and I are the only two who’d say it. Either part of it: that I didn’t have what I wanted or that I could be included among the few expected to understand any sort of great symbols. You don’t want to retract that either?”
    “No.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Thirty-six.”
    “I owned most of the papers I have now–when I was thirty-six.” He added: “I didn’t mean that as any kind of a personal remark. I don’t know why I said that. I just happened to think of it.”
    “What do you wish me to build for you?”
    “My home.”
    Wynand felt that the two words had some impact on Roark apart from any normal meaning they could convey; he sensed it without reason; he wanted to ask: “What’s the matter?” but couldn’t, since Roark had really shown nothing.
    “You were right in your diagnosis,” said Wynand, “because you see, now I do want to build a house of my own. Now I’m not afraid of a visible shape for my life. If you want it said directly, as you did, now I’m happy.”
    “What kind of house?”
    “In the country. I’ve purchased the site. An estate in Connecticut, five hundred acres. What kind of a house? You’ll decide that.”
    “Did Mrs. Wynand choose me for the job?”
    “No. Mrs. Wynand knows nothing about this. It was I who wanted to move out of the city, and she agreed. I did ask her to select the architect–my wife is the former Dominique Francon; she was once a writer on architecture. But she preferred to leave the choice to me. You want to know why I picked you? I took a long time to decide. I felt rather lost, at first. I had never
    heard of you. I didn’t know any architects at all. I mean this literally–and I’m not forgetting the years I’ve spent in real estate, the things I’ve built and the imbeciles who built them for me. This is not a Stoneridge, this is–what did you call it?–a statement of my life? Then I saw Monadnock. It was the first thing that made me remember your name. But I gave myself a long test. I went around the country, looking at homes, hotels, all sorts of buildings. Every time I saw one I liked and asked who had designed it, the answer was always the same: Howard Roark. So I called you.” He added: “Shall I tell you how much I admire your work?”
    “Thank you,” said Roark. He closed his eyes for an instant. “You know, I didn’t want to meet you.”
”Why?”
”Have you heard about my art gallery?”
    “Yes.”
    “I never meet the men whose work I love. The work means too much to me. I don’t want the men to spoil it. They usually do. They’re an anticlimax to their own talent. You’re not. I don’t mind talking to you. I told you this only because I want you to know that I respect very little in life, but I respect the things in my gallery, and your buildings, and man’s capacity to produce work like that. Maybe it’s the only religion I’ve ever had.” He shrugged. “I think I’ve destroyed, perverted, corrupted just about everything that exists. But I’ve never touched that. Why are you looking at me like this?”
    “I’m sorry. Please tell me about the house you want.”
    “I want it to be a palace–only I don’t think palaces are very luxurious. They’re so big, so promiscuously public. A small house is the true luxury. A residence for two people only–for my wife and me. It won’t be necessary to allow for a family, we don’t intend to have children. Nor for visitors, we don’t intend to entertain. One guest room–in case we should need it–but not more than that. Living room, dining room, library, two studies, one bedroom. Servants’ quarters, garage. That’s the general idea. I’ll give you the details later. The cost–whatever you need. The appearance–” He smiled, shrugging. “I’ve seen your buildings. The man who wants to tell you what a house should look like must either be able to design it better–or shut up. I’ll say only that I want my house to have the Roark quality.”
    “What is that?”
”I think you understand.”
”I want to hear you explain it.”
    “I think some buildings are cheap show-offs, all front, and some are cowards, apologizing for themselves in every brick, and some are the eternal unfit, botched, malicious and false. Your buildings have one sense above all–a sense of joy. Not a placid joy. A difficult, demanding kind of joy. The kind that makes one feel as if it were an achievement to experience it. One looks and thinks: I’m a better person if I can feel that.”
    Roark said slowly, not in the tone of an answer: “I suppose it was inevitable.”
”W hat?”
”That you would see that.”
    “Why do you say it as if you…regretted my being able to see it?” “I don’t regret it.”
”Listen, don’t hold it against me–the things I’ve built before.”
    “I don’t.”
    “It’s all those Stoneridges and Noyes-Belmont Hotels–and Wynand papers–that made it possible for me to have a house by you. Isn’t that a luxury worth achieving? Does it matter how? They were the means. You’re the end.”
    “You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”
”I wasn’t jus…Yes, I think that’s what I was doing.”
”You don’t need to. I wasn’t thinking of what you’ve built.”
”What were you thinking?”
”That I’m helpless against anyone who sees what you saw in my buildings.” “You felt you wanted help against me?”
”No. Only I don’t feel helpless as a rule.”
”I’m not prompted to justify myself as a rule, either. Then–it’s all right, isn’t it?” “Yes.”
    “I must tell you much more about the house I want. I suppose an architect is like a father confessor–he must know everything about the people who are to live in his house, since what he gives them is more personal than their clothes or food. Please consider it in that spirit–and forgive me if you notice that this is difficult for me to say–I’ve never gone to confession. You see, I want this house because I’m very desperately in love with my wife….What’s the matter? Do you think it’s an irrelevant statement?”
    “No. Go on.”
    “I can’t stand to see my wife among other people. It’s not jealousy. It’s much more and much worse. I can’t stand to see her walking down the streets of a city. I can’t share her, not even with shops, theaters, taxicabs or sidewalks. I must take her away. I must put her out of reach– where nothing can touch her, not in any sense. This house is to be a fortress. My architect is to be my guard.”
    Roark sat looking straight at him. He had to keep his eyes on Wynand in order to be able to listen. Wynand felt the effort in that glance; he did not recognize it as effort, only as strength; he felt himself supported by the glance; he found that nothing was hard to confess.
    “This house is to be a prison. No, not quite that. A treasury–a vault to guard things too precious for sight. But it must be more. It must be a separate world, so beautiful that we’ll never miss the one we left. A prison only by the power of its own perfection. Not bars and ramparts–but your talent standing as a wall between us and the world. That’s what I want of you. And more. Have you ever built a temple?”
    For a moment, Roark had no strength to answer; but he saw that the question was genuine; Wynand didn’t know.
    “Yes,” said Roark.
    “Then think of this commission as you would think of a temple. A, temple to Dominique Wynand….I want you to meet her before you design it.”
    “I met Mrs. Wynand some years ago.” “You have? Then you understand.”
”I do.”
    Wynand saw Roark’s hand lying on the edge of his desk, the long fingers pressed to the glass, next to the proofs of the Banner. The proofs were folded carelessly; he saw the heading “One Small Voice” inside the page. He looked at Roark’s hand. He thought he would like to have a bronze paperweight made of it and how beautiful it would look on his desk.
    “Now you know what I want. Go ahead. Start at once. Drop anything else you’re doing. I’ll pay whatever you wish. I want that house by summer….Oh, forgive me. Too much association with bad architects. I haven’t asked whether you want to do it.”
    Roark’s hand moved first; he took it off the desk. “Yes,” said Roark. “I’ll do it.”
    Wynand saw the prints of the fingers left on the glass, distinct as if the skin had cut grooves in the surface and the grooves were
    wet.
    “How long will it take you?” Wynand asked.
    “You’ll have it by July.”
    “Of course you must see the site. I want to show it to you myself. Shall I drive you down there tomorrow morning?”
    “If you wish.”
”Be here at nine.” “Yes.”
    “Do you want me to draw up a contract? I have no idea how you prefer to work. As a rule, before I deal with a man in any matter, I make it a point to know everything about him from the day of his birth or earlier. I’ve never checked up on you. I simply forgot. It didn’t seem necessary.”
    “I can answer any question you wish.”
    Wynand smiled and shook his head:
    “No. There’s nothing I need to ask you. Except about the business arrangements.”
    “I never make any conditions, except one: if you accept the preliminary drawings of the house, it is to be built as I designed it, without any alterations of any kind.”
    “Certainly. That’s understood. I’ve heard you don’t work otherwise. But will you mind if I don’t give you any publicity on this house? I know it would help you professionally, but I want this building kept out of the newspapers.”
    “I won’t mind that.”
    “Will you promise not to release pictures of it for publication?”
    “I promise.”
    “Thank you. I’ll make up for it. You may consider the Wynand papers as your personal press service. I’ll give you all the plugging you wish on any other work of yours.”
    “I don’t want any plugging.”
    Wynand laughed aloud. “What a thing to say in what a place! I don’t think you have any idea how your fellow architects would have conducted this interview. I don’t believe you were
    actually conscious at any time that you were speaking to Gail Wynand.”
”I was,” said Roark.
”This was my way of thanking you. I don’t always like being Gail Wynand.” “I know that.”
    “I’m going to change my mind and ask you a personal question. You said you’d answer anything.”
    “I will.”
”Have you always liked being Howard Roark?”
Roark smiled. The smile was amused, astonished, involuntarily contemptuous. “You’ve answered,” said Wynand.
Then he rose and said: “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” extending his hand.
    When Roark had gone, Wynand sat behind his desk, smiling. He moved his hand toward one of the plastic buttons–and stopped. He realized that he had to assume a different manner, his usual manner, that he could not speak as he had spoken in the last half-hour. Then he understood what had been strange about the interview: for the first time in his life he had spoken to a man without feeling the reluctance, the sense of pressure, the need of disguise he had always experienced when he spoke to people; there had been no strain and no need of strain; as if he had spoken to himself.
    He pressed the button and said to his secretary:
    “Tell the morgue to send me everything they have on Howard Roark.” #
    “Guess what,” said Alvah Scarret, his voice begging to be begged for his information.
    Ellsworth Toohey waved a hand impatiently in a brushing-off motion, not raising his eyes from his desk.
    “Go ‘way, Alvah. I’m busy.”
    “No, but this is interesting, Ellsworth. Really, it’s interesting. I know you’ll want to know.”
    Toohey lifted his head and looked at him, the faint contraction of boredom in the corners of his eyes letting Scarret understand that this moment of attention was a favor; he drawled in a tone of emphasized patience:
    “All right. What is it?”
    Scarret saw nothing to resent in Toohey’s manner. Toohey had treated him like that for the last year or longer. Scarret had not noticed the change, it was too late to resent it–it had become normal to them both.
    Scarret smiled like a bright pupil who expects the teacher to praise him for discovering an error in the teacher’s own textbook.
    “Ellsworth, your private F.B.I. is slipping.” “What are you talking about?”
    “Bet you don’t know what Gail’s been doing–and you always make such a point of keeping yourself informed.”
    “What don’t I know?”
    “Guess who was in his office today.”
    “My dear Alvah, I have no time for quiz games.”
    “You wouldn’t guess in a thousand years.”
    “Very well, since the only way to get rid of you is to play the vaudeville stooge, I shall ask the proper question: Who was in dear Gail’s office today?”
    “Howard Roark.”
    Toohey turned to him full face, forgetting to dole out his attention, and said incredulously:
    “No!”
    “Yes!” said Scarret, proud of the effect.
    “Well!” said Toohey and burst out laughing.
    Scarret half smiled tentatively, puzzled, anxious to join in, but not quite certain of the cause for amusement.
    “Yes, it’s funny. But…just exactly why, Ellsworth?” “Oh, Alvah, it would take so long to tell you!”
”I had an idea it might…”
    “Haven’t you any sense of the spectacular, Alvah? Don’t you like fireworks? If you want to know what to expect, just think that the worst wars are religious wars between sects of the same religion or civil wars between brothers of the same race.”
    “I don’t quite follow you.”
”Oh, dear, I have so many followers. I brush them out of my hair.” “Well, I’m glad you’re so cheerful about it, but I thought it’s
bad.”
”Of course it’s bad. But not for us.”
    “But look: you know bow we’ve gone out on a limb, you particularly, on how this Roark is just about the worst architect in town, and if now our own boss hires him–isn’t it going to be embarrassing?”
    “Oh that?…Oh, maybe…”
”Well, I’m glad you take it that way.”
”What was he doing in Wynand’s office? Is it a commission?”
”That’s what I don’t know. Can’t find out. Nobody knows.”
”Have you heard of Mr. Wynand planning to build anything lately?”
”No. Have you?”
”No. I guess my F.B.I. is slipping. Oh, well, one does the best one can.”
”But you know, Ellsworth, I had an idea. I had an idea where this might be very helpful to us
    indeed.”
”What idea?”
”Ellsworth, Gail’s been impossible lately.”
Scarret uttered it solemnly, with the air of imparting a discovery. Toohey sat half smiling.
    “Well, of course, you predicted it, Ellsworth. You were right. You’re always right. I’ll be damned if I can figure out just what’s happening to him, whether it’s Dominique or some sort of a change of life or what, but something’s happening. Why does he get fits suddenly and start reading every damn line of every damn edition and raise hell for the silliest reasons? He’s killed three of my best editorials lately–and he’s never done that to me before. Never. You know what he said to me? He said: ‘Motherhood is wonderful, Alvah, but for God’s sake go easy on the bilge. There’s a limit even for intellectual depravity.’ What depravity? That was the sweetest Mother’s Day editorial I ever put together. Honest, I was touched myself. Since when has he learned to talk about depravity? The other day, he called Jules Fougler a bargain- basement mind, right to his face, and threw his Sunday piece into the wastebasket. A swell piece, too–on the Workers’ Theater. Jules Fougler, our best writer! No wonder Gail hasn’t got a friend left in the place. If they hated his guts before, you ought to hear them now!”
    “I’ve heard them.”
    “He’s losing his grip, Ellsworth. I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for you and the swell bunch of people you picked. They’re practically our whole actual working staff, those youngsters of yours, not our old sacred cows who’re writing themselves out anyway. Those bright kids will keep the Banner going. But Gail…Listen, last week he fired Dwight Carson. Now you know, I think that was significant. Of course Dwight was just a deadweight and a damn nuisance, but he was the first one of those special pets of Gail’s, the boys who sold their souls. So, in a way, you see, I liked having Dwight around, it was all right, it was healthy, it was a relic of Gail’s best days. I always said it was Gail’s safety valve. And when he suddenly let Carson go–I didn’t like it, Ellsworth. I didn’t like it at all.”
    “What is this, Alvah? Are you telling me things I don’t know, or is this just in the nature of letting off steam–do forgive the mixed metaphor–on my shoulder?”
    “I guess so. I don’t like to knock Gail, but I’ve been so damn mad for so long I’m fit to be tied. But here’s what I’m driving at: This Howard Roark, what does he make you think of?”
    “I could write a volume on that, Alvah. This is hardly the time to launch into such an undertaking.”
    “No, but I mean, what’s the one thing we know about him? That’s he’s a crank and a freak and a fool, all right, but what else? That he’s one of those fools you can’t budge with love or money or a sixteen-inch gun. He’s worse than Dwight Carson, worse than the whole lot of Gall’s pets put together. Well? Get my point? What’s Gail going to do when he comes up against that kind of a man?”
    “One of several possible things.”
    “One thing only, if I know Gail, and I know Gail. That’s why I feel kind of hopeful. This is what he’s needed for a long time. A swig of his old medicine. The safety valve. He’ll go out to break that guy’s spine–and it will be good for Gail. The best thing in the world. Bring him back to normal….That was my idea, Ellsworth.” He waited, saw no complementary enthusiasm on Toohey’s face and finished lamely: “Well, I might be wrong….I don’t know….It might mean nothing at all….I just thought that was psychology….”
    “That’s what it was, Alvah.”
”Then you think it’ll work that way?”
    “It might. Or it might be much worse than anything you imagine. But it’s of no importance to us any more. Because you see, Alvah, as far as the Banner is concerned, if it came to a
    showdown between us and our boss, we don’t have to be afraid of Mr. Gail Wynand any longer.”
#
    When the boy from the morgue entered, carrying a thick envelope of clippings, Wynand looked up from his desk and said:
    “That much? I didn’t know he was so famous.”
    “Well, it’s the Stoddard trial, Mr. Wynand.”
    The boy stopped. There was nothing wrong–only the ridges on Wynand’s forehead, and he did not know Wynand well enough to know what these meant. He wondered what made him feel as if he should be afraid. After a moment, Wynand said:
    “All right. Thank you.”
    The boy deposited the envelope on the glass surface of the desk, and walked out.
    Wynand sat looking at the bulging shape of yellow paper. He saw it reflected in the glass, as if the bulk had eaten through the surface and grown roots to his desk. He looked at the walls of his office and he wondered whether they contained a power which could save him from opening that envelope.
    Then he pulled himself erect, he put both forearms in a straight line along the edge of the desk, his fingers stretched and meeting, he looked down, past his nostrils, at the surface of the desk, he sat for a moment, grave, proud, collected, like the angular mummy of a Pharaoh, then he moved one hand, pulled the envelope forward, opened it and began to read.
    “Sacrilege” by Ellsworth M. Toohey–“The Churches of our Childhood” by Alvah Scarret– editorials, sermons, speeches, statements, letters to the editor, the Banner unleashed full- blast, photographs, cartoons, interviews, resolutions of protest, letters to the editor.
    He read every word, methodically, his hands on the edge of the desk, fingers meeting, not lifting the clippings, not touching them, reading them as they lay on top of the pile, moving a hand only to turn a clipping over and read the one beneath, moving the hand with a mechanical perfection of timing, the fingers rising as his eyes took the last word, not allowing the clipping to remain in sight a second longer than necessary. But he stopped for a long time to look at the photographs of the Stoddard Temple. He stopped longer to look at one of Roark’s pictures, the picture of exaltation captioned “Are you happy, Mr. Superman?” He tore it from the story it illustrated, and slipped it into his desk drawer. Then he continued reading.
    The trial–the testimony of Ellsworth M. Toohey–of Peter Keating–of Ralston Holcombe–of Gordon L. Prescott–no quotations from the testimony of Dominique Francon, only a brief report. “The defense rests.” A few mentions in “One Small Voice”–then a gap–the next clipping dated three years later–Monadnock Valley.
    It was late when he finished reading. His secretaries had left. He felt the sense of empty rooms and halls around him. But he heard the sound of presses: a low, rumbling vibration that went through every room. He had always liked that–the sound of the building’s heart, beating. He listened. They were running off tomorrow’s Banner. He sat without moving for a long time.
    3.
    ROARK and Wynand stood on the top of a hill, looking over a spread of land that sloped away in a long gradual curve. Bare trees rose on the hilltop and descended to the shore of a lake, their branches geometrical compositions cut through the air. The color of the sky, a clear, fragile blue-green, made the air colder. The cold washed the colors of the earth, revealing that they were not colors but only the elements from which color was to come, the dead brown not a full brown but a future green, the tired purple an overture to flame, the gray a prelude to
    gold. The earth was like the outline of a great story, like the steel frame of a building–to be filled and finished, holding all the splendor of the future in naked simplification.
    “Where do you think the house should stand?” asked Wynand. “Here,” said Roark.
”I hoped you’d choose this.”
    Wynand had driven his car from the city, and they had walked for two hours down the paths of his new estate, through deserted lanes, through a forest, past the lake, to the hill. Now Wynand waited, while Roark stood looking at the countryside spread under his feet. Wynand wondered what reins this man was gathering from all the points of the landscape into his hand.
    When Roark turned to him, Wynand asked:
    “May I speak to you now?”
    “Of course,” Roark smiled, amused by the deference which he
    had not requested.
    Wynand’s voice sounded clear and brittle, like the color of the sky above them, with the same quality of ice-green radiance: “Why did you accept this commission?”
    “Because I’m an architect for hire.” “You know what I mean.”
”I’m not sure I do.”
”Don’t you hate my guts?”
    “No. Why should I?”
”You want me to speak of it first?”
”Of what?”
”The Stoddard Temple.”
Roark smiled. “So you did check up on me since yesterday.”
    “I read our clippings.” He waited, but Roark said nothing. “All of them.” His voice was harsh, half defiance, half plea. “Everything we said about you.” The calm of Roark’s face drove him to fury. He went on, giving slow, full value to each word: “We called you an incompetent fool, a tyro, a charlatan, a swindler, an egomaniac…”
    “Stop torturing yourself.”
Wynand closed his eyes, as if Roark had struck him. In a moment, he said:
    “Mr. Roark, you don’t know me very well. You might as well learn this: I don’t apologize. I never apologize for any of my actions.”
    “What made you think of apology? I haven’t asked for it.”
”I stand by every one of those descriptive terms. I stand by every word printed in the Banner.” “I haven’t asked you to repudiate it.”
”I know what you think. You understood that I didn’t know about the Stoddard Temple
    yesterday. I had forgotten the name of the architect involved. You concluded it wasn’t I who led that campaign against you. You’re right, it wasn’t I, I was away at the time. But you don’t understand that the campaign was in the true and proper spirit of the Banner. It was in strict accordance with the Banner’s function. No one is responsible for it but me. Alvah Scarret was doing only what I taught him. Had I been in town, I would have done the same.”
    “That’s your privilege.”
”You don’t believe I would have done it?”
”No.”
”I haven’t asked you for compliments and I haven’t asked you for pity.” “I can’t do what you’re asking for.”
”What do you think I’m asking?”
”That I slap your face.”
”Why don’t you?”
    “I can’t pretend an anger I don’t feel,” said Roark. “It’s not pity. It’s much more cruel than anything I could do. Only I’m not doing it in order to be cruel. If I slapped your face, you’d forgive me for the Stoddard Temple.”
    “Is it you who should seek forgiveness?”
    “No. You wish I did. You know that there’s an act of forgiveness involved. You’re not clear about the actors. You wish I would forgive you–or demand payment, which is the same thing– and you believe that that would close the record. But, you see, I have nothing to do with it. I’m not one of the actors. It doesn’t matter what I do or feel about it now. You’re not thinking of me. I can’t help you. I’m not the person you’re afraid of just now.”
    “Who is?”
    “Yourself.”
    “Who gave you the right to say all this?”
    “You did.”
    “Well, go on.”
    “Do you wish the rest?”
    “Go on.”
    “I think it hurts you to know that you’ve made me suffer. You wish you hadn’t. And yet there’s something that frightens you more. The knowledge that I haven’t suffered at all.”
    “Go on.”
    “The knowledge that I’m neither kind nor generous now, but simply indifferent. It frightens you, because you know that things like the Stoddard Temple always require payment–and you see that I’m not paying for it. You were astonished that I accepted this commission. Do you think my acceptance required courage? You needed far greater courage to hire me. You see, this is what I think of the Stoddard Temple. I’m through with it. You’re not.”
    Wynand let his fingers fall open, palms out. His shoulders sagged a little, relaxing. He said very simply:
    “All right. It’s true. All of it.”
    Then he stood straight, but with a kind of quiet resignation, as if his body were consciously made vulnerable.
    “I hope you know you’ve given me a beating in your own way,” he said.
    “Yes. And you’ve taken it. So you’ve accomplished what you wanted. Shall we say we’re even and forget the Stoddard Temple?”
    “You’re very wise or I’ve been very obvious. Either is your achievement. Nobody’s ever caused me to become obvious before.”
    “Shall I still do what you want?”
”What do you think I want now?”
”Personal recognition from me. It’s my turn to give in, isn’t it?” “You’re appallingly honest, aren’t you?”
    “Why shouldn’t I be? I can’t give you the recognition of having made me suffer. But you’ll take the substitute of having given me pleasure, won’t you? All right, then. I’m glad you like me. I think you know this is as much an exception for me as your taking a beating. I don’t usually care whether I’m liked or not. I do care this time. I’m glad.”
    Wynand laughed aloud. “You’re as innocent and presumptuous as an emperor. When you confer honors you merely exalt yourself. What in hell made you think I liked you?”
    “Now you don’t want any explanations of that. You’ve reproached me once for causing you to be obvious.”
    Wynand sat down on a fallen tree trunk. He said nothing; but his movement was an invitation and a demand. Roark sat down beside him; Roark’s face was sober, but the trace of a smile remained, amused and watchful, as if every word he heard were not a disclosure but a confirmation.
    “You’ve come up from nothing, haven’t you?” Wynand asked. “You came from a poor family.” “Yes. How did you know that?”
    “Just because it feels like a presumption–the thought of handing you anything: a compliment, an idea or a fortune. I started at the bottom, too. Who was your father?”
    “A steel puddler.”
”Mine was a longshoreman. Did you hold all sorts of funny jobs when you were a child?” “All sorts. Mostly in the building trades.”
”I did worse than that. I did just about everything. What job did you like best?”
”Catching rivets, on steel structures.”
    “I liked being a bootblack on a Hudson ferry. I should have hated that, but I didn’t. I don’t remember the people at all. I remember the city. The city–always there, on the shore, spread out, waiting, as if I were tied to it by a rubber band. The band would stretch and carry me away, to the other shore, but it would always snap back and I would return. It gave me the feeling that I’d never escaped from that city–and it would never escape from me.”
    Roark knew that Wynand seldom spoke of his childhood, by the quality of his words; they were bright and hesitant, untarnished by usage, like coins that had not passed through many hands.
    “Were you ever actually homeless and starving?” Wynand asked. “A few times.”
”Did you mind that?”
”No.”
    “I didn’t either. I minded something else. Did you want to scream, when you were a child, seeing nothing but fat ineptitude around you, knowing how many things could be done and done so well, but having no power to do them? Having no power to blast the empty skulls around you? Having to take orders–and that’s bad enough–but to take orders from your inferiors! Have you felt that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you drive the anger back inside of you, and store it, and decide to let yourself be torn to pieces if necessary, but reach the day when you’d rule those people and all people and everything around you?”
    “No.”
    “You didn’t? You let yourself forget?”
    “No. I hate incompetence. I think it’s probably the only thing I do hate. But it didn’t make me want to rule people. Nor to teach them anything. It made me want to do my own work in my own way and let myself be torn to pieces if necessary.”
    “And you were?”
”No. Not in any way that counts.”
”You don’t mind looking back? At anything?” “No.”
    “I do. There was one night. I was beaten and I crawled to a door–I remember the pavement–it was right under my nostrils–I can still see it–there were veins in the stone and white spots–I had to make sure that that pavement moved–I couldn’t feel whether I was moving or not–but I could tell by the pavement–I had to see that those veins and spots changed–I had to reach the next pattern or the crack six inches away–it took a long time–and I knew it was blood under my stomach…”
    His voice had no tone of self-pity; it was simple, impersonal, with a faint sound of wonder. Roark said: “I’d like to help you.”
    Wynand smiled slowly, not gaily. “I believe you could. I even believe that it would be proper. Two days ago I would have murdered anyone who’d think of me as an object for help….You know, of course, that that night’s not what I hate in my past. Not what I dread to look back on. It was only the least offensive to mention. The other things can’t be talked about.”
    “I know. I meant the other things.” “What are they? You name them.” “The Stoddard Temple.”
”You want to help me with that?” “Yes.”
    “You’re a damn fool. Don’t you realize…”
    “Don’t you realize I’m doing it already?”
    “How?”
    “By building this house for you.”
    Roark saw the slanting ridges on Wynand’s forehead. Wynand’s eyes seemed whiter than usual, as if the blue had ebbed from the iris, two white ovals, luminous on his face. He said:
    “And getting a fat commission check for it.”
    He saw Roark’s smile, suppressed before it appeared fully. The smile would have said that this sudden insult was a declaration of surrender, more eloquent than the speeches of confidence; the suppression said that Roark would not help him over this particular moment.
    “Why, of course,” said Roark calmly.
    Wynand got up. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time. I have more important things to do at the office.”
    They did not speak on their way back to the city. Wynand drove his car at ninety miles an hour. The speed made two solid walls of blurred motion on the sides of the road; as if they were flying down a long, closed, silent corridor.
    He stopped at the entrance to the Cord Building and let Roark out. He said:
    “You’re free to go back to that site as often as you wish, Mr. Roark. I don’t have to go with you. You can get the surveys and all the information you need from my office. Please do not call on me again until it is necessary. I shall be very busy. Let me know when the first drawings are ready.”

    When the drawings were ready, Roark telephoned Wynand’s office. He had not spoken to Wynand for a month. “Please hold the wire, Mr. Roark,” said Wynand’s secretary. He waited. The secretary’s voice came back and informed him that Mr. Wynand wished the drawings brought to his office that afternoon; she gave the hour, Wynand would not answer in person.
    When Roark entered the office, Wynand said: “How do you do, Mr. Roark,” his voice gracious and formal. No memory of intimacy remained on his blank, courteous face.
    Roark handed him the plans of the house and a large perspective drawing. Wynand studied each sheet. He held the drawing for a long time. Then he looked up.
    “I am very much impressed, Mr. Roark.” The voice was offensively correct. “I have been quite impressed by you from the first. I have thought it over and I want to make a special deal with you.”
    His glance was directed at Roark with a soft emphasis, almost with tenderness; as if he were showing that he wished to treat Roark cautiously, to spare him intact for a purpose of his own. He lifted the sketch and held it up between two fingers, letting all the light hit it straight on; the white sheet glowed as a reflector for a moment, pushing the black pencil lines eloquently forward.
    “You want to see this house erected?” Wynand asked softly. “You want it very much?” “Yes,” said Roark.
    Wynand did not move his hand, only parted his fingers and let the cardboard drop face down on the desk.
    “It will be erected, Mr. Roark. Just as you designed it. Just as it stands on this sketch. On one condition.”
    Roark sat leaning back, his hands in his pockets, attentive, waiting.
    “You don’t want to ask me what condition, Mr. Roark? Very well, I’ll tell you. I shall accept this house on condition that you accept the deal I offer you. I wish to sign a contract whereby you will be sole architect for any building I undertake to erect in the future. As you realize, this would be quite an assignment. I venture to say I control more structural work than any other single person in the country. Every man in your profession has wanted to be known as my exclusive architect. I am offering it to you. In exchange, you will have to submit yourself to certain conditions. Before I name them, I’d like to point out some of the consequences, should you refuse. As you may have heard, I do not like to be refused. The power I hold can work two ways. It would be easy for me to arrange that no commission be available to you anywhere in this country. You have a small following of your own, but no prospective employer can withstand the kind of pressure I am in a position to exert. You have gone through wasted periods of your life before. They were nothing, compared to the blockade I can impose. You might have to go back to a granite quarry–oh yes, I know about that, summer of 1928, the Francon quarry in Connecticut–how?–private detectives, Mr. Roark–you might have to go back to a granite quarry, only I shall see to it that the quarries also will be closed to you. Now I’ll tell you what I want of you.”
    In all the gossip about Gail Wynand, no one had ever mentioned the expression of his face as it was in this moment. The few men who had seen it did not talk about it. Of these men, Dwight Carson had been the first. Wynand’s lips were parted, his eyes brilliant. It was an expression of sensual pleasure derived from agony–the agony of his victim or his own, or both.
    “I want you to design all my future commercial structures–as the public wishes commercial structures to be designed. You’ll build Colonial houses, Rococo hotels and semi-Grecian office buildings. You’ll exercise your matchless ingenuity within forms chosen by the taste of the people–and you’ll make money for me. You’ll take your spectacular talent and make it obedient Originality and subservience together. They call it harmony. You’ll create in your sphere what the Banner is in mine. Do you think it took no talent to create the Banner? Such will be your future career. But the house you’ve designed for me shall be erected as you designed it. It will be the last Roark building to rise on earth. Nobody will have one after mine. You’ve read about ancient rulers who put to death the architect of their palace, that no others might equal the glory he had given them. They killed the architect or cut his eyes out. Modern methods are different. For the rest of your life you’ll obey the will of the majority. I shan’t attempt to offer you any arguments. I am merely stating an alternative. You’re the kind of man who can understand plain language. You have a simple choice: if you refuse, you’ll never build anything again; if you accept, you’ll build this house which you want so much to see erected, and a great many other houses which you won’t like, but which will make money for both of us. For the rest of your life you’ll design rental developments, such as Stoneridge. That is what I want.”
    He leaned forward, waiting for one of the reactions he knew well and enjoyed: a look of anger, or indignation, or ferocious pride.
    “Why, of course,” said Roark gaily. “I’ll be glad to do it. That’s easy.”
    He reached over, took a pencil and the first piece of paper he saw on Wynand’s desk–a letter with an imposing letterhead. He drew rapidly on the back of the letter. The motion of his hand was smooth and confident. Wynand looked at his face bent over the paper; he saw the unwrinkled forehead, the straight line of the eyebrows, attentive, but untroubled by effort.
    Roark raised his head and threw the paper to Wynand across the desk. “Is this what you want?”
    Wynand’s house stood drawn on the paper–with Colonial porches, a gambrel roof, two massive chimneys, a few little pilasters, a few porthole windows. It was not a parody, it was a serious job of adaptation in what any professor would have called excellent taste.
    “Good God, no!” The gasp was instinctive and immediate.
    “Then shut up,” said Roark, “and don’t ever let me hear any architectural suggestions.”
    Wynand slumped down in his chair and laughed. He laughed for a long time, unable to stop. It was not a happy sound.
    Roark shook his head wearily. “You knew better than that. And it’s such an old one to me. My antisocial stubbornness is so well known that I didn’t think anyone would waste time trying to tempt me again.”
    “Howard. I meant it. Until I saw this.”
”I knew you meant it. I didn’t think you could be such a fool.”
”You knew you were taking a terrible kind of chance?”
”None at all. I had an ally I could trust.”
”What? Your integrity?”
”Yours, Gail.”
Wynand sat looking down at the surface of his desk. After a while he said: “You’re wrong about that.”
”I don’t think so.”
Wynand lifted his head; he looked tired; he sounded indifferent.
    “It was your method of the Stoddard trial again, wasn’t it? “The defense rests.’…I wish I had been in the courtroom to hear that sentence….You did throw the trial back at me again, didn’t you?”
    “Call it that.”
”But this time, you won. I suppose you know I’m not glad that you won.” “I know you’re not.”
    “Don’t think it was one of those temptations when you tempt just to test your victim and are happy to be beaten, and smile and say, well, at last, here’s the kind of man I want. Don’t imagine that. Don’t make that excuse for me.”
    “I’m not. I know what you wanted.”
    “I wouldn’t have lost so easily before. This would have been only the beginning. I know I can try further. I don’t want to try. Not because you’d probably hold out to the end. But because I wouldn’t hold out. No, I’m not glad and I’m not grateful to you for this….But it doesn’t matter….”
    “Gail, how much lying to yourself are you actually capable of?”
”I’m not lying. Everything I just told you is true. I thought you understood it.” “Everything you just told me–yes. I wasn’t thinking of that.”
”You’re wrong in what you’re thinking. You’re wrong in remaining here.” “Do you wish to throw me out?”
”You know I can’t.”
    Wynand’s glance moved from Roark to the drawing of the house lying face down on his desk. He hesitated for a moment, looking at the blank cardboard, then turned it over. He asked
    softly:
    “Shall I tell you now what I think of this?”
    “You’ve told me.”
    “Howard, you spoke about a house as a statement of my life. Do you think my life deserves a statement like this?”
    “Yes.”
”Is this your honest judgment?”
    “My honest judgment, Gail. My most sincere one. My final one. No matter what might happen between us in the future.”
    Wynand put the drawing down and sat studying the plans for a long time. When he raised his head, he looked calm and normal.
    “Why did you stay away from here?” he asked. “You were busy with private detectives.” Wynand laughed. “Oh that? I couldn’t resist my old bad habits and I was curious. Now I know everything about you–except the women in your life. Either you’ve been very discreet or there haven’t been many. No information available on that anywhere.”
    “There haven’t been many.”
    “I think I missed you. It was a kind of substitute–gathering the details of your past. Why did you actually stay away?”
    “You told me to.”
”Are you always so meek about taking orders?” “When I find it advisable.”
    “Well, here’s an order–hope you place it among the advisable ones: come to have dinner with us tonight. I’ll take this drawing home to show my wife. I’ve told her nothing about the house so far.”
    “You haven’t told her?”
    “No. I want her to see this. And I want you to meet her. I know she hasn’t been kind to you in the past–I read what she wrote about you. But it’s so long ago. I hope it doesn’t matter now.”
    “No, it doesn’t matter.” “Then will you come?” “Yes.”
    4.
    DOMINIQUE stood at the glass door of her room. Wynand saw the starlight on the ice sheets of the roof garden outside. He saw its reflection touching the outline of her profile, a faint radiance on her eyelids, on the planes of her cheeks. He thought that this was the illumination proper to her face. She turned to him slowly, and the light became an edge around the pale straight mass of her hair. She smiled as she had always smiled at him, a quiet greeting of understanding.
    “What’s the matter, Gail?”
    “Good evening, dear. Why?”
”You look happy. That’s not the word. But it’s the nearest.”
    “‘Light’ is nearer. I feel light, thirty years lighter. Not that I’d want to be what I was thirty years ago. One never does. What the feeling means is only a sense of being carried back intact, as one is now, back to the beginning. It’s quite illogical and impossible and wonderful.”
    “What the feeling usually means is that you’ve met someone. A woman as a rule.”
    “I have. Not a woman. A man. Dominique, you’re very beautiful tonight. But I always say that. It’s not what I wanted to say. It’s this: I am very happy tonight that you’re so beautiful.”
    “What is it, Gail?”
”Nothing. Only a feeling of how much is unimportant and how easy it is to live.” He took her hand and held it to his lips.
    “Dominique, I’ve never stopped thinking it’s a miracle that our marriage has lasted. Now I believe that it won’t be broken. By anything or anyone.” She leaned back against the glass pane. “I have a present for you–don’t remind me it’s the sentence I use more often than any other. I will have a present for you by the end of this summer. Our house.”
    “The house? You haven’t spoken of it for so long, I thought you had forgotten.”
    “I’ve thought of nothing else for the last six months. You haven’t changed your mind? You do want to move out of the city?”
    “Yes, Gail, if you want it so much. Have you decided on an architect?” “I’ve done more than that. I have the drawing of the house to show you.” “Oh, I’d like to see it.”
”It’s in my study. Come on. I want you to see it.”
    She smiled and closed her fingers over his wrist, a brief pressure, like a caress of encouragement, then she followed him. He threw the door of his study open and let her enter first. The light was on and the drawing stood propped on his desk, facing the door.
    She stopped, her hands behind her, palms flattened against the doorjamb. She was too far away to see the signature, but she knew the work and the only man who could have designed that house.
    Her shoulders moved, describing a circle, twisting slowly, as if she were tied to a pole, had abandoned hope of escape, and only her body made a last, instinctive gesture of protest.
    She thought, were she lying in bed in Roark’s arms in the sight of Gail Wynand, the violation would be less terrible; this drawing, more personal than Roark’s body, created in answer to a matching force that came from Gail Wynand, was a violation of her, of Roark, of Wynand–and yet, she knew suddenly that it was the inevitable.
    “No,” she whispered, “things like that are never a coincidence.” “W hat?”
    But she held up her hand, softly pushing back all conversation, and she walked to the drawing, her steps soundless on the carpet. She saw the sharp signature in the corner–“Howard Roark.” It was less terrifying than the shape of the house; it was a thin point of support, almost a greeting.
    “Dominique?”
She turned her face to him. He saw her answer. He said:
”I knew you’d like it. Forgive the inadequacy. We’re stuck for words tonight.”
    She walked to the davenport and sat down; she let her back press against the cushions; it helped to sit straight. She kept her eyes on Wynand. He stood before her, leaning on the mantelpiece, half turned away, looking at the drawing. She could not escape that drawing; Wynand’s face was like a mirror of it.
    “You’ve seen him, Gail?”
”Whom?”
”The architect.”
”Of course I’ve seen him. Not an hour ago.” “When did you first meet him?”
    “Last month.”
”You knew him all this time?…Every evening…when you came home…at the dinner table…”
    “You mean, why didn’t I tell you? I wanted to have the sketch to show you. I saw the house like this, but I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t think anyone would ever understand what I wanted and design it. He did.”
    “W ho?”
    “Howard Roark.”
    She had wanted to hear the name pronounced by Gail Wynand.
    “How did you happen to choose him, Gail?”
    “I looked all over the country. Every building I liked had been done by him.”
    She nodded slowly.
    “Dominique, I take it for granted you don’t care about it any more, but I know that I picked the one architect you spent all your time denouncing when you were on the Banner.”
    “You read that?”
    “I read it. You had an odd way of doing it. It was obvious that you admired his work and hated him personally. But you defended him at the Stoddard trial.”
    “Yes.”
”You even worked for him once. That statue, Dominique, it was made for his temple.” “Yes.”
    “It’s strange. You lost your job on the Banner for defending him. I didn’t know it when I chose him. I didn’t know about that trial. I had forgotten his name. Dominique, in a way, it’s he who gave you to me. That statue–from his temple. And now he’s going to give me this house. Dominique, why did you hate him?”
    “I didn’t hate him….It was so long ago…”
”I suppose none of that matters now, does it?” He pointed to the drawing.
    “I haven’t seen him for years.”
”You’re going to see him in about an hour. He’s coming here for dinner.”
    She moved her hand, tracing a spiral on the arm of the davenport, to convince herself that she could.
    “Here?”
”Yes.”
”You’ve asked him for dinner?”
    He smiled; he remembered his resentment against the presence of guests in their house. He said: “This is different. I want him here. I don’t think you remember him well–or you wouldn’t be astonished.”
    She got up.
    “All right, Gail. I’ll give the orders. Then I’ll get dressed.” #
    They faced each other across the drawing room of Gail Wynand’s penthouse. She thought how simple it was. He had always been here. He had been the motive power of every step she had taken in these rooms. He had brought her here and now he had come to claim this place. She was looking at him. She was seeing him as she had seen him on the morning when she awakened in his bed for the last time. She knew that neither his clothes nor the years stood between her and the living intactness of that memory. She thought this had been inevitable from the first, from the instant when she had looked down at him on the ledge of a quarry–it had to come like this, in Gail Wynand’s house–and now she felt the peace of finality, knowing that her share of decision had ended; she had been the one who acted, but he would act from now on.
    She stood straight, her head level; the planes of her face had a military cleanliness of precision and a feminine fragility; her hands hung still, composed by her sides, parallel with the long straight lines of her black dress.
    “How do you do, Mr. Roark.” “How do you do, Mrs. Wynand.”
    “May I thank you for the house you have designed for us? It is the most beautiful of your buildings.”
    “It had to be, by the nature of the assignment, Mrs. Wynand.” She turned her head slowly.
”How did you present the assignment to Mr. Roark, Gail?” “Just as I spoke of it to you.”
    She thought of what Roark had heard from Wynand, and had accepted. She moved to sit down; the two men followed her example. Roark said:
    “If you like the house, the first achievement was Mr. Wynand’s conception of it.” She asked: “Are you sharing the credit with a client?”
”Yes, in a way.”
”I believe this contradicts what I remember of your professional convictions.”
    “But supports my personal ones.”
”I’m not sure I ever understood that.”
”I believe in conflict, Mrs. Wynand.”
”Was there a conflict involved in designing this house?” “The desire not to be influenced by my client.”
”In what way?”
    “I have liked working for some people and did not like working for others. But neither mattered. This time, I knew that the house would be what it became only because it was being done for Mr. Wynand. I had to overcome this. Or rather, I had to work with it and against it. It was the best way of working. The house had to surpass the architect, the client and the future tenant. It did.”
    “But the house–it’s you, Howard,” said Wynand. “It’s still you.”
    It was the first sign of emotion on her face, a quiet shock, when she heard the “Howard.” Wynand did not notice it. Roark did. He glanced at her–his first glance of personal contact. She could read no comment in it–only a conscious affirmation of the thought that had shocked her.
    “Thank you for understanding that, Gail,” he answered.
She was not certain whether she had heard him stressing the name.
    “It’s strange,” said Wynand. “I am the most offensively possessive man on earth. I do something to things. Let me pick up an ash tray from a dime-store counter, pay for it and put it in my pocket–and it becomes a special kind of ash tray, unlike any on earth, because it’s mine. It’s an extra quality in the thing, like a sort of halo. I feel that about everything I own. From my overcoat–to the oldest linotype in the composing room–to the copies of the Banner on newsstands–to this penthouse–to my wife. And I’ve never wanted to own anything as much as I want this house you’re going to build for me, Howard. I will probably be jealous of Dominique living in it–I can be quite insane about things like that. And yet–I don’t feel that I’ll own it, because no matter what I do or say, it’s still yours. It will always be yours.”
    “It has to be mine,” said Roark. “But in another sense, Gail, you own that house and everything else I’ve built. You own every structure you’ve stopped before and heard yourself answering.”
    “In what sense?”
    “In the sense of that personal answer. What you feel in the presence of a thing you admire is just one word–‘Yes.’ The affirmation, the acceptance, the sign of admittance. And that ‘Yes’ is more than an answer to one thing, it’s a kind of ‘Amen’ to life, to the earth that holds this thing, to the thought that created it, to yourself for being able to see it. But the ability to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ is the essence of all ownership. It’s your ownership of your own ego. Your soul, if you wish. Your soul has a single basic function–the act of valuing. ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ ‘I wish’ or ‘I do not wish.’ You can’t say ‘Yes’ without saying ‘I.’ There’s no affirmation without the one who affirms. In this sense, everything to which you grant your love is yours.”
    “In this sense, you share things with others?”
    “No. It’s not sharing. When I listen to a symphony I love, I don’t get from it what the composer got. His ‘Yes’ was different from mine. He could have no concern for mine and no exact conception of it. That answer is too personal to each man But in giving himself what he wanted, he gave me a great experience. I’m alone when I design a house, Gail, and you can never know the way in which I own it. But if you said you own ‘Amen’ to it–it’s also yours. And I’m glad it’s yours.”
    Wynand said, smiling:
”I like to think that. That I own Monadnock and the Enright House and the Cord Building…” “And the Stoddard Temple,” said Dominique.
    She had listened to them. She felt numb. Wynand had never spoken like this to any guest in their house; Roark had never spoken like this to any client. She knew that the numbness would break into anger, denial, indignation later; now it was only a cutting sound in her voice, a sound to destroy what she had heard.
    She thought that she succeeded. Wynand answered, the word dropping heavily: “Yes.”
    “Forget the Stoddard Temple, Gail,” said Roark. There was such a simple, careless gaiety in his voice that no solemn dispensation could have been more effective.
    “Yes, Howard,” said Wynand, smiling. She saw Roark’s eyes turned to her.
    “I have not thanked you, Mrs. Wynand, for accepting me as your architect. I know that Mr. Wynand chose me and you could have refused my services. I wanted to tell you that I’m glad you didn’t.”
    She thought, I believe it because none of this can be believed; I’ll accept anything tonight; I’m looking at him.
    She said, courteously indifferent: “Wouldn’t it be a reflection on my judgment to suppose that I would wish to reject a house you had designed, Mr. Roark?” She thought that nothing she said aloud could matter tonight.
    Wynand asked:
”Howard, that ‘Yes’–once granted, can it be withdrawn?”
    She wanted to laugh in incredulous anger. It was Wynand’s voice that had asked this; it should have been hers. He must look at me when he answers, she thought; he must look at me.
    “Never,” Roark answered, looking at Wynand.
    “There’s so much nonsense about human inconstancy and the transience of all emotions,” said Wynand. “I’ve always thought that a feeling which changes never existed in the first place. There are books I liked at the age of sixteen. I still like them.”
    The butler entered, carrying a tray of cocktails. Holding her glass, she watched Roark take his off the tray. She thought: At this moment the glass stem between his fingers feels just like the one between mine; we have this much in common….Wynand stood, holding a glass, looking at Roark with a strange kind of incredulous wonder, not like a host, like an owner who cannot quite believe his ownership of his prize possession….She thought: I’m not insane. I’m only hysterical, but it’s quite all right, I’m saying something, I don’t know what it is, but it must be all right, they are both listening and answering, Gail is smiling, I must be saying the proper things….
    Dinner was announced and she rose obediently; she led the way to the dining room, like a graceful animal given poise by conditioned reflexes. She sat at the head of the table, between the two men facing each other at her sides. She watched the silverware in Roark’s fingers, the pieces of polished metal with the initials “D W.” She thought: I have done this so many times–I am the gracious Mrs. Gail Wynand–there were Senators, judges, presidents of insurance companies, sitting at dinner in that place at my right–and this is what I was being trained for,
    this is why Gail has been rising through tortured years to the position of entertaining Senators and judges at dinner–for the purpose of reaching an evening when the guest facing him would be Howard Roark.
    Wynand spoke about the newspaper business; he showed no reluctance to discuss it with Roark, and she pronounced a few sentences when it seemed necessary. Her voice had a luminous simplicity; she was being carried along, unresisting, any personal reaction would be superfluous, even pain or fear. She thought, if in the flow of conversation Wynand’s next sentence should be: “You’ve slept with him,” she would answer: “Yes, Gail, of course,” just as simply. But Wynand seldom looked at her; when he did, she knew by his face that hers was normal.
    Afterward, they were in the drawing room again, and she saw Roark standing at the window, against the lights of the city. She thought: Gail built this place as a token of his own victory–to have the city always before him–the city where he did run things at last. But this is what it had really been built for–to have Roark stand at that window–and I think Gail knows it tonight– Roark’s body blocking miles out of that perspective, with only a few dots of fire and a few cubes of lighted glass left visible around the outline of his figure. He was smoking and she watched his cigarette moving slowly against the black sky, as he put it between his lips, then held it extended in his fingers, and she thought: they are only sparks from his cigarette, those points glittering in space behind him.
    She said softly: “Gail always liked to look at the city at night. He was in love with skyscrapers.” Then she noticed she had used the past tense, and wondered why.
    She did not remember what she said when they spoke about the new house. Wynand brought the drawings from his study, spread the plans on a table, and the three of them stood bent over the plans together. Roark’s pencil moved, pointing, across the hard geometrical patterns of thin black lines on white sheets. She heard his voice, close to her, explaining. They did not speak of beauty and affirmation, but of closets, stairways, pantries, bathrooms. Roark asked her whether she found the arrangements convenient. She thought it was strange that they all spoke as if they really believed she would ever live in this house.
    When Roark had gone, she heard Wynand asking her: “What do you think of him?”
    She felt something angry and dangerous, like a single, sudden twist within her, and she said, half in fear, half in deliberate invitation:
    “Doesn’t he remind you of Dwight Carson?” “Oh, forget Dwight Carson!”
    Wynand’s voice, refusing earnestness, refusing guilt, had sounded exactly like the voice that had said: “Forget the Stoddard Temple.”
#
    The secretary in the reception room looked, startled, at the patrician gentleman whose face she had seen so often in the papers.
    “Gail Wynand,” he said, inclining his head in self-introduction. “I should like to see Mr. Roark. If he is not busy. Please do not disturb him if he is. I had no appointment.”
    She had never expected Wynand to come to an office unannounced and to ask admittance in that tone of grave deference.
    She announced the visitor. Roark came out into the reception room, smiling, as if he found nothing unusual in this call.
    “Hello, Gail. Come in.”
    “Hello, Howard.”
    He followed Roark to the office. Beyond the broad windows the darkness of late afternoon dissolved the city; it was snowing; black specks whirled furiously across the lights.
    “I don’t want to interrupt if you’re busy, Howard. This is not important.” He had not seen Roark for five days, since the dinner.
    “I’m not busy. Take your coat off. Shall I have the drawings brought in?”
    “No. I don’t want to talk about the house. Actually, I came without any reason at all. I was down at my office all day, got slightly sick of it, and felt like coming here. What are you grinning about?”
    “Nothing. Only you said that it wasn’t important.” Wynand looked at him, smiled and nodded.
    He sat down on the edge of Roark’s desk, with an ease which he had never felt in his own office, his hands in his pockets, one leg swinging.
    “It’s almost useless to talk to you, Howard. I always feel as if I were reading to you a carbon copy of myself and you’ve already seen the original. You seem to hear everything I say a minute in advance. We’re unsynchronized.”
    “You call that unsynchronized?”
    “All right. Too well synchronized.” His eyes were moving slowly over the room. “If we own the things to which we say ‘Yes,’ then I own this office?”
    “Then you own it.”
    “You know what I feel here? No, I won’t say I feel at home–I don’t think I’ve ever felt at home anywhere. And I won’t say I feel as I did in the palaces I’ve visited or in the great European cathedrals. I feel as I did when I was still in Hell’s Kitchen–in the best days I had there–there weren’t many. But sometimes–when I sat like this–only it was some piece of broken wall by the wharf–and there were a lot of stars above and dump heaps around me and the river smelt of rotting shells….Howard, when you look back, does it seem to you as if all your days had rolled forward evenly, like a sort of typing exercise, all alike? Or were there stops-points reached–and then the typing rolled on again?”
    “There were stops.”
”Did you know them at the time–did you know that that’s what they were?” “Yes.”
    “I didn’t. I knew afterward. But I never knew the reasons. There was one moment–I was twelve and I stood behind a wall, waiting to be killed. Only I knew I wouldn’t be killed. Not what I did afterward, not the fight I had, but just that one moment when I waited. I don’t know why that was a stop to be remembered or why I feel proud of it. I don’t know why I have to think of it here.”
    “Don’t look for the reason.” “Do you know it?”
”I said don’t look for it.”
    “I have been thinking about my past–ever since I met you. And I had gone for years without thinking of it. No, no secret conclusions for you to draw from that. It doesn’t hurt me to look
    back this way, and it doesn’t give me pleasure. It’s just looking. Not a quest, not even a journey. Just a kind of walk at random, like wandering through the countryside in the evening, when one’s a little tired….If there’s any connection to you at all, it’s only one thought that keeps coming back to me. I keep thinking that you and I started in the same way. From the same point. From nothing. I just think that. Without any comment. I don’t seem to find any particular meaning in it at all. Just ‘we started in the same way’…Want to tell me what it means?”
    “No.”
Wynand glanced about the room–and noticed a newspaper on top of a filing cabinet. “Who the hell reads the Banner around here?”
”I do.”
”Since when?”
”Since about a month ago.”
”Sadism?”
”No. Just curiosity.”
    Wynand rose, picked up the paper and glanced through the pages. He stopped at one and chuckled. He held it up: the page that bore photographed drawings of the buildings for “The March of the Centuries” exposition.
    “Awful, isn’t it?” said Wynand. “It’s disgusting that we have to plug that stuff. But I feel better about it when I think of what you did to those eminent civic leaders.” He chuckled happily. “You told them you don’t co-operate or collaborate.”
    “But it wasn’t a gesture, Gail. It was plain common sense. One can’t collaborate on one’s own job. I can co-operate, if that’s what they call it, with the workers who erect my buildings. But I can’t help them to lay bricks and they can’t help me to design the house.”
    “It was the kind of gesture I’d like to make. I’m forced to give those civic leaders free space in my papers. But it’s all right. You’ve slapped their faces for me.” He tossed the paper aside, without anger. “It’s like that luncheon I had to attend today. A national convention of advertisers. I must give them publicity–all wiggling, wriggling and drooling. I got so sick of it I thought I’d run amuck and bash somebody’s skull. And then I thought of you. I thought that you weren’t touched by any of it. Not in any way. The national convention of advertisers doesn’t exist as far as you’re concerned. It’s in some sort of fourth dimension that can never establish any communication with you at all. I thought of that–and I felt a peculiar kind of relief.”
    He leaned against the filing cabinet, letting his feet slide forward, his arms crossed, and he spoke softly:
    “Howard I had a kitten once. The damn thing attached itself to me–a flea-bitten little beast from the gutter, just fur, mud and bones–followed me home, I fed it and kicked it out, but the next day there it was again, and finally I kept it. I was seventeen then, working for the Gazette, just learning to work in the special way I had to learn for life. I could take it all right, but not all of it. There were times when it was pretty bad. Evenings, usually. Once I wanted to kill myself. Not anger–anger made me work harder. Not fear. But disgust, Howard. The kind of disgust that made it seem as if the whole world were under water and the water stood still, water that had backed up out of the sewers and ate into everything, even the sky, even my brain. And then I looked at that kitten. And I thought that it didn’t know the things I loathed, it could never know. It was clean–clean in the absolute sense, because it had no capacity to conceive of the world’s ugliness. I can’t tell you what relief there was in trying to imagine the state of consciousness inside that little brain, trying to share it, a living consciousness, but clean and free. I would lie down on the floor and put my face on that cat’s belly, and hear the beast purring. And then I would feel better….There, Howard. I’ve called your office a rotting wharf and yourself an alley cat. That’s my way of paying homage.”
    Roark smiled. Wynand saw that the smile was grateful. “Keep still,” Wynand said sharply. “Don’t say anything.” He walked to a window and stood looking out. “I don’t know why in hell I should speak like that. These are the first happy years of my life. I met you because I wanted to build a monument to my happiness. I come here to find rest, and I find it, and yet these are the things I talk about….Well, never mind….Look, at the filthy weather. Are you through with your work here? Can you call it a day?”
    “Yes. Just about.”
    “Let’s go and have dinner together somewhere close by.”
    “All right.”
    “May I use your phone? I’ll tell Dominique not to expect me for dinner.”
    He dialed the number. Roark moved to the door of the drafting room–he had orders to give before leaving. But he stopped at the door. He had to stop and hear it.
    “Hello, Dominique?…Yes….Tired?…No, you just sounded like it….I won’t be home for dinner, will you excuse me, dearest?…I don’t know, it might be late….I’m eating downtown….No. I’m having dinner with Howard Roark….Hello, Dominique?…Yes….What?…I’m calling from his office….So long, dear.” He replaced the receiver.
    In the library of the penthouse Dominique stood with her hand on the telephone, as if some connection still remained.
    For five days and nights, she had fought a single desire–to go to him. To see him alone– anywhere–his home or his office or the street–for one word or only one glance–but alone. She could not go. Her share of action was ended. He would come to her when he wished. She knew he would come, and that he wanted her to wait. She had waited, but she had held on to one thought–of an address, an office in the Cord Building.
    She stood, her hand closed over the stem of the telephone receiver. She had no right to go to that office. But Gail Wynand had.
#
    When Ellsworth Toohey entered Wynand’s office, as summoned, he made a few steps, then stopped. The walls of Wynand’s office–the only luxurious room in the Banner Building–were made of cork and copper paneling and had never borne any pictures. Now, on the wall facing Wynand’s desk, he saw an enlarged photograph under glass: the picture of Roark at the opening of the Enright House; Roark standing at the parapet of the river, his head thrown back.
    Toohey turned to Wynand. They looked at each other.
Wynand indicated a chair and Toohey sat down. Wynand spoke, smiling:
    “I never thought I would come to agree with some of your social theories, Mr. Toohey, but I find myself forced to do so. You have always denounced the hypocrisy of the upper caste and preached the virtue of the masses. And now I find that I regret the advantages I enjoyed in my former proletarian state. Were I still in Hell’s Kitchen, I would have begun this interview by saying: Listen, louse!–but since I am an inhibited capitalist, I shall not do so.”
    Toohey waited, he looked curious.
    “I shall begin by saying: Listen, Mr. Toohey. I do not know what makes you tick. I do not care to dissect your motives. I do not have the stomach required of medical students. So I shall ask no questions and I wish to hear no explanations. I shall merely tell you that from now on there is a name you will never mention in your column again.” He pointed to the photograph. “I could make you reverse yourself publicly and I would enjoy it, but I prefer to forbid the subject to you entirely. Not a word, Mr. Toohey. Not ever again. Now don’t mention your contract or any particular clause of it. It would not be advisable. Go on writing your column, but remember its
    title and devote it to commensurate subjects. Keep it small, Mr. Toohey. Very small.” “Yes, Mr. Wynand,” said Toohey easily. “I don’t have to write about Mr. Roark at present.” “That’s all.”
Toohey rose. “Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
    5.
    GAIL WYNAND sat at his desk in his office and read the proofs of an editorial on the moral value of raising large families. Sentences like used chewing gum, chewed and rechewed, spat out and picked up again, passing from mouth to mouth to pavement to shoe sole to mouth to brain….He thought of Howard Roark and went on reading the Banner; it made things easier.
    “Daintiness is a girl’s greatest asset. Be sure to launder your undies every night, and learn to talk on some cultured subject, and you will have all the dates you want.” “Your horoscope for tomorrow shows a beneficent aspect. Application and sincerity will bring rewards in the fields of engineering, public accounting and romance.” “Mrs. Huntington-Cole’s hobbies are gardening, the opera and early American sugar-bowls. She divides her time between her little son ‘Kit’ and her numerous charitable activities.” “I’m jus’ Millie, I’m jus’ a orphan.” “For the complete diet send ten cents and a self-addressed, stamped envelope.”…He turned the pages, thinking of Howard Roark.
    He signed the advertising contract with Kream-O Pudding–for five years, on the entire Wynand chain, two full pages in every paper every Sunday. The men before his desk sat like triumphal arches in flesh, monuments to victory, to evenings of patience and calculation, restaurant tables, glasses emptied into throats, months of thought, his energy, his living energy flowing like the liquid in the glasses into the opening of heavy lips, into stubby fingers, across a desk, into two full pages every Sunday, into drawings of yellow molds trimmed with strawberries and yellow molds trimmed with butterscotch sauce. He looked, over the heads of the men, at the photograph on the wall of his office: the sky, the river and a man’s face, lifted.
    But it hurts me, he thought. It hurts me every time I think of him. It makes everything easier– the people, the editorials, the contracts–but easier because it hurts so much. Pain is a stimulant also. I think I hate that name. I will go on repeating it. It is a pain I wish to bear.
    Then he sat facing Roark in the study of his penthouse–and he felt no pain; only a desire to laugh without malice.
    “Howard, everything you’ve done in your life is wrong according to the stated ideals of mankind. And here you are. And somehow it seems a huge joke on the whole world.”
    Roark sat in an armchair by the fireplace. The glow of the fire moved over the study; the light seemed to curve with conscious pleasure about every object in the room, proud to stress its beauty, stamping approval upon the taste of the man who had achieved this setting for himself. They were alone. Dominique had excused herself after dinner. She had known that they wanted to be alone.
    “A joke on all of us,” said Wynand. “On every man in the street. I always look at the men in the street. I used to ride in the subways just to see how many of them carried the Banner. I used to hate them and, sometimes, to be afraid. But now I look at every one of them and I want to say: ‘Why, you poor fool!’ That’s all.”
    He telephoned Roark’s office one morning. “Can you have lunch with me, Howard?…Meet me at the Nordland in half an hour.”
    He shrugged, smiling, when he faced Roark across the restaurant table.
”Nothing at all, Howard. No special reason. Just spent a revolting half-hour and wanted to take
    the taste of it out of my mouth.”
    “What revolting half-hour?”
    “Had my pictures taken with Lancelot Clokey.”
    “Who’s Lancelot Clokey?”
    Wynand laughed aloud, forgetting his controlled elegance, forgetting the startled glance of the waiter.
    “That’s it, Howard. That’s why I had to have lunch with you. Because you can say things like that.”
    “Now what’s the matter?”
    “Don’t you read books? Don’t you know that Lancelot Clokey is ‘our most sensitive observer of the international scene’? That’s what the critic said–in my own Banner. Lancelot Clokey has just been chosen author of the year or something by some organization or other. We’re running his biography in the Sunday supplement, and I had to pose with my arm around his shoulders. He wears silk shirts and smells of gin. His second book is about his childhood and how it helped him to understand the international scene. It sold a hundred thousand copies. But you’ve never heard of him. Go on, eat your lunch, Howard. I like to see you eating. I wish you were broke, so that I could feed you this lunch and know you really needed it.”
    At the end of a day, he would come, unannounced, to Roark’s office or to his home. Roark had an apartment in the Enright House, one of the crystal-shaped units over the East River: a workroom, a library, a bedroom. He had designed the furniture himself. Wynand could not understand for a long time why the place gave him an impression of luxury, until he saw that one did not notice the furniture at all: only a clean sweep of space and the luxury of an austerity that had not been simple to achieve. In financial value it was the most modest home that Wynand had entered as a guest in twenty-five years.
    “We started in the same way, Howard,” he said, glancing about Roark’s room. “According to my judgment and experience, you should have remained in the gutter. But you haven’t. I like this room. I like to sit here.”
    “I like to see you here.”
”Howard, have you ever held power over a single human being?”
”No. And I wouldn’t take it if it were offered to me.”
”I can’t believe that.”
”It was offered to me once, Gail. I refused it.”
Wynand looked at him with curiosity; it was the first time that he heard effort in Roark’s voice. “Why?”
”I had to.”
”Out of respect for the man?”
”It was a woman.”
”Oh, you damn fool! Out of respect for a woman?”
”Out of respect for myself.”
”Don’t expect me to understand. We’re as opposite as two men can be.”
    “I thought that once. I wanted to think that.”
”And now you don’t?”
”No.”
”Don’t you despise every act I’ve ever committed?” “Just about every one I know of.”
    “And you still like to see me here?”
    “Yes. Gail, there was a man who considered you the symbol of the special evil that destroyed him and would destroy me. He left me his hatred. And there was another reason. I think I hated you, before I saw you.”
    “I knew you did. What made you change your mind?” “I can’t explain that to you.”
    They drove together to the estate in Connecticut where the walls of the house were rising out of the frozen ground. Wynand followed Roark through the future rooms, he stood aside and watched Roark giving instructions. Sometimes, Wynand came alone. The workers saw the black roadster twisting up the road to the top of the hill, saw Wynand’s figure standing at a distance, looking at the structure. His figure always carried with it all the implications of his position; the quiet elegance of his overcoat, the angle of his hat, the confidence of his posture, tense and casual together, made one think of the Wynand empire; of the presses thundering from ocean to ocean, of the papers, the lustrous magazine covers, the light rays trembling through newsreels, the wires coiling over the world, the power flowing into every palace, every capital, every secret, crucial room, day and night, through every costly minute of this man’s life. He stood still against a sky gray as laundry water, and snowflakes fluttered lazily past the brim of his hat.
    On a day in April he drove alone to Connecticut after an absence of many weeks. The roadster flew across the countryside, not an object, but a long streak of speed. He felt no jolting motion inside his small cube of glass and leather; it seemed to him that his car stood still, suspended over the ground, while the control of his hands on the wheel made the earth fly past him, and he merely had to wait until the place he desired came rolling to him. He loved the wheel of a car as he loved his desk in the office of the Banner: both gave him the same sense of a dangerous monster let loose under the expert direction of his fingers.
    Something tore past across his vision, and he was a mile away before he thought how strange it was that he should have noticed it, because it had been only a clump of weeds by the road; a mile later he realized that it was stranger still: the weeds were green. Not in the middle of winter, he thought, and then he understood, surprised, that it was not winter any longer. He had been very busy in the last few weeks; he had not had time to notice. Now he saw it, hanging over the fields around him, a hint of green, like a whisper. He heard three statements in his mind, in precise succession, like interlocking gears: It’s spring–I wonder if I have many left to see–I am fifty-five years old.
    They were statements, not emotions; he felt nothing, neither eagerness nor fear. But he knew it was strange that he should experience a sense of time; he had never thought of his age in relation to any measure, he had never defined his position on a limited course, he had not thought of a course nor of limits. He had been Gail Wynand and he had stood still, like this car, and the years had sped past him, like this earth, and the motor within him had controlled the flight of the years.
    No, he thought, I regret nothing. There have been things I missed, but I ask no questions, because I have loved it, such as it has been, even the moments of emptiness, even the unanswered–and that I loved it, that is the unanswered in my life. But I loved it.
    If it were true, that old legend about appearing before a supreme judge and naming one’s record, I would offer, with all my pride, not any act I committed, but one thing I have never
    done on this earth: that I never sought an outside sanction. I would stand and say: I am Gail Wynand, the man who has committed every crime except the foremost one: that of ascribing futility to the wonderful fact of existence and seeking justification beyond myself. This is my pride: that now, thinking of the end, I do not cry like all the men of my age: but what was the use and the meaning? I was the use and meaning, I, Gail Wynand. That I lived and that I acted.
    He drove to the foot of the hill and slammed the brakes on, startled, looking up. In his absence the house had taken shape; it could be recognized now–it looked like the drawing. He felt a moment of childish wonder that it had really come out just as on the sketch, as if he had never quite believed it. Rising against the pale blue sky, it still looked like a drawing, unfinished, the planes of masonry like spreads of watercolor filled in, the naked scaffolding like pencil lines; a huge drawing on a pale blue sheet of paper.
    He left the car and walked to the top of the hill. He saw Roark among the men. He stood outside and watched the way Roark walked through the structure, the way he turned his head or raised his hand, pointing. He noticed Roark’s manner of stopping: his legs apart, his arms straight at his sides, his head lifted; an instinctive pose of confidence, of energy held under effortless control a moment that gave to his body the structural cleanliness of his own building. Structure, thought Wynand, is a solved problem of tension, of balance, of security in counterthrusts.
    He thought: There’s no emotional significance in the act of erecting a building; it’s just a mechanical job, like laying sewers or making an automobile. And he wondered why he watched Roark, feeling what he felt in his art gallery. He belongs in an unfinished building, thought Wynand, more than in a completed one, more than at a drafting table, it’s his right setting; it’s becoming to him–as Dominique said a yacht was becoming to me.
    Afterward Roark came out and they walked together along the crest of the hill, among the trees. They sat down on a fallen tree trunk, they saw the structure in the distance through the stems of the brushwood. The stems were dry and naked, but there was a quality of spring in the cheerful insolence of their upward thrust, the stirring of a self-assertive purpose.
    Wynand asked:
”Howard, have you ever been in love?”
Roark turned to look straight at him and answer quietly:
”I still am.”
”But when you walk through a building, what you feel is greater than that?” “Much greater, Gail.”
    “I was thinking of people who say that happiness is impossible on earth. Look how hard they all try to find some joy in life. Look how they struggle for it. Why should any living creature exist in pain? By what conceivable right can anyone demand that a human being exist for anything but his own joy? Every one of them wants it. Every part of him wants it. But they never find it. I wonder why. They whine and say they don’t understand the meaning of life. There’s a particular kind of people that I despise. Those who seek some sort of a higher purpose or ‘universal goal,’ who don’t know what to live for, who moan that they must ‘find themselves.’ You hear it all around us. That seems to be the official bromide of our century. Every book you open. Every drooling self-confession. It seems to be the noble thing to confess. I’d think it would be the most shameful one.”
    “Look, Gail.” Roark got up, reached out, tore a thick branch off a tree, held it in both hands, one fist closed at each end; then, his wrists and knuckles tensed against the resistance, he bent the branch slowly into an arc. “Now I can make what I want of it: a bow, a spear, a cane, a railing. That’s the meaning of life.”
    “Your strength?”
    “Your work.” He tossed the branch aside. “The material the earth offers you and what you make of it…What are you thinking of, Gail?”
    “The photograph on the wall of my office.” #
    To remain controlled, as he wished, to be patient, to make of patience an active duty executed consciously each day, to stand before Roark and let her serenity tell him: “This is the hardest you could have demanded of me, but I’m glad, if it’s what you want”–such was the discipline of Dominique’s existence.
    She stood by, as a quiet spectator of Roark and Wynand. She watched them silently. She had wanted to understand Wynand. This was the answer.
    She accepted Roark’s visits to their house and the knowledge that in the hours of these evenings he was Wynand’s property, not hers. She met him as a gracious hostess, indifferent and smiling, not a person but an exquisite fixture of Wynand’s home, she presided at the dinner table, she left them in the study afterward.
    She sat alone in the drawing room, with the lights turned off and the door open; she sat erect and quiet, her eyes on the slit of light under the door of the study across the hall. She thought: This is my task, even when alone, even in the darkness, within no knowledge but my own, to look at that door as I looked at him here, without complaint….Roark, if it’s the punishment you chose for me, I’ll carry it completely, not as a part to play in your presence, but as a duty to perform alone–you know that violence is not hard for me to bear, only patience is, you chose the hardest, and I must perform it and offer it to you…my…dearest one…
    When Roark looked at her, there was no denial of memory in his eyes. The glance said simply that nothing had changed and nothing was needed to state it. She felt as if she heard him saying: Why are you shocked? Have we ever been parted? Your drawing room, your husband and the city you dread beyond the windows, are they real now, Dominique? Do you understand? Are you beginning to understand? “Yes,” she would say suddenly, aloud, trusting that the word would fit the conversation of the moment, knowing that Roark would hear it as his answer.
    It was not a punishment he had chosen for her. It was a discipline imposed on both of them, the last test. She understood his purpose when she found that she could feel her love for him proved by the room, by Wynand, even by his love for Wynand and hers, by the impossible situation, by her enforced silence–the barriers proving to her that no barriers could exist.
    She did not see him alone. She waited.
    She would not visit the site of construction. She had said to Wynand: “I’ll see the house when it’s finished.” She never questioned him about Roark. She let her hands lie in sight on the arms of her chair, so that the relief of any violent motion would be denied her, her hands as her private barometer of endurance, when Wynand came home late at night and told her that he had spent the evening at Roark’s apartment, the apartment she had never seen.
    Once she broke enough to ask:
    “What is this, Gail? An obsession?”
    “I suppose so.” He added: “It’s strange that you don’t like him.”
    “I haven’t said that.”
    “I can see it. I’m not really surprised. It’s your way. You would dislike him–precisely because he’s the type of man you should like….Don’t resent my obsession.”
    “I don’t resent it.”
    “Dominique, would you understand it if I told you that I love you more since I’ve met him? Even–I want to say this–even when you lie in my arms, it’s more than it was. I feel a greater
    right to you.”
    He spoke with the simple confidence they had given each other in the last three years. She sat looking at him as she always did; her glance had tenderness without scorn and sadness without pity.
    “I understand, Gail.”
After a moment she asked:
”What is he to you, Gail? In the nature of a shrine?” “In the nature of a hair shirt,” said Wynand.
    When she had gone upstairs, he walked to a window and stood looking up at the sky. His head thrown back, he felt the pull of his throat muscles and he wondered whether the peculiar solemnity of looking at the sky comes, not from what one contemplates, but from that uplift of one’s head.
    6.
    “THE BASIC trouble with the modern world,” said Ellsworth Toohey, “is the intellectual fallacy that freedom and compulsion are opposites. To solve the gigantic problems crushing the world today, we must clarify our mental confusion. We must acquire a philosophical perspective. In essence, freedom and compulsion are one. Let me give you a simple illustration. Traffic lights restrain your freedom to cross a street whenever you wish. But this restraint gives you the freedom from being run over by a truck. If you were assigned to a job and prohibited from leaving it, it would restrain the freedom of your career. But it would give you freedom from the fear of unemployment. Whenever a new compulsion is imposed upon us, we automatically gain a new freedom. The two are inseparable. Only by accepting total compulsion can we achieve total freedom.”
    “That’s right!” shrieked Mitchell Layton.
    It was an actual shriek, thin and high. It had come with the startling suddenness of a fire siren. His guests looked at Mitchell Layton.
    He sat in a tapestry armchair of his drawing room, half lying, legs and stomach forward, like an obnoxious child flaunting his bad posture. Everything about the person of Mitchell Layton was almost and not quite, just short of succeeding: his body had started out to be tall, but changed its mind, leaving him with a long torso above short, stocky legs; his face had delicate bones, but the flesh had played a joke on them, puffing out, not enough to achieve obesity, just enough to suggest permanent mumps. Mitchell Layton pouted. It was not a temporary expression nor a matter of facial arrangement. It was a chronic attribute, pervading his entire person. He pouted with his whole body.
    Mitchell Layton had inherited a quarter of a billion dollars and had spent the thirty-three years of his life trying to make amends for it.
    Ellsworth Toohey, in dinner clothes, stood lounging against a cabinet. His nonchalance had an air of gracious informality and a touch of impertinence, as if the people around him did not deserve the preservation of rigid good manners.
    His eyes moved about the room. The room was not exactly modern, not quite Colonial and just a little short of French Empire; the furnishings presented straight planes and swan-neck supports, black mirrors and electric hurricane lamps, chromium and tapestry; there was unity in a single attribute: in the expensiveness of everything.
    “That’s right,” said Mitchell Layton belligerently, as if he expected everyone to disagree and was insulting them in advance. “People make too damn much fuss about freedom. What I
    mean is it’s a vague, overabused word. I’m not even sure it’s such a God-damn blessing. I think people would be much happier in a regulated society that had a definite pattern and a unified form–like a folk dance. You know how beautiful a folk dance is. And rhythmic too. That’s because it took generations to work it out and they don’t let just any chance fool come along to change it. That’s what we need. Pattern, I mean, and rhythm. Also beauty.”
    “That’s an apt comparison, Mitch,” said Ellsworth Toohey. “I’ve always told you that you had a creative mind.”
    “What I mean is, what makes people unhappy is not too little choice, but too much,” said Mitchell Layton. “Having to decide, always to decide, torn every which way all of the time. Now in a society of pattern, a man could feel safe. Nobody would come to him all the time pestering him to do something. Nobody would have to do anything. What I mean is, of course, except working for the common good.”
    “It’s spiritual values that count,” said Homer Slottern. “Got to be up to date and keep up with the world. This is a spiritual century.”
    Homer Slottern had a big face with drowsy eyes. His shirt studs were made of rubies and emeralds combined, like gobs of salad dripping down his starched white shirt front. He owned three department stores.
    “There ought to be a law to make everybody study the mystical secrets of the ages,” said Mitchell Layton. “It’s all been written out in the pyramids in Egypt.”
    “That’s true, Mitch,” Homer Slottern agreed. “There’s a lot to be said for mysticism. On the one hand. On the other hand, dialectic materialism…”
    “It’s not a contradiction,” Mitchell Layton drawled contemptuously. “The world of the future will combine both.”
    “As a matter of fact,” said Ellsworth Toohey, “the two are superficially varied manifestations of the same thing. Of the same intention.” His eyeglasses gave a spark, as if lighted from within; he seemed to relish his particular statement in his own way.
    “All I know is, unselfishness is the only moral principle,” said Jessica Pratt, “the noblest principle and a sacred duty and much more important than freedom. Unselfishness is the only way to happiness. I would have everybody who refused to be unselfish shot. To put them out of their misery. They can’t be happy anyway.
    Jessica Pratt spoke wistfully. She had a gentle, aging face; her powdery skin, innocent of make-up, gave the impression that a finger touching it would be left with a spot of white dust.
    Jessica Pratt had an old family name, no money, and a great passion: her love for her younger sister Renée. They had been left orphaned at an early age, and she had dedicated her life to Renee’s upbringing. She had sacrificed everything; she had never married; she had struggled, plotted, schemed, defrauded through the years–and achieved the triumph of Renee’s marriage to Homer Slottern.
    Renee Slottern sat curled up on a footstool, munching peanuts. Once in a while she reached up to the crystal dish on a side table and took another. She exhibited no further exertion. Her pale eyes stared placidly out of her pale face.
    “That’s going too far, Jess,” said Homer Slottern. “You can’t expect everybody to be a saint.”
    “I don’t expect anything,” said Jessica Pratt meekly. “I’ve given up expecting long ago. But it’s education that we all need. Now I think Mr. Toohey understands. If everybody were compelled to have the proper kind of education, we’d have a better world. If we force people to do good, they will be free to be happy.”
    “This is a perfectly useless discussion,” said Eve Layton. “No intelligent person believes in freedom nowadays. It’s dated. The future belongs to social planning. Compulsion is a law of nature. That’s that. It’s self-evident.”
    Eve Layton was beautiful. She stood under the light of a chandelier, her smooth black hair clinging to her skull, the pale green satin of her gown alive like water about to stream off and expose the rest of her soft, tanned skin. She had the special faculty of making satin and perfume appear as modern as an aluminum table top. She was Venus rising out of a submarine hatch.
    Eve Layton believed that her mission in life was to be the vanguard–it did not matter of what. Her method had always been to take a careless leap and land triumphantly far ahead of all others. Her philosophy consisted of one sentence–“I can get away with anything.” In conversation she paraphrased it to her favorite line: “I? I’m the day after tomorrow.” She was an expert horsewoman, a racing driver, a stunt pilot, a swimming champion. When she saw that the emphasis of the day had switched to the realm of ideas, she took another leap, as she did over any ditch. She landed well in front, in the latest. Having landed, she was amazed to find that there were people who questioned her feat. Nobody had ever questioned her other achievements. She acquired an impatient anger against all those who disagreed with her political views. It was a personal issue. She had to be right, since she was the day after tomorrow.
    Her husband, Mitchell Layton, hated her.
    “It’s a perfectly valid discussion,” he snapped. “Everybody can’t be as competent as you, my dear. We must help the others. It’s the moral duty of intellectual leaders. What I mean is we ought to lose that bugaboo of being scared of the word compulsion. It’s not compulsion when it’s for a good cause. What I mean is in the name of love. But I don’t know how we can make this country understand it. Americans are so stuffy.”
    He could not forgive his country because it had given him a quarter of a billion dollars and then refused to grant him an equal amount of reverence. People would not take his views on art, literature, history, biology, sociology and metaphysics as they took his checks. He complained that people identified him with his money too much; he hated them because they did not identify him enough.
    “There’s a great deal to be said for compulsion,” stated Homer Slottern. “Provided it’s democratically planned. The common good must always come first, whether we like it or not.”
    Translated into language, Homer Slottern’s attitude consisted of two parts, they were contradictory parts, but this did not trouble him, since they remained untranslated in his mind. First, he felt that abstract theories were nonsense, and if the customers wanted this particular kind, it was perfectly safe to give it to them, and good business, besides. Second, he felt uneasy that he had neglected whatever it was people called spiritual life, in the rush of making money; maybe men like Toohey had something there. And what if his stores were taken away from him? Wouldn’t it really be easier to live as manager of a State-owned Department Store? Wouldn’t a manager’s salary give him all the prestige and comfort he now enjoyed, without the responsibility of ownership?
    “Is it true that in the future society any woman will sleep with any man she wants,” asked Renee Slottern. It had started as a question, but it petered out. She did not really want to know. She merely felt a vapid wonder about how it felt to have a man one really wanted and how one went about wanting.
    “It’s stupid to talk about personal choice,” said Eve Layton. “It’s old-fashioned. There’s no such thing as a person. There’s only a collective entity. It’s self-evident.”
    Ellsworth Toohey smiled and said nothing.
    “Something’s got to be done about the masses,” Mitchell Layton declared. “They’ve got to be led. They don’t know what’s good for them. What I mean is, I can’t understand why people of culture and position like us understand the great ideal of collectivism so well and are willing to sacrifice our personal advantages, while the working man who has everything to gain from it remains so stupidly indifferent. I can’t understand why the workers in this country have so little sympathy with collectivism.”
    “Can’t you?” said Ellsworth Toohey. His glasses sparkled.
”I’m bored with this,” snapped Eve Layton, pacing the room, light streaming off her shoulders. The conversation switched to art and its acknowledged leaders of the day in every field.
    “Lois Cook said that words must be freed from the oppression of reason. She said the stranglehold of reason upon words is like the exploitation of the masses by the capitalists. Words must be permitted to negotiate with reason through collective bargaining. That’s what she said. She’s so amusing and refreshing.”
    “Dee–what’s his name again?–says that the theater is an instrument of love. It’s all wrong, he says, about a play taking place on the stage–it takes place in the hearts of the audience.”
    “Jules Fougler said in last Sunday’s Banner that in the world of the future the theater will not be necessary at all. He says that the daily life of the common man is as much a work of art in itself as the best Shakespearean tragedy. In the future there will be no need for a dramatist. The critic will simply observe the life of the masses and evaluate its artistic points for the public. That’s what Jules Fougler said. Now I don’t know whether I agree with him, but he’s got an interesting fresh angle there.”
    “Lancelot Clokey says the British Empire is doomed. He says there will be no war, because the workers of the world won’t allow it, it’s international bankers and munitions markers who start wars and they’ve been kicked out of the saddle. Lancelot Clokey says that the universe is a mystery and that his mother is his best friend. He says the Premier of Bulgaria eats herring for breakfast.”
    “Gordon Prescott says that four walls and a ceiling is all there is to architecture. The floor is optional. All the rest is capitalistic ostentation. He says nobody should be allowed to build anything anywhere until every inhabitant of the globe has a roof over his head…Well, what about the Patagonians? It’s our job to teach them to want a roof. Prescott calls it dialectic trans-spatial interdependence.”
    Ellsworth Toohey said nothing. He stood smiling at the vision of a huge typewriter. Each famous name he heard was a key of its keyboard, each controlling a special field, each hitting, leaving its mark, and the whole making connected sentences on a vast blank sheet. A typewriter, he thought, presupposes the hand that punches its keys.
    He snapped to attention when he heard Mitchell Layton’s sulking voice say:
    “Oh, yes, the Banner, God damn it!”
    “I know,” said Homer Slottern.
    “It’s slipping,” said Mitchell Layton. “It’s definitely slipping A swell investment it turned out to be for me. It’s the only time Ellsworth’s been wrong.”
    “Ellsworth is never wrong,” said Eve Layton.
    “Well, he was, that time. It was he who advised me to buy a piece of that lousy sheet.” He saw Toohey’s eyes, patient as velvet, and he added hastily: “What I mean is, I’m not complaining, Ellsworth. It’s all right. It may even help me to slice something off my damned income tax. But that filthy reactionary rag is sure going downhill.”
    “Have a little patience, Mitch,” said Toohey.
”You don’t think I should sell and get out from under?”
”No, Mitch, I don’t.”
”Okay, if you say so. I can afford it. I can afford anything.”
”But I jolly well can’t!” Homer Slottern cried with surprising vehemence. “It’s coming to where
    one can’t afford to advertise in the Banner. It’s not their circulation–that’s okay–but there’s a feeling around–a funny kind of feeling….Ellsworth, I’ve been thinking of dropping my contract.”
    “Why?”
”Do you know about the ‘We Don’t Read Wynand’ movement?” “I’ve heard about it.”
    “It’s run by somebody named Gus Webb. They paste stickers on parked windshields and in public privies. They hiss Wynand newsreels in theaters. I don’t think it’s a large group, but…Last week an unappetizing female threw a fit in my store–the one on Fifty Avenue– calling us enemies of labor because we advertised in the Banner. You can ignore that, but it becomes serious when one of our oldest customers, a mild little old lady from Connecticut and a Republican for three generations, calls us to say that perhaps maybe she should cancel her charge account, because somebody told her that Wynand is a dictator.”
    “Gail Wynand knows nothing about politics except of the most primitive kind,” said Toohey. “He still thinks in terms of the Democratic Club of Hell’s Kitchen. There was a certain innocence about the political corruption of those days, don’t you think so?”
    “I don’t care. That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, the Banner is becoming a kind of liability. It hurts business. One’s got to be so careful nowadays. You get tied up with the wrong people and first thing you know there’s a smear campaign going on and you get splashed too. I can’t afford that sort of thing.”
    “It’s not entirely an unjustified smear.”
    “I don’t care. I don’t give a damn whether it’s true or not. Who am I to stick my neck out for Gail Wynand? If there’s a public sentiment against him, my job is to get as far away as I can, pronto. And I’m not the only one. There’s a bunch of us who’re thinking the same. Jim Ferris of Ferris & Symes, Billy Shultz of Vimo Flakes, Bud Harper of Toddler Togs, and…hell, you know them all, they’re all your friends, our bunch, the liberal businessmen. We all want to yank our ads out of the Banner.”
    “Have a little patience, Homer. I wouldn’t hurry. There’s a proper time for everything. There’s such a thing as a psychological moment.”
    “Okay, I’ll take your word for it. But there’s–there’s a kind of feeling in the air. It will become dangerous some day.”
    “It might. I’ll tell you when it will.”
    “I thought Ellsworth worked on the Banner,” said Renee Slottern vacantly, puzzled.
    The others turned to her with indignation and pity.
    “You’re naive, Renee,” shrugged Eve Layton.
    “But what’s the matter with the Banner?”
    “Now, child, don’t you bother with dirty politics,” said Jessica Pratt. “The Banner is a wicked paper. Mr. Wynand is a very evil man. He represents the selfish interests of the rich.”
    “I think he’s good-looking,” said Renee. “I think he has sex appeal.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” cried Eve Layton.
    “Now, after all, Renee is entitled to express her opinion,” Jessica Pratt said with immediate rage.
    “Somebody told me Ellsworth is the president of the Union of Wynand Employees,” drawled Renee.
    “Oh dear me, no, Renee. I’m never president of anything. I’m just a rank-and-file member. Like any copy boy.”
    “Do they have a Union of Wynand Employees?” asked Homer Slottern.
”It was just a club, at first,” said Toohey. “It became a union last year.”
”Who organized it?”
”How can one tell? It was more or less spontaneous. Like all mass movements.”
    “I think Wynand is a bastard,” declared Mitchell Layton. “Who does he think he is anyway? I come to a meeting of stockholders and he treats us like flunkies. Isn’t my money as good as his? Don’t I own a hunk of his damn paper? I could teach him a thing or two about journalism. I have ideas. What’s he so damn arrogant about? Just because he made that fortune himself? Does he have to be such a damn snob just because he came from Hell’s Kitchen? It isn’t other people’s fault if they weren’t lucky enough to be born in Hell’s Kitchen to rise out of! Nobody understands what a terrible handicap it is to be born rich. Because people just take for granted that because you were born that way you’d just be no good if you weren’t What I mean is if I’d had Gail Wynand’s breaks, I’d be twice as rich as he is by now and three times as famous. But he’s so conceited he doesn’t realize this at all!”
    Nobody said a word. They heard the rising inflection of hysteria in Mitchell Layton’s voice. Eve Layton looked at Toohey, silently appealing for help. Toohey smiled and made a step forward.
    “I’m ashamed of you, Mitch,” he said.
    Homer Slottern gasped. One did not rebuke Mitchell Layton on this subject; one did not rebuke Mitchell Layton on any subject.
    Mitchell Layton’s lower lip vanished.
    “I’m ashamed of you, Mitch,” Toohey repeated sternly, “for comparing yourself to a man as contemptible as Gail Wynand.”
    Mitchell Layton’s mouth relaxed in the equivalent of something almost as gentle as a smile. “That’s true,” he said humbly.
    “No, you would never be able to match Gail Wynand’s career. Not with your sensitive spirit and humanitarian instincts. That’s what’s holding you down, Mitch, not your money. Who cares about money? The age of money is past. It’s your nature that’s too fine for the brute competition of our capitalistic system. But that, too, is passing.”
    “It’s self-evident,” said Eve Layton.
    It was late when Toohey left. He felt exhilarated and he decided to walk home. The streets of the city lay gravely empty around him, and the dark masses of the buildings rose to the sky, confident and unprotected. He remembered what he had said to Dominique once: “A complicated piece of machinery, such as our society…and by pressing your little finger against one spot…the center of all its gravity…you can make the thing crumble into a worthless heap of scrap iron…” He missed Dominique. He wished she could have been with him to hear this evening’s conversation.
    The unshared was boiling up within him. He stopped in the middle of a silent street, threw his head back and laughed aloud, looking at the tops of skyscrapers.
    A policeman tapped him on the shoulder, asking: “Well, Mister?”
    Toohey saw buttons and blue cloth tight over a broad chest, a stolid face, hard and patient; a man as set and dependable as the buildings around them.
    “Doing your duty, officer?” Toohey asked, the echoes of laughter like jerks in his voice. “Protecting law and order and decency and human lives?” The policeman scratched the back of his head. “You ought to arrest me, officer.”
    “Okay, pal, okay,” said the policeman. “Run along. We all take one too many once in a while.”
    7.
    IT WAS only when the last painter had departed that Peter Keating felt a sense of desolation and a numb weakness in the crook of his elbows. He stood in the hall, looking up at the ceiling. Under the harsh gloss of paint he could still see the outline of the square where the stairway had been removed and the opening closed over. Guy Francon’s old office was gone. The firm Keating & Dumont had a single floor left now.
    He thought of the stairway and how he had walked up its red-plushed steps for the first time, carrying a drawing on the tips of his fingers. He thought of Guy Francon’s office with the glittering butterfly reflections. He thought of the four years when that office had been his own.
    He had known what was happening to his firm, in these last years; he had known it quite well while men in overalls removed the stairway and closed the gap in the ceiling. But it was that square under the white paint that made it real to him, and final.
    He had resigned himself to the process of going down, long ago. He had not chosen to resign himself–that would have been a positive decision–it had merely happened and he had let it happen. It had been simple and almost painless, like drowsiness carrying one down to nothing more sinister than a welcome sleep. The dull pain came from wishing to understand why it had happened.
    There was “The March of the Centuries” exposition, but that alone could not have mattered. “The March of the Centuries” had opened in May. It was a flop. What’s the use, thought Keating, why not say the right word? Flop. It was a ghastly flop. “The title of this venture would be most appropriate,” Ellsworth Toohey had written, “if we assumed that the centuries had passed by on horseback.” Everything else written about the architectural merits of the exposition had been of the same order.
    Keating thought, with wistful bitterness, of how conscientiously they had worked, he and the seven other architects, designing those buildings. It was true that he had pushed himself forward and hogged the publicity, but he certainly had not done that as far as designing was concerned. They had worked in harmony, through conference after conference, each giving in to the others, in true collective spirit, none trying to impose his personal prejudices or selfish ideas. Even Ralston Holcombe had forgotten Renaissance. They had made the buildings modern, more modem than anything ever seen, more modern than the show windows of Slottern’s Department Store. He did not think that the buildings looked like “coils of toothpaste when somebody steps on the tube or stylized versions of the lower intestine,” as one critic had said. But the public seemed to think it, if the public thought at all. He couldn’t tell. He knew only that tickets to “The March of the Centuries” were being palmed off at Screeno games in theaters, and that the sensation of the exposition, the financial savior, was somebody named Juanita Fay who danced with a live peacock as sole garment.
    But what if the Fair did flop? It had not hurt the other architects of its council. Gordon L. Prescott was going stronger than ever. It wasn’t that, thought Keating. It had begun before the Fair. He could not say when.
    There could be so many explanations. The depression had hit them all; others had recovered to some extent, Keating & Dumont had not. Something had gone out of the firm and out of the circles from which it drew its clients, with the retirement of Guy Francon. Keating realized that there had been art and skill and its own kind of illogical energy in the career of Guy Francon, even if the art consisted only of his social charm and the energy was directed at snaring bewildered millionaires. There had been a twisted sort of sense in people’s response to Guy Francon.
    He could see no hint of rationality in the things to which people responded now. The leader of the profession–on a mean scale, there was no grand scale left in anything–was Gordon L. Prescott, Chairman of the Council of American Builders; Gordon L. Prescott who lectured on the transcendental pragmatism of architecture and social planning, who put his feet on tables in drawing rooms, attended formal dinners in knickerbockers and criticized the soup aloud. Society people said they liked an architect who was a liberal. The A.G.A. still existed, in stiff, hurt dignity, but people referred to it as the Old Folks’ Home. The Council of American Builders ruled the profession and talked about a closed shop, though no one had yet devised a way of achieving that. Whenever an architect’s name appeared in Ellsworth Toohey’s column, it was always that of Augustus Webb. At thirty-nine, Keating heard himself described as old-fashioned.
    He had given up trying to understand. He knew dimly that the explanation of the change swallowing the world was of a nature he preferred not to know. In his youth he had felt an amicable contempt for the works of Guy Francon or Ralston Holcombe, and emulating them had seemed no more than innocent quackery. But he knew that Gordon L. Prescott and Gus Webb represented so impertinent, so vicious a fraud that to suspend the evidence of his eyes was beyond his elastic capacity. He had believed that people found greatness in Holcombe and there had been a reasonable satisfaction in borrowing his borrowed greatness. He knew that no one saw anything whatever in Prescott. He felt something dark and leering in the manner with which people spoke of Prescott’s genius; as if they were not doing homage to Prescott, but spitting upon genius. For once, Keating could not follow people; it was too clear, even to him, that public favor had ceased being a recognition of merit, that it had become almost a brand of shame.
    He went on, driven by inertia. He could not afford his large floor of offices and he did not use half the rooms, but he kept them and paid the deficit out of his own pocket. He had to go on. He had lost a large part of his personal fortune in careless stock speculation; but he had enough left to insure some comfort for the rest of his life. This did not disturb him; money had ceased to hold his attention as a major concern. It was inactivity he dreaded; it was the question mark looming beyond, if the routine of his work were to be taken away from him.
    He walked slowly, his arms pressed to his body, his shoulders hunched, as if drawn against a permanent chill. He was gaining weight. His face was swollen; he kept it down, and the pleat of a second chin was flattened against the knot of his necktie. A hint of his beauty remained and made him look worse; as if the lines of his face had been drawn on a blotter and had spread, blurring. The gray threads on his temples were becoming noticeable. He drank often, without joy.
    He had asked his mother to come back to live with him. She had come back. They sat through long evenings together in the living room, saying nothing; not in resentment, but seeking reassurance from each other. Mrs. Keating offered no suggestions, no reproaches. There was, instead, a new, panic-shaped tenderness in her manner toward her son. She would cook his breakfast, even though they had a maid; she would prepare his favorite dish– French pancakes, the kind he had liked so much when he was nine years old and sick with the measles. If he noticed her efforts and made some comment of pleasure, she nodded, blinking, turning away, asking herself why it should make her so happy and if it did, why should her eyes fill with tears.
    She would ask suddenly, after a silence: “it will be all right, Petey? Won’t it?” And he would not ask what she meant, but answer quietly: “Yes, Mother, it will be all right,” putting the last of his capacity for pity into an effort to make his voice sound convincing.
    Once, she asked him: “You’re happy, Petey? Aren’t you?” He looked at her and saw that she was not laughing at him; her eyes were wide and frightened. And as he could not answer, she cried: “But you’ve got to be happy! Petey, you’ve got to! Else what have I lived for?” He wanted to get up, gather her in his arms and tell her that it was all right–and then he remembered Guy Francon saying to him on his wedding day: “I want you to feel proud of me, Peter….I want to feel that it had some meaning.” Then he could not move. He felt himself in the presence of something he must not grasp, must never allow into his mind. He turned away from his mother.
    One evening, she said without preamble. “Petey, I think you should get married. I think it would be much better if you were married.” He found no answer, and while he groped for something gay to utter, she added: “Petey, why don’t you…why don’t you marry Catherine Halsey?” He felt anger filling his eyes, he felt pressure on his swollen lids, while he was turning slowly to his mother; then he saw her squat little figure before him, stiff and defenseless, with a kind of desperate pride, offering to take any blow he wished to deliver, absolving him in advance–and he knew that it had been the bravest gesture she had ever attempted. The anger went, because he felt her pain more sharply than the shock of his own, and he lifted one hand, to let it fall limply, to let the gesture cover everything, saying only: “Mother, don’t let’s ,..”
    On weekends, not often, but once or twice a month, he vanished out of town. No one knew where he went. Mrs. Keating worried about it, but asked no questions. She suspected that there was a woman somewhere, and not a nice one, or he would not be so glumly silent on the subject Mrs. Keating found herself hoping that he had fallen into the clutches of the worst, greediest slut who would have sense enough to make him marry her.
    He went to a shack he had rented in the hills of an obscure village. He kept paints, brushes and canvas in the shack. He spent his days in the hills, painting. He could not tell why he had remembered that unborn ambition of his youth, which his mother had drained and switched into the channel of architecture. He could not tell by what process the impulse had become irresistible; but he had found the shack and tie liked going there.
    He could not say that he liked to paint. It was neither pleasure nor relief, it was self-torture, but somehow, that didn’t matter. He sat on a canvas stool before a small easel and he looked at an empty sweep of hills, at the woods and the sky. He had a quiet pain as sole conception of what he wanted to express, a humble, unbearable tenderness for the sight of the earth around him–and something tight, paralyzed, as sole means to express it. He went on. He tried. He looked at his canvases and knew that nothing was captured in their childish crudeness. It did not matter. No one was to see them. He stacked them carefully in a corner of the shack, and he locked the door before he returned to town. There was no pleasure in it, no pride, no solution; only–while he sat alone before the easel–a sense of peace.
    He tried not to think of Ellsworth Toohey. A dim instinct told him that he could preserve a precarious security of spirit so long as he did not touch upon that subject. There could be but one explanation of Toohey’s behavior toward him–and he preferred not to formulate it.
    Toohey had drifted away from him. The intervals between their meetings had grown longer each year. He accepted it and told himself that Toohey was busy. Toohey’s public silence about him was baffling. He told himself that Toohey had more important things to write about. Toohey’s criticism of “The March of the Centuries” had been a blow. He told himself that his work had deserved it. He accepted any blame. He could afford to doubt himself. He could not afford to doubt Ellsworth Toohey.
    It was Neil Dumont who forced him to think of Toohey again. Neil spoke petulantly about the state of the world, about crying over spilt milk, change as a law of existence, adaptability, and the importance of getting in on the ground floor. Keating gathered, from a long, confused speech, that business, as they had known it, was finished, that government would take over whether they liked it or not, that the building trade was dying and the government would soon be the sole builder and they might as well get in now, if they wanted to get in at all. “Look at Gordon Prescott,” said Neil Dumont, “and what a sweet little monopoly he’s got himself in housing projects and post offices. Look at Gus Webb muscling in on the racket.”
    Keating did not answer. Neil Dumont was throwing his own unconfessed thoughts at him; he had known that he would have to face this soon and he had tried to postpone the moment.
    He did not want to think of Cortlandt Homes.
    Cortlandt Homes was a government housing project to be built in Astoria, on the shore of the East River. It was planned as a gigantic experiment in low-rent housing, to serve as model for the whole country; for the whole world. Keating had heard architects talking about it for over a year. The appropriation had been approved and the site chosen; but not the architect. Keating would not admit to himself how desperately he wanted to get Cortlandt and how little chance
    he had of getting it.
    “Listen, Pete, we might as well call a spade a spade,” said Neil Dumont. “We’re on the skids, pal, and you know it. All right, we’ll last another year or two, coasting on your reputation. And then? It’s not our fault. It’s just that private enterprise is dead and getting deader. It’s a historical process. The wave of the future. So we might as well get our surfboard while we can. There’s a good, sturdy one waiting for the boy who’s smart enough to grab it. Cortlandt Homes.”
    Now he had heard it pronounced. Keating wondered why the name had sounded like the muffled stroke of a bell; as if the sound had opened and closed a sequence which he would not be able to stop.
    “What do you mean, Neil?”
”Cortlandt Homes. Ellsworth Toohey. Now you know what I mean.” “Neil, I…”
    “What’s the matter with you, Pete? Listen, everybody’s laughing about it. Everybody’s saying that if they were Toohey’s special pet, like you are, they’d get Cortlandt Homes like that”–he snapped his manicured fingers–“just like that, and nobody can understand what you’re waiting for. You know it’s friend Ellsworth who’s running this particular housing show.”
    “It’s not true. He is not. He has no official position. He never has any official position.”
    “Whom are you kidding? Most of the boys that count in every office are his boys. Damned if I know how he got them in, but he did. What’s the matter, Pete? Are you afraid of asking Ellsworth Toohey for a favor?”
    This was it, thought Keating; now there was no retreat. He could not admit to himself that he was afraid of asking Ellsworth Toohey.
    “No,” he said, his voice dull, “I’m not afraid, Neil. I’ll…All right, Neil. I’ll speak to Ellsworth.” #
    Ellsworth Toohey sat spread out on a couch, wearing a dressing gown. His body had the shape of a sloppy letter X-arms stretched over his head, along the edge of the back pillows, legs open in a wide fork. The dressing gown was made of silk, bearing the trademarked pattern of Coty’s face powder, white puffs on an orange background; it looked daring and gay, supremely elegant through sheer silliness. Under the gown, Toohey wore sleeping pyjamas of pistachio-green linen, crumpled. The trousers floated about the thin sticks of his ankles.
    This was just like Toohey, thought Keating; this pose amidst the severe fastidiousness of his living room; a single canvas by a famous artist on the wall behind him–and the rest of the room unobtrusive like a monk’s cell; no, thought Keating, like the retreat of a king in exile, scornful of material display.
    Toohey’s eyes were warm, amused, encouraging. Toohey had answered the telephone in person; Toohey had granted him the appointment at once. Keating thought: It’s good to be received like this, informally. What was I afraid of? What did I doubt? We’re old friends.
    “Oh dear me,” said Toohey, yawning, “one gets so tired! There comes a moment into every man’s day when he gets the urge to relax like a stumble bum. I got home and just felt I couldn’t keep my clothes on another minute. Felt like a damn peasant–just plain itchy–and had to get out. You don’t mind, do you, Peter? With some people it’s necessary to be stiff and formal, but with you it’s not necessary at all.”
    “No, of course not.”
    “Think I’ll take a bath after a while. There’s nothing like a good hot bath to make one feel like a parasite. Do you like hot baths, Peter?”
    “Why…yes…I guess so…”
    “You’re gaining weight, Peter. Pretty soon you’ll look revolting in a bathtub. You’re gaining weight and you look peaked. That’s a bad combination. Absolutely wrong aesthetically. Fat people should be happy and jolly.”
    “I…I’m all right, Ellsworth. It’s only that…”
”You used to have a nice disposition. You mustn’t lose that. People will get bored with you.”
    “I haven’t changed, Ellsworth.” Suddenly he stressed the words. “I haven’t really changed at all. I’m just what I was when I designed the Cosmo-Slotnick Building.”
    He looked at Toohey hopefully. He thought this was a hint crude enough for Toohey to understand; Toohey understood things much more delicate than that. He waited to be helped out. Toohey went on looking at him, his eyes sweet and blank.
    “Why, Peter, that’s an unphilosophical statement. Change is the basic principle of the universe. Everything changes. Seasons, leaves, flowers, birds, morals, men and buildings. The dialectic process, Peter.”
    “Yes, of course. Things change, so fast, in such a funny way. You don’t even notice how, and suddenly one morning there it is. Remember, just a few years ago, Lois Cook and Gordon Prescott and Ike and Lance–they were nobody at all. And now–why, Ellsworth, they’re on top and they’re all yours. Anywhere I look, any big name I hear–it’s one of your boys. You’re amazing, Ellsworth. How anybody can do that–in just a few years–”
    “It’s much simpler than it appears to you, Peter. That’s because you think in terms of personalities. You think it’s done piecemeal. But dear me, the lifetimes of a hundred press agents wouldn’t be enough. It can be done much faster. This is the age of time-saving devices. If you want something to grow, you don’t nurture each seed separately. You just spread a certain fertilizer. Nature will do the rest. I believe you think I’m the only one responsible. But I’m not. Goodness, no. I’m just one figure out of many, one lever in a very vast movement. Very vast and very ancient. It just so happened that I chose the field that interests you–the field of art–because I thought that it focused the decisive factors in the task we had to accomplish.”
    “Yes, of course, but I mean, I think you were so clever. I mean, that you could pick young people who had talent, who had a future. Damned if I know how you guessed in advance. Remember the awful loft we had for the Council of American Builders? And nobody took us seriously. And people used to laugh at you for wasting time on all kinds of silly organizations.”
    “My dear Peter, people go by so many erroneous assumptions. For instance, that old one– divide and conquer. Well, it has its applications. But it remained for our century to discover a much more potent formula. Unite and rule.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Nothing that you could possibly grasp. And I must not overtax your strength. You don’t look as if you had much to spare.”
    “Oh, I’m all right. I might look a little worried, because…”
    “Worry is a waste of emotional reserves. Very foolish. Unworthy of an enlightened person. Since we are merely the creatures of our chemical metabolism and of the economic factors of our background, there’s not a damn thing we can do about anything whatever. So why worry? There are, of course, apparent exceptions. Merely apparent. When circumstances delude us into thinking that free action is indicated. Such, for instance, as your coming here to talk about Cortlandt Homes.”
    Keating blinked, then smiled gratefully. He thought it was just like Toohey to guess and spare him the embarrassing preliminaries.
    “That’s right, Ellsworth. That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. You’re wonderful. You know me like a book.”
    “What kind of a book, Peter? A dime novel? A love story? A crime thriller? Or just a plagiarized manuscript? No, let’s say: like a serial. A good, long, exciting serial–with the last installment missing. The last installment got mislaid somewhere. There won’t be any last installment. Unless, of course, it’s Cortlandt Homes. Yes, that would be a fitting closing chapter.” Keating waited, eyes intent and naked, forgetting to think of shame, of pleading that should be concealed. “A tremendous project, Cortlandt Homes. Bigger than Stoneridge. Do you remember Stoneridge, Peter?”
    He’s just relaxed with me, thought Keating, he’s tired, he can’t be tactful all the time, he doesn’t realize what he…
    “Stoneridge. The great residential development by Gail Wynand. Have you ever thought of Gail Wynand’s career, Peter? From wharf rat to Stoneridge–do you know what a step like that means? Would you care to compute the effort, the energy, the suffering with which Gail Wynand has paid for every step of his way? And here I am, and I hold a project much bigger than Stoneridge in the palm of my hand, without any effort at all.” He dropped his hand and added: “If I do hold it. Might be only a figure of speech. Don’t take me literally, Peter.”
    “I hate Wynand,” said Keating, looking down at the floor, his voice thick. “I hate him more than any man living.”
    “Wynand? He’s a very naive person. He’s naive enough to think that men are motivated primarily by money.”
    “You aren’t, Ellsworth. You’re a man of integrity. That’s why I believe in you. It’s all I’ve got. If I stopped believing in you, there would be nothing…anywhere.”
    “Thank you. Peter. That’s sweet of you. Hysterical, but sweet.” “Ellsworth…you know how I feel about you.”
”I have a fair idea.”
”You see, that’s why I can’t understand.”
    “W hat?”
He had to say it. He had decided, above all, never to say it, but he had to.
    “Ellsworth, why have you dropped me? Why don’t you ever write anything about me any more? Why is it always–in your column and everywhere–and on any commission you have a chance to swing–why is it always Gus Webb?”
    “But, Peter, why shouldn’t it be?” “But…I…”
    “I’m sorry to see that you haven’t understood me at all. In all these years, you’ve learned nothing of my principles. I don’t believe in individualism, Peter. I don’t believe that any one man is any one thing which everybody else can’t be. I believe we’re all equal and interchangeable. A position you hold today can be held by anybody and everybody tomorrow. Egalitarian rotation. Haven’t I always preached that to you? Why do you suppose I chose you? Why did I put you where you were? To protect the field from men who would become irreplaceable. To leave a chance for the Gus Webbs of this world. Why do you suppose I fought against–for instance–Howard Roark?”
    Keating’s mind was a bruise. He thought it would be a bruise, because it felt as if something flat and heavy had smashed against it, and it would be black and blue and swollen later; now he felt nothing except a sweetish numbness. Such chips of thought as he could distinguish told him that the ideas he heard were of a high moral order, the ones he had always accepted,
    and therefore no evil could come to him from that, no evil could be intended. Toohey’s eyes looked straight at him, dark, gentle, benevolent. Maybe later…he would know later…But one thing had pierced through and remained caught on some fragment of his brain. He had understood that. The name.
    And while his sole hope of grace rested in Toohey, something inexplicable twisted within him, he leaned forward, knowing that this would hurt, wishing it to hurt Toohey, and his lips curled incredibly into a smile, baring his teeth and gums:
    “You failed there, didn’t you, Ellsworth? Look where he is now–Howard Roark.”
    “Oh dear me, how dull it is to discuss things with minds devoted to the obvious. You are utterly incapable of grasping principles, Peter. You think only in terms of persons. Do you really suppose that I have no mission in life save to worry over the specific fate of your Howard Roark? Mr. Roark is merely one detail out of many. I have dealt with him when it was convenient. I am still dealing with him–though not directly. I do grant you, however, that Mr. Howard Roark is a great temptation to me. At times I feel it would be a shame if I never came up against him personally again. But it might not be necessary at all. When you deal in principles, Peter, it saves you the trouble of individual encounters.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean that you can follow one of two procedures. You can devote your life to pulling out each single weed as it comes up–and then ten lifetimes won’t be enough for the job. Or you can prepare your soil in such a manner–by spreading a certain chemical, let us say–that it will be impossible for weeds to grow. This last is faster. I say ‘weed’ because it is the conventional symbolism and will not frighten you. The same technique, of course, holds true in the case of any other living plant you may wish to eliminate: buckwheat, potatoes, oranges, orchids or morning glories.”
    “Ellsworth, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “But of course you don’t. That’s my advantage I say these things publicly every single day–and nobody knows what I’m talking about.”
    “Have you heard that Howard Roark is doing a house, his own home, for Gail Wynand?” “My dear Peter, did you think I had to wait to learn it from you?”
”Well, how do you like that?”
”Why should it concern me one way or another?”
    “Have you heard that Roark and Wynand are the best of friends? And what friendship, from what I hear! Well? You know what Wynand can do. You know what he can make of Roark. Try and stop Roark now! Try and stop him! Try…”
    He choked on a gulp and kept still. He found himself staring at Toohey’s bare ankle between the pyjama trouser and the rich fur of a sheepskin-lined slipper. He had never visualized Toohey’s nudity; somehow, he had never thought of Toohey as possessing a physical body. There was something faintly indecent about that ankle: Just skin, too bluish-white, stretched over bones that looked too brittle. It made him think of chicken bones left on a plate after dinner, dried out; if one touches them, it takes no effort at all, they just snap. He found himself wishing to reach out, to take that ankle between thumb and forefinger, and just twist the pads of his fingertips.
    “Ellsworth, I came here to talk about Cortlandt Homes!” He could not take his eyes off the ankle. He hoped the words would release him.
    “Don’t shout like that. What’s the matter?…Cortlandt Homes? Well, what did you want to say about it?”
    He had to lift his eyes now, in astonishment. Toohey waited innocently.
    “I want to design Cortlandt Homes,” he said, his voice coming like a paste strained through a cloth. “I want you to give it to me.”
    “Why should I give it to you?”
    There was no answer. If he were to say now: Because you’ve written that I’m the greatest architect living, the reminder would prove that Toohey believed it no longer. He dared not face such proof, nor Toohey’s possible reply. He was staring at two long black hairs on the bluish knob of Toohey’s ankle; he could see them quite clearly; one straight, the other twisted into a curlicue. After a long time, he answered:
    “Because I need it very badly, Ellsworth.” “I know you do.”
    There was nothing further to say. Toohey shifted his ankle, raised his foot and put it flat upon the arm of the couch, spreading his legs comfortably.
    “Sit up, Peter. You look like a gargoyle.” Keating did not move.
    “What made you assume that the selection of an architect for Cortlandt Homes was up to me?”
    Keating raised his head; it was a stab of relief. He had presumed too much and offended Toohey; that was the reason; that was the only reason.
    “Why, I understand…it’s being said…I was told that you have a great deal of influence on this particular project…with those people…and in Washington…and places…”
    “Strictly in an unofficial capacity. As something of an expert in architectural matters. Nothing else.”
    “Yes, of course…That’s…what I meant.”
    “I can recommend an architect. That’s all. I can guarantee nothing. My word is not final.”
    “That’s all I wanted, Ellsworth. A word of recommendation from you…”
    “But, Peter, if I recommend someone, I must give a reason. I can’t use such influence as I might have, just to push a friend, can I?”
    Keating stared at the dressing gown, thinking: powder puffs, why powder puffs? That’s what’s wrong with me, if he’d only take the thing off.
    “Your professional standing is not what it used to be, Peter.” “You said to ‘push a friend,’ Ellsworth…” It was a whisper.
    “Well, of course I’m your friend. I’ve always been your friend. You’re not doubting that, are you?”
    “No…I can’t, Ellsworth…”
    “Well, cheer up, then. Look, I’ll tell you the truth. We’re stuck on that damn Cortlandt. There’s a nasty little sticker involved. I’ve tried to get it for Gordon Prescott and Gus Webb–I thought it was more in their line, I didn’t think you’d be so interested. But neither of them could make the grade. Do you know the big problem in housing? Economy, Peter. How to design a decent modern unit that could rent for fifteen dollars a month. Ever tried to figure out that one? Well, that’s what’s expected of the architect who’ll do Cortlandt–if they ever find him. Of course, tenant selection helps, they stagger the rents, the families who make twelve hundred a year
    pay more for the same apartment to help carry the families who make six hundred a year–you know, underdog milked to help somebody underdoggier–but still, the cost of the building and the upkeep must be as low as humanly possible. The boys in Washington don’t want another one of those–you heard about it, a little government development where the homes cost ten thousand dollars apiece, while a private builder could have put them up for two thousand. Cortlandt is to be a model project. An example for the whole world. It must be the most brilliant, the most efficient exhibit of planning ingenuity and structural economy ever achieved anywhere. That’s what the big boys demand. Gordon and Gus couldn’t do it. They tried and were turned down. You’d be surprised to know how many people have tried. Peter, I couldn’t sell you to them even at the height of your career. What can I tell them about you? All you stand for is plush, gilt and marble, old Guy Francon, the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, the Frink National Bank, and that little abortion of the Centuries that will never pay for itself. What they want is a millionaire’s kitchen for a sharecropper’s income. Think you can do it?”
    “I…I have ideas, Ellsworth. I’ve watched the field…I’ve…studied new methods….I could…”
    “If you can, it’s yours. If you can’t, all my friendship won’t help you. And God knows I’d like to help you. You look like an old hen in the rain. Here’s what I’ll do for you, Peter: come to my office tomorrow, I’ll give you all the dope, take it home and see if you wish to break your head over it. Take a chance, if you care to. Work me out a preliminary scheme. I can’t promise anything. But if you come anywhere near it, I’ll submit it to the right people and I’ll push it for all I’m worth. That’s all I can do for you. It’s not up to me. It’s really up to you.”
    Keating sat looking at him. Keating’s eyes were anxious, eager and hopeless.
    “Care to try, Peter?”
    “Will you let me try?”
    “Of course I’ll let you. Why shouldn’t I? I’d be delighted if you, of all people, turned out to be the one to turn the trick.”
    “About the way I look, Ellsworth,” he said suddenly, “about the way I look…it’s not because I mind so much that I’m a failure…it’s because I can’t understand why I slipped like that…from the top…without any reason at all…”
    “Well, Peter, that could be terrifying to contemplate. The inexplicable is always terrifying. But it wouldn’t be so frightening if you stopped to ask yourself whether there’s ever been any reason why you should have been at the top….Oh, come, Peter, smile, I’m only kidding. One loses everything when one loses one’s sense of humor.”
    On the following morning Keating came to his office after a visit to Ellsworth Toohey’s cubbyhole in the Banner Building. He brought with him a briefcase containing the data on the Cortlandt Homes project. He spread the papers on a large table in his office and locked the door. He asked a draftsman to bring him a sandwich at noon, and he ordered another sandwich at dinner time. “Want me to help, Pete?” asked Neil Dumont. “We could consult and discuss it and…” Keating shook his head.
    He sat at his table all night. After a while he stopped looking at the papers; he sat still, thinking. He was not thinking of the charts and figures spread before him. He had studied them. He had understood what he could not do.
    When he noticed that it was daylight, when he heard steps behind his locked door, the movement of men returning to work, and knew that office hours had begun, here and everywhere else in the city–he rose, walked to his desk and reached for the telephone book. He dialed the number.
    “This is Peter Keating speaking. I should like to make an appointment to see Mr. Roark.”
    Dear God, he thought while waiting, don’t let him see me. Make him refuse. Dear God, make him refuse and I will have the right to hate him to the end of my days. Don’t let him see me.
    “Will four o’clock tomorrow afternoon be convenient for you, Mr. Keating?” said the calm,
    gentle voice of the secretary. “Mr. Roark will see you then.”
    8.
    ROARK knew that he must not show the shock of his first glance at Peter Keating–and that it was too late: he saw a faint smile on Keating’s lips, terrible in its resigned acknowledgment of disintegration.
    “Are you only two years younger than I am, Howard?” was the first thing Keating asked, looking at the face of the man he had not seen for six years.
    “I don’t know, Peter, I think so. I’m thirty-seven.”
    “I’m thirty-nine–that’s all.”
    He moved to the chair in front of Roark’s desk, groping for it with his hand. He was blinded by the band of glass that made three walls of Roark’s office. He stared at the sky and the city. He had no feeling of height here, and the buildings seemed to lie under his toes, not a real city, but miniatures of famous landmarks, incongruously close and small; he felt he could bend and pick any one of them up in his hand. He saw the black dashes which were automobiles and they seemed to crawl, it took them so long to cover a block the size of his finger. He saw the stone and plaster of the city as a substance that had soaked up light and was throwing it back, row upon row of flat, vertical planes grilled with dots of windows, each plane a reflector, rose- colored, gold and purple–and jagged streaks of smoke-blue running among them, giving them shape, angles and distance. Light streamed from the buildings into the sky and made of the clear summer blue a humble second thought, a spread of pale water over living fire. My God, thought Keating, who are the men that made all this?–and then remembered that he had been one of them.
    He saw Roark’s figure for an instant, straight and gaunt against the angle of two glass panes behind the desk, then Roark sat down facing him.
    Keating thought of men lost in the desert and of men perishing at sea, when, in the presence of the silent eternity of the sky, they have to speak the truth. And now he had to speak the truth, because he was in the presence of the earth’s greatest city.
    “Howard, is this the terrible thing they meant by turning the other cheek–your letting me come here?’
    He did not think of his voice. He did not know that it had dignity.
Roark looked at him silently for a moment; this was a greater change than the swollen face.
    “I don’t know, Peter. No, if they meant actual forgiveness. Had I been hurt, I’d never forgive it. Yes, if they meant what I’m doing. I don’t think a man can hurt another, not in any important way. Neither hurt him nor help him. I have really nothing to forgive you.”
    “It would be better if you felt you had. It would be less cruel.” “I suppose so.”
”You haven’t changed, Howard.”
”I guess not.”
    “If this is the punishment I must take–I want you to know that I’m taking it and that I understand. At one time I would have thought I was getting off easy.”
    “You have changed, Peter.”
    “I know I have.”
”I’m sorry if it has to be punishment.”
    “I know you are. I believe you. But it’s all right. It’s only the last of it. I really took it night before last.”
    “When you decided to come here?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then don’t be afraid now. What is it?”
    Keating sat straight, calm, not as he had sat facing a man in a dressing gown three days ago, but almost in confident repose. He spoke slowly and without pity:
    “Howard, I’m a parasite. I’ve been a parasite all my life. You designed my best projects at Stanton. You designed the first house I ever built. You designed the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. I have fed on you and on all the men like you who lived before we were born. The men who designed the Parthenon, the Gothic cathedrals, the first skyscrapers. If they hadn’t existed, I wouldn’t have known how to put stone on stone. In the whole of my life, I haven’t added a new doorknob to what men have done before me. I have taken that which was not mine and given nothing in return. I had nothing to give. This is not an act, Howard, and I’m very conscious of what I’m saying. And I came here to ask you to save me again. If you wish to throw me out, do it now.”
    Roark shook his head slowly, and moved one hand in silent permission to continue.
    “I suppose you know that I’m finished as an architect. Oh, not actually finished, but near enough. Others could go on like this for quite a few years, but I can’t, because of what I’ve been. Or was thought to have been. People don’t forgive a man who’s slipping. I must live up to what they thought. I can do it only in the same way I’ve done everything else in my life. I need a prestige I don’t deserve for an achievement I didn’t accomplish to save a name I haven’t earned the right to bear. I’ve been given a last chance. I know it’s my last chance. I know I can’t do it. I won’t try to bring you a mess and ask you to correct it. I’m asking you to design it and let me put my name on it.”
    “What’s the job?”
”Cortlandt Homes.”
”The housing project?”
”Yes. You’ve heard about it?”
”I know everything about it.”
”You’re interested in housing projects, Howard?” “Who offered it to you? On what conditions?”
    Keating explained, precisely, dispassionately, relating his conversation with Toohey as if it were the summary of a court transcript he had read long ago. He pulled the papers out of his briefcase, put them down on the desk and went on speaking, while Roark looked at them. Roark interrupted him once. “Wait a moment, Peter. Keep still.” He waited for a long time. He saw Roark’s hand moving the papers idly, but he knew that Roark was not looking at the papers. Roark said: “Go on,” and Keating continued obediently, allowing himself no questions.
    “I suppose there’s no reason why you should do it for me,” he concluded. “If you can solve their problem, you can go to them and do it on your own.”
    Roark smiled. “Do you think I could get past Toohey?”
    “No. No, I don’t think you could.”
    “Who told you I was interested in housing projects?”
    “What architect isn’t?”
    “Well, I am. But not in the way you think.”
    He got up. It was a swift movement, impatient and tense. Keating allowed himself his first opinion: he thought it was strange to see suppressed excitement in Roark.
    “Let me think this over. Peter. Leave that here. Come to my house tomorrow night. I’ll tell you then.”
    “You’re not…turning me down?”
    “Not yet.”
    “You might…after everything that’s happened…?”
    “To hell with that.”
    “You’re going to consider…”
    “I can’t say anything now, Peter. I must think it over. Don’t count on it. I might want to demand something impossible of you.”
    “Anything you ask, Howard. Anything.”
”We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
”Howard, I…how can I try to thank you, even for…”
    “Don’t thank me. If I do it, I’ll have my own purpose. I’ll expect to gain as much as you will. Probably more. Just remember that I don’t do things on any other terms.”
#
    Keating came to Roark’s house on the following evening. He could not say whether he had waited impatiently or not. The bruise had spread. He could act; he could weigh nothing.
    He stood in the middle of Roark’s room and looked about slowly. He had been grateful for all the things Roark had not said to him. But he gave voice to the things himself when he asked:
    “This is the Enright House, isn’t it?”
”Yes.”
”You built it?”
Roark nodded, and said: “Sit down, Peter,” understanding too well.
    Keating had brought his briefcase; he put it down on the floor, propping it against his chair. The briefcase bulged and looked heavy; he handled it cautiously. Then he spread his hands out and forgot the gesture, holding it, asking:
    “W ell?”
”Peter, can you think for a moment that you’re alone in the world?” “I’ve been thinking that for three days.”
    “No. That’s not what I mean. Can you forget what you’ve been taught to repeat, and think, think hard, with your own brain? There are things I’ll want you to understand. It’s my first
    condition. I’m going to tell you what I want. If you think of it as most people do, you’ll say it’s nothing. But if you say that, I won’t be able to do it. Not unless you understand completely, with your whole mind, how important it is.”
    “I’ll try, Howard. I was…honest with you yesterday.”
    “Yes. If you hadn’t been, I would have turned you down yesterday. Now I think you might be able to understand and do your part of it.”
    “You want to do it?”
”I might. If you offer me enough.”
”Howard–anything you ask. Anything. I’d sell my soul…”
    “That’s the sort of thing I want you to understand. To sell your soul is the easiest thing in the world. That’s what everybody does every hour of his life. If I asked you to keep your soul– would you understand why that’s much harder?”
    “Yes…Yes, I think so.”
    “Well? Go on. I want you to give me a reason why I should wish to design Cortlandt. I want you to make me an offer.”
    “You can have all the money they pay me. I don’t need it. You can have twice the money. I’ll double their fee.”
    “You know better than that, Peter. Is that what you wish to tempt me with?” “You would save my life.”
”Can you think of any reason why I should want to save your life?”
”No.”
    “W ell?”
    “It’s a great public project, Howard. A humanitarian undertaking. Think of the poor people who live in slums. If you can give them decent comfort within their means, you’ll have the satisfaction of performing a noble deed.”
    “Peter, you were more honest than that yesterday.” His eyes dropped, his voice low, Keating said: “You will love designing it.”
”Yes, Peter. Now you’re speaking my language.” “What do you want?”
    “Now listen to me. I’ve been working on the problem of low-rent housing for years. I never thought of the poor people in slums. I thought of the potentialities of our modern world. The new materials, the means, the chances to take and use. There are so many products of man’s genius around us today. There are such great possibilities to exploit. To build cheaply, simply, intelligently. I’ve had a lot of time to study. I didn’t have much to do after the Stoddard Temple. I didn’t expect results. I worked because I can’t look at any material without thinking: What could be done with it? And the moment I think that, I’ve got to do it. To find the answer, to break the thing. I’ve worked on it for years. I loved it. I worked because it was a problem I wanted to solve. You wish to know how to build a unit to rent for fifteen dollars a month? I’ll show you how to build it for ten.” Keating made an involuntary movement forward. “But first, I want you to think and tell me what made me give years to this work. Money? Fame? Charity? Altruism?” Keating shook his head slowly. “All right. You’re beginning to understand. So
    whatever we do, don’t let’s talk about the poor people in the slums. They have nothing to do with it, though I wouldn’t envy anyone the job of trying to explain that to fools. You see, I’m never concerned with my clients, only with their architectural requirements. I consider these as part of my building’s theme and problem, as my building’s material–just as I consider bricks and steel. Bricks and steel are not my motive. Neither are the clients. Both are only the means of my work. Peter, before you can do things for people, you must be the kind of man who can get things done. But to get things done, you must love the doing, not the secondary consequences. The work, not the people. Your own action, not any possible object of your charity. I’ll be glad if people who need it find a better manner of living in a house I designed. But that’s not the motive of my work. Nor my reason. Nor my reward.”
    He walked to a window and stood looking out at the lights of the city trembling in the dark river.
    “You said yesterday: What architect isn’t interested in housing? I hate the whole blasted idea of it. I think it’s a worthy undertaking–to provide a decent apartment for a man who earns fifteen dollars a week. But not at the expense of other men. Not if it raises the taxes, raises all the other rents and makes the man who earns forty live in a rat hole. That’s what’s happening in New York. Nobody can afford a modern apartment–except the very rich and the paupers. Have you seen the converted brownstones in which the average self-supporting couple has to live? Have you seen their closet kitchens and their plumbing? They’re forced to live like that– because they’re not incompetent enough. They make forty dollars a week and wouldn’t be allowed into a housing project. But they’re the ones who provide the money for the damn project. They pay the taxes. And the taxes raise their own rent. And they have to move from a converted brownstone into an unconverted one and from that into a railroad flat. I’d have no desire to penalize a man because he’s worth only fifteen dollars a week. But I’ll be damned if I can see why a man worth forty must be penalized–and penalized in favor of the one who’s less competent. Sure, there are a lot of theories on the subject and volumes of discussion. But just look at the results. Still, architects are all for government housing. And have you ever seen an architect who wasn’t screaming for planned cities? I’d like to ask him how he can be so sure that the plan adopted will be his own. And if it is, what right has he to impose it on the others? And if it isn’t, what happens to his work? I suppose he’ll say that he wants neither. He wants a council, a conference, co-operation and collaboration. And the result will be “The March of the Centuries.’ Peter, every single one of you on that committee has done better work alone than the eight of you produced collectively. Ask yourself why, sometime.”
    “I think I know it…But Cortlandt…”
    “Yes. Cortlandt. Well, I’ve told you all the things in which I don’t believe, so that you’ll understand what I want and what right I have to want it. I don’t believe in government housing. I don’t want to hear anything about its noble purposes. I don’t think they’re noble. But that, too, doesn’t matter. That’s not my first concern. Not who lives in the house nor who orders it built. Only the house itself. If it has to be built, it might as well be built right.”
    “You…want to build it?”
    “In all the years I’ve worked on this problem, I never hoped to see the results in practical application. I forced myself not to hope. I knew I couldn’t expect a chance to show what could be done on a large scale. Your government housing, among other things, has made all building so expensive that private owners can’t afford such projects, nor any type of low-rent construction. And I will never be given any job by any government. You’ve understood that much yourself. You said I couldn’t get past Toohey. He’s not the only one. I’ve never been given a job by any group, board, council or committee, public or private, unless some man fought for me, like Kent Lansing. There’s a reason for that, but we don’t have to discuss it now. I want you to know only that I realize in what manner I need you, so that what we’ll do will be a fair exchange.”
    “You need me?”
    “Peter, I love this work. I want to see it erected. I want to make it real, living, functioning, built. But every living thing is integrated. Do you know what that means? Whole, pure, complete, unbroken. Do you know what constitutes an integrating principle? A thought. The one thought, the single thought that created the thing and every part of it. The thought which no one can
    change or touch. I want to design Cortlandt. I want to see it built. I want to see it built exactly as I design it.”
    “Howard…I won’t say ‘It’s nothing.’” “You understand?”
”Yes.”
    “I like to receive money for my work. But I can pass that up this time. I like to have people know my work is done by me. But I can pass that up. I like to have tenants made happy by my work. But that doesn’t matter too much. The only thing that matters, my goal, my reward, my beginning, my end is the work itself. My work done my way. Peter, there’s nothing in the world that you can offer me, except this. Offer me this and you can have anything I’ve got to give. My work done my way. A private, personal, selfish, egotistical motivation. That’s the only way I function. That’s all I am.”
    “Yes, Howard. I understand. With my whole mind.”
    “Then here’s what I’m offering you: I’ll design Cortlandt. You’ll put your name on it. You’ll keep all the fees. But you’ll guarantee that it will be built exactly as I design it.”
    Keating looked at him and held the glance deliberately, quietly, for a moment.
    “All right, Howard.” He added: “I waited, to show you that I know exactly what you’re asking and what I’m promising.”
    “You know it won’t be easy?”
”I know it will be very terribly difficult.”
    “It will. Because it’s such a large project. Most particularly because it’s a government project. There will be so many people involved, each with authority, each wanting to exercise it in some way or another. You’ll have a hard battle. You will have to have the courage of my convictions.”
    “I’ll try to live up to that, Howard.”
    “You won’t be able to, unless you understand that I’m giving you a trust which is more sacred– and nobler, if you like the word–than any altruistic purpose you could name. Unless you understand that this is not a favor, that I’m not doing it for you nor for the future tenants, but for myself, and that you have no right to it except on these terms.”
    “Yes, Howard.”
    “You’ll have to devise your own way of accomplishing it. You’ll have to get yourself an ironclad contract with your bosses and then fight every bureaucrat that comes along every five minutes for the next year or more. I will have no guarantee except your word. Wish to give it to me?”
    “I give you my word.”
Roark took two typewritten sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to him. “Sign it.” “What’s that?”
    “A contract between us, stating the terms of our agreement A copy for each of us. It would probably have no legal validity whatever. But I can hold it over your head. I couldn’t sue you But I could make this public. If it’s prestige you want, you can’t allow this to become known. If your courage fails you at any point, remember that you’ll lose everything by giving in. But if you’ll keep your word–I give you mine–it’s written there–that I’ll never betray this to anyone. Cortlandt will be yours. On the day when it’s finished, I’ll send this paper back to you and you can burn it if you wish.”
    “All right, Howard.”
Keating signed, handed the pen to him, and Roark signed.
    Keating sat looking at him for a moment, then said slowly, as if trying to distinguish the dim form of some thought of his own:
    “Everybody would say you’re a fool….Everybody would say I’m getting everything….”
    “You’ll get everything society can give a man. You’ll keep all the money. You’ll take any fame or honor anyone might want to grant. You’ll accept such gratitude as the tenants might feel. And I–I’ll take what nobody can give a man, except himself. I will have built Cortlandt.”
    “You’re getting more than I am, Howard.”
    “Peter!” The voice was triumphant. “You understand that?”
    “Yes….”
    Roark leaned back against a table, and laughed softly; it was the happiest sound Keating had ever heard.
    “This will work, Peter. It will work. It will be all right. You’ve done something wonderful. You haven’t spoiled everything by thanking me.”
    Keating nodded silently.
    “Now relax, Peter. Want a drink? We won’t discuss any details tonight. Just sit there and get used to me. Stop being afraid of me. Forget everything you said yesterday. This wipes it off. We’re starting from the beginning. We’re partners now. You have your share to do. It’s a legitimate share. This is my idea of cooperation, by the way. You’ll handle people. I’ll do the building. We’ll each do the job we know best, as honestly as we can.”
    He walked to Keating and extended his hand.
    Sitting still, not raising his head, Keating took the hand. His fingers tightened on it for a moment.
    When Roark brought him a drink, Keating swallowed three long gulps and sat looking at the room. His fingers were closed firmly about the glass, his arm steady; but the ice tinkled in the liquid once in a while, without apparent motion.
    His eyes moved heavily over the room, over Roark’s body. He thought, it’s not intentional, not just to hurt me, he can’t help it, he doesn’t even know it–but it’s in his whole body, that look of a creature glad to be alive. And he realized he had never actually believed that any living thing could be glad of the gift of existence.
    “You’re…so young, Howard….You’re so young…Once I reproached you for being too old and serious…Do you remember when you worked for me at Francon’s?”
    “Drop it, Peter. We’ve done so well without remembering.”
    “That’s because you’re kind. Wait, don’t frown. Let me talk. I’ve got to talk about something. I know, this is what you didn’t want to mention. God, I didn’t want you to mention it! I had to steel myself against it, that night–against all the things you could throw at me. But you didn’t. If it were reversed now and this were my home–can you imagine what I’d do or say? You’re not conceited enough.”
    “Why, no. I’m too conceited. If you want to call it that. I don’t make comparisons. I never think of myself in relation to anyone else. I just refuse to measure myself as part of anything. I’m an utter egotist.”
    “Yes. You are. But egotists are not kind. And you are. You’re the most egotistical and the
    kindest man I know. And that doesn’t make sense.”
    “Maybe the concepts don’t make sense. Maybe they don’t mean what people have been taught to think they mean. But let’s drop that now. If you’ve got to talk of something, let’s talk of what we’re going to do.” He leaned out to look through the open window. “It will stand down there. That dark stretch–that’s the site of Cortlandt. When it’s done, I’ll be able to see it from my window. Then it will be part of the city. Peter, have I ever told you how much I love this city?”
    Keating swallowed the rest of the liquid in his glass.
    “I think I’d rather go now, Howard. I’m…no good tonight.”
    “I’ll call you in a few days. We’d better meet here. Don’t come to my office. You don’t want to be seen there–somebody might guess. By the way, later, when my sketches are done, you’ll have to copy them yourself, in your own manner. Some people would recognize my way of drawing.”
    “Yes….All right….”
    Keating rose and stood looking uncertainly at his briefcase for a moment, then picked it up. He mumbled some vague words of patting, he took his hat, he walked to the door, then stopped and looked down at his briefcase.
    “Howard…I brought something I wanted to show you.”
He walked back into the room and put the briefcase on the table.
    “I haven’t shown it to anyone.” His fingers fumbled, opening the straps. “Not to Mother or Ellsworth Toohey…I just want you to tell me if there’s any…”
    He handed to Roark six of his canvases.
    Roark looked at them, one after another. He took a longer time than he needed. When he could trust himself to lift his eyes, he shook his head in silent answer to the word Keating had not pronounced.
    “It’s too late, Peter,” he said gently. Keating nodded. “Guess I…knew that.”
    When Keating had gone, Roark leaned against the door, closing his eyes. He was sick with pity.
    He had never felt this before–not when Henry Cameron collapsed in the office at his feet, not when he saw Steven Mallory sobbing on a bed before him. Those moments had been clean. But this was pity–this complete awareness of a man without worth or hope, this sense of finality, of the not to be redeemed. There was shame in this feeling–his own shame that he should have to pronounce such judgment upon a man, that he should know an emotion which contained no shred of respect.
    This is pity, he thought, and then he lifted his head in wonder. He thought that there must be something terribly wrong with a world in which this monstrous feeling is called a virtue.
    9.
    THEY sat on the shore of the lake–Wynand slouched on a boulder–Roark stretched out on the ground–Dominique sitting straight, her body rising stiffly from the pale blue circle of her skirt on the grass.
    The Wynand 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 if from the wide living room on the first level a hand had moved 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.
    “I like to look at it from here,” said Wynand. “I spent all day here yesterday, watching the light change on it. When you design a building, Howard, do you know exactly what the sun will do to it at any moment of the day from any angle? Do you control the sun?”
    “Sure,” said Roark without raising his head. “Unfortunately, I can’t control it here. Move over, Gail. You’re in my way. I like the sun on my back.”
    Wynand let himself flop down into the grass. Roark lay stretched on his stomach, his face buried on his arm, the orange hair on the white shirt sleeve, one hand extended before him, palm pressed to the ground. Dominique looked at the blades of grass between his fingers. The fingers moved once in a while, crushing the grass with lazy, sensuous pleasure.
    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. Dominique 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 had lived in the house for a month. She had never thought she would. Then Roark had said: “The house will be ready for you in ten days, Mrs. Wynand,” and she had answered: “Yes, Mr. Roark.”
    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.
    She accepted the nights when she lay in Wynand’s arms and opened her eyes to see the shape of the bedroom Roark had designed, and she set her teeth against a racking pleasure that was part answer, part mockery of the unsatisfied hunger in her body, and surrendered to it, not knowing what man gave her this, which one of them, or both.
    Wynand watched her as she walked across a room, as she descended the stairs, as she stood at a window. She had heard him saying to her: “I didn’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. It’s the Stoddard Temple, but built for a single person, and it’s mine. This is what I wanted. The city can’t touch you here. I’ve always felt that the city would take you away from me. It gave me everything I have. I don’t know why I feel at times that it will demand payment some day. But here you’re safe and you’re mine.” She wanted to cry: Gail, I belong to him here as I’ve never belonged to him.
    Roark was the only guest Wynand allowed in their new home. She accepted Roark’s visits to them on week ends. That was the hardest to accept. She knew he did not come to torture her, but simply because Wynand asked him and he liked being with Wynand. She remembered saying to him in the evening, her hand on the stair railing, on the steps of the stairs leading up to her bedroom: “Come down to breakfast whenever you wish, Mr. Roark. Just press the button in the dining room.”
    “Thank you. Mrs. Wynand. Good night.”
    Once, she saw him alone, for a moment. It was early morning; she had not slept all night, thinking of him in a room across the hall; she had come out before the house was awake. She walked down the hill and she found relief in the unnatural stillness of the earth around her, the stillness of full light without sun, of leaves without motion, of a luminous, waiting silence. She heard steps behind her, she stopped, she leaned against a tree trunk. He had a bathing suit thrown over his shoulder, he was going down to swim in the lake. He stopped before her, and they stood still with the rest of the earth, looking at each other. He said nothing, turned, and went on. She remained leaning against the tree, and after a while she walked back to the house.
    Now, sitting by the lake, she heard Wynand saying to him: “You look like the laziest creature in the world, Howard.”
”I am.”
”I’ve never seen anyone relax like that.”
    “Try staying awake for three nights in succession.” “I told you to get here yesterday.”
”Couldn’t.”
”Are you going to pass out right here?”
    “I’d like to. This is wonderful.” He lifted his head, his eyes laughing, as if he had not seen the building on the hill, as if he were not speaking of it. “This is the way I’d like to die, stretched out on some shore like this, just close my eyes and never come back.”
    She thought: He thinks what I’m thinking–we still have that together–Gail wouldn’t understand–not he and Gail, for this once–he and I.
    Wynand said: “You damn fool. This is not like you, not even as a joke. You’re killing yourself over something. What?”
    “Ventilator shafts, at the moment. Very stubborn ventilator shafts.” “For whom?”
”Clients….I have all sorts of clients right now.”
”Do you have to work nights?”
    “Yes–for these particular people. Very special work. Can’t even bring it into the office.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Nothing. Don’t pay any attention. I’m half asleep.”
    She thought: This is the tribute to Gail, the confidence of surrender–he relaxes like a cat–and cats don’t relax except with people they like.
    “I’ll kick you upstairs after dinner and lock the door,” said Wynand, “and leave you there to sleep twelve hours.”
    “All right.”
”Want to get up early? Let’s go for a swim before sunrise.” “Mr. Roark is tired, Gail,” said Dominique, her voice sharp.
    Roark raised himself on an elbow to look at her. She saw his eyes, direct, understanding.
    “You’re acquiring the bad habits of all commuters, Gail,” she said, “imposing your country hours on guests from the city who are not used to them.” She thought: Let it be mine–that one moment when you were walking to the lake–don’t let Gail take that also, like everything else. “You can’t order Mr. Roark around as if he were an employee of the Banner.”
    “I don’t know anyone on earth I’d rather order around than Mr. Roark,” said Wynand gaily, “whenever I can get away with it.”
    “You’re getting away with it.”
”I don’t mind taking orders, Mrs. Wynand,” said Roark. “Not from a man as capable as Gail.”
    Let me win this time, she thought, please let me win this time–it means nothing to you–it’s senseless and it means nothing at all–but refuse him, refuse him for the sake of the memory of a moment’s pause that had not belonged to him.
    “I think you should rest, Mr. Roark. You should sleep late tomorrow. I’ll tell the servants not to disturb you.”
    “Why, no, thanks, I’ll be all right in a few hours, Mrs. Wynand. I like to swim before breakfast. Knock at the door when you’re ready, Gail, and we’ll go down together.”
    She looked over the spread of lake and hills, with not a sign of men, not another house anywhere, just water, trees and sun, a world of their own, and she thought he was right–they belonged together–the three of them.
#
    The drawings of Cortlandt Homes presented six buildings, fifteen stories high, each made in the shape of an irregular star with arms extending from a central shaft. The shafts contained elevators, stairways, heating systems and all the utilities. The apartments radiated from the center in the form of extended triangles. The space between the arms allowed light and air from three sides. The ceilings were pre-cast; the inner walls were of plastic tile that required no painting or plastering; all pipes and wires were laid out in metal ducts at the edge of the floors, to be opened and replaced, when necessary, without costly demolition; the kitchens and bathrooms were prefabricated as complete units; the inner partitions were of light metal that could be folded into the walls to provide one large room or pulled out to divide it; there were few halls or lobbies to clean, a minimum of cost and labor required for the maintenance of the place. The entire plan was a composition in triangles. The buildings, of poured concrete, were a complex modeling of simple structural features; there was no ornament; none was needed; the shapes had the beauty of sculpture.
    Ellsworth Toohey did not look at the plans which Keating had spread out on his desk. He stared at the perspective drawings. He stared, his mouth open.
    Then he threw his head back and howled with laughter. “Peter,” he said, “you’re a genius.”
    He added: “I think you know exactly what I mean.” Keating looked at him blankly, without curiosity. “You’ve succeeded in what I’ve spent a lifetime trying to achieve, in what centuries of men and bloody battles behind us have tried to achieve. I take my hat off to you, Peter, in awe and admiration.”
    “Look at the plans,” said Keating listlessly. “It will rent for ten dollars a unit.”
    “I haven’t the slightest doubt that it will. I don’t have to look. Oh yes, Peter, this will go through. Don’t worry. This will be accepted. My congratulations, Peter.”
#
    “You God-damn fool!” said Gail Wynand. “What are you up to?”
    He threw to Roark a copy of the Banner, folded at an inside page. The page bore a photograph captioned: “Architects’ drawing of Cortlandt Homes, the $15,000,000 Federal Housing Project to be built in Astoria, L. I., Keating & Dumont, architects.”
    Roark glanced at the photograph and asked: “What do you mean?”
    “You know damn well what I mean. Do you think I picked the things in my art gallery by their signatures? If Peter Keating designed this, I’ll eat every copy of today’s Banner.”
    “Peter Keating designed this, Gail.” “You fool. What are you after?”
    “If I don’t want to understand what you’re talking about, I won’t understand it, no matter what you say.”
    “Oh, you might, if I run a story to the effect that a certain housing project was designed by Howard Roark, which would make a swell exclusive story and a joke on one Mr. Toohey who’s the boy behind the boys on most of those damn projects.”
    “You publish that and I’ll sue hell out of you.”
    “You really would?”
    “I would. Drop it, Gail. Don’t you see I don’t want to discuss it?”
    Later, Wynand showed the picture to Dominique and asked:
    “Who designed this?”
    She looked at it. “Of course,” was all she answered. #
    “What kind of ‘changing world,’ Alvah? Changing to what? From what? Who’s doing the changing?”
    Parts of Alvah Scarret’s face looked anxious, but most of it was impatient, as he glanced at the proofs of his editorial on “Motherhood in a Changing World,” which lay on Wynand’s desk.
    “What the hell, Gail,” he muttered indifferently.
    “That’s what I want to know–what the hell?” He picked up the proof and read aloud: “‘The world we have known is gone and done for and it’s no use kidding ourselves about it. We cannot go back, we must go forward. The mothers of today must set the example by broadening their own emotional view and raising their selfish love for their own children to a higher plane, to include everybody’s little children. Mothers must love every kid in their block, in their street, in their city, county, state, nation and the whole wide, wide world–just exactly as much as their own little Mary or Johnny.’” Wynand wrinkled his nose fastidiously. “Alvah?…It’s all right to dish out crap. But–this kind of crap?”
    Alvah Scarret would not look at him.
    “You’re out of step with the times, Gail,” he said. His voice was low; it had a tone of warning– as of something baring its teeth, tentatively, just for future reference.
    This was so odd a behavior for Alvah Scarret that Wynand lost all desire to pursue the conversation. He drew a line across the editorial, but the blue pencil stroke seemed tired and ended in a blur. He said: “Go and bat out something else, Alvah.”
    Scarret rose, picked up the strip of paper, turned and left the room without a word. Wynand looked after him, puzzled, amused and slightly sick.
    He had known for several years the trend which his paper had embraced gradually, imperceptibly, without any directive from him. He had noticed the cautious “slanting” of news stories, the half-hints, the vague allusions, the peculiar adjectives peculiarly placed, the stressing of certain themes, the insertion of political conclusions where none was needed. If a story concerned a dispute between employer and employee, the employer was made to appear guilty, simply through wording, no matter what the facts presented. If a sentence referred to the past, it was always “our dark past” or “our dead past.” If a statement involved someone’s personal motive, it was always “goaded by selfishness” or “egged by greed.” A crossword puzzle gave the definition of “obsolescent individuals” and the word came out as “capitalists.”
    Wynand had shrugged about it, contemptuously amused. His staff, he thought, was well trained: if this was the popular slang of the day, his boys assumed it automatically. It meant nothing at all. He kept it off the editorial page and the rest did not matter. It was no more than a fashion of the moment–and he had survived many changing fashions.
    He felt no concern over the “We Don’t Read Wynand” campaign. He obtained one of their men’s-room stickers, pasted it on the windshield of his own Lincoln, added the words: “We don’t either,” and kept it there long enough to be discovered and snapped by a photographer from a neutral paper. In the course of his career he had been fought, damned, denounced by the greatest publishers of his time, by the shrewdest coalitions of financial power. He could not summon any apprehension over the activities of somebody named Gus Webb.
    He knew that the Banner was losing some of its popularity. “A temporary fad,” he told Scarret, shrugging. He would run a limerick contest, or a series of coupons for victrola records, see a slight spurt of circulation and promptly forget the matter.
    He could not rouse himself to full action. He had never felt a greater desire to work. He entered his office each morning with important eagerness. But within an hour he found himself studying the joints of the paneling on the walls and reciting nursery rhymes in his mind. It was not boredom, not the satisfaction of a yawn, but more like the gnawing pull of wishing to yawn and not quite making it. He could not say that he disliked his work. It had merely become distasteful; not enough to force a decision; not enough to make him clench his fists; just enough to contract his nostrils.
    He thought dimly that the cause lay in that new trend of the public taste. He saw no reason why he should not follow it and play on it as expertly as he had played on all other fads. But he could not follow. He felt no moral scruples. It was not a positive stand rationally taken; not defiance in the name of a cause of importance; just a fastidious feeling, something pertaining almost to chastity: the hesitation one feels before putting one’s foot down into muck. He thought: It doesn’t matter–it will not last–I’ll be back when the wave swings on to another theme–I think I’d rather sit this one out.
    He could not say why the encounter with Alvah Scarret gave him a feeling of uneasiness, sharper than usual. He thought it was funny that Alvah should have switched to that line of tripe. But there had been something else; there had been a personal quality in Alvah’s exit; almost a declaration that he saw no necessity to consider the boss’s opinion any longer.
    I ought to fire Alvah, he thought–and then laughed at himself, aghast: fire Alvah Scarret?–one might as well think of stopping the earth–or–of the unthinkable–of closing the Banner.
    But through the months of that summer and fall, there were days when he loved the Banner. Then he sat at this desk, with his hand on the pages spread before him, fresh ink smearing his palm, and he smiled as he saw the name of Howard Roark in the pages of the Banner.
    The word had come down from his office to every department concerned: Plug Howard Roark. In the art section, the real-estate section, the editorials, the columns, mentions of Roark and his buildings began to appear regularly. There were not many occasions when one could give publicity to an architect, and buildings had little news value, but the Banner managed to throw Roark’s name at the public under every kind of ingenious pretext. Wynand edited every word of it. The material was startling on the pages of the Banner: it was written in good taste. There were no sensational stories, no photographs of Roark at breakfast, no human interest, no
    attempts to sell a man; only a considered, gracious tribute to the greatness of an artist.
    He never spoke of it to Roark, and Roark never mentioned it. They did not discuss the Banner.
    Coming home to his new house in the evening, Wynand saw the Banner on the living room table every night. He had not allowed it in his home since his marriage. He smiled, when he saw it for the first time, and said nothing.
    Then he spoke of it, one evening. He turned the pages until he came to an article on the general theme of summer resorts, most of which was a description of Monadnock Valley. He raised his head to glance at Dominique across the room; she sat on the floor by the fireplace. He said:
    “Thank you, dear.”
    “For what, Gail?”
    “For understanding when I would be glad to see the Banner in my house.”
    He walked to her and sat down on the floor beside her. He held her thin shoulders in the curve of his arm. He said:
    “Think of all the politicians, movie stars, visiting grand dukes and sash weight murderers whom the Banner has trumpeted all these years. Think of my great crusades about street-car companies, red-light districts and home-grown vegetables. For once, Dominique, I can say what I believe.”
    “Yes, Gail…”
    “All this power I wanted, reached and never used.,. Now they’ll see what I can do. I’ll force them to recognize him as he should be recognized. I’ll give him the fame he deserves. Public opinion? Public opinion is what I make it.”
    “Do you think he wants this?”
    “Probably not. I don’t care. He needs it and he’s going to get it. I want him to have it. As an architect, he’s public property. He can’t stop a newspaper from writing about him if it wants to.”
    “All that copy on him–do you write it yourself?” “Most of it.”
”Gail, what a great journalist you could have been.”
    The campaign brought results, of a kind he had not expected. The general public remained blankly indifferent. But in the intellectual circles, in the art world, in the profession, people were laughing at Roark. Comments were reported to Wynand: “Roark? Oh yes, Wynand’s pet.”
    “The Banner’s glamour boy.”
    “The genius of the yellow press.”
    “The Banner is now selling art–send two box tops or a reasonable facsimile.”
    “Wouldn’t you know it? That’s what I’ve always thought of Roark–the kind of talent fit for the Wynand papers.”
    “We’ll see,” said Wynand contemptuously–and continued his private crusade.
    He gave Roark every commission of importance whose owners were open to pressure. Since spring, he had brought to Roark’s office the contracts for a yacht club on the Hudson, an office building, two private residences. “I’ll get you more than you can handle,” he said. “I’ll make you
    catch up with all the years they’ve made you waste.”
    Austen Heller said to Roark one evening: “If I may be so presumptuous, I think you need advice, Howard. Yes, of course, I mean this preposterous business of Mr. Gail Wynand. You and he as inseparable friends upsets every rational concept I’ve ever held. After all, there are distinct classes of humanity–no, I’m not talking Toohey’s language–but there are certain boundary lines among men which cannot be crossed.”
    “Yes, there are. But nobody has ever given the proper statement of where they must be drawn.”
    “Well, the friendship is your own business. But there’s one aspect of it that must be stopped– and you’re going to listen to me for once.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “I think it’s fine, all those commissions he’s dumping on you. I’m sure he’ll be rewarded for that and lifted several rungs in hell, where he’s certain to go. But he must stop that publicity he’s splashing you with in the Banner. You’ve got to make him stop. Don’t you know that the support of the Wynand papers is enough to discredit anyone?” Roark said nothing. “It’s hurting you professionally, Howard.”
    “I know it is.”
”Are you going to make him stop?”
”No.”
”But why in blazes?”
”I said I’d listen, Austen. I didn’t say I’d speak about him.”
    Late one afternoon in the fall Wynand came to Roark’s office, as he often did at the end of a day, and when they walked out together, he said: “It’s a nice evening. Let’s go for a walk, Howard. There’s a piece of property I want you to see.”
    He led the way to Hell’s Kitchen. They walked around a great rectangle–two blocks between Ninth Avenue and Eleventh, five blocks from north to south. Roark saw a grimy desolation of tenements, sagging hulks of what had been red brick, crooked doorways, rotting boards, strings of gray underclothing in narrow air shafts, not as a sign of life, but as a malignant growth of decomposition.
    “You own that?” Roark said. “All of it.”
    “Why show it to me? Don’t you know that making an architect look at that is worse than showing him a field of unburied corpses?”
    Wynand pointed to the white-tiled front of a new diner across the street: “Let’s go in there.”
    They sat by the window, at a clean metal table, and Wynand ordered coffee. He seemed as graciously at home as in the best restaurants of the city; his elegance had an odd quality here–it did not insult the place, but seemed to transform it, like the presence of a king who never alters his manner, yet makes a palace of any house he enters. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, watching Roark through the steam of the coffee, his eyes narrowed, amused. He moved one finger to point across the
    street.
    “That’s the first piece of property I ever bought, Howard. It was a long time ago. I haven’t touched it since.”
    “What were you saving it for?” “You.”
    Roark raised the heavy white mug of coffee to his lips, his eyes holding Wynand’s, narrowed and mocking in answer. He knew that Wynand wanted eager questions and he waited patiently instead.
    “You stubborn bastard,” Wynand chuckled, surrendering. “All right. Listen. This is where I was born. When I could begin to think of buying real estate, I bought this piece. House by house. Block by block. It took a long time. I could have bought better property and made money fast, as I did later, but I waited until I had this. Even though I knew I would make no use of it for years. You see, I had decided then that this is where the Wynand Building would stand some day….All right, keep still all you want–I’ve seen what your face looked like just now.”
    “Oh, God, Gail!…”
”What’s the matter? Want to do it? Want it pretty badly?”
    “I think I’d almost give my life for it–only then I couldn’t build it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
    “Something like that. I won’t demand your life. But it’s nice to shock the breath out of you for once. Thank you for being shocked. It means you understood what the Wynand Building implies. The highest structure in the city. And the greatest.”
    “I know that’s what you’d want.”
    “I won’t build it yet. But I’ve waited for it all these years. And now you’ll wait with me. Do you know that I really like to torture you, in a way? That I always want to?”
    “I know.”
    “I brought you here only to tell you that it will be yours when I build it. I have waited, because I felt I was not ready for it. Since I met you, I knew I was ready–and I don’t mean because you’re an architect. But we’ll have to wait a little longer, just another year or two, till the country gets back on its feet. This is the wrong time for building. Of course, everybody says that the day of the skyscraper is past. That it’s obsolete. I don’t give a damn about that. I’ll make it pay for itself. The Wynand Enterprises have offices scattered all over town. I want them all in one building. And I hold enough over the heads of enough important people to force them to rent all the rest of the space. Perhaps, it will be the last skyscraper built in New York. So much the better. The greatest and the last.”
    Roark sat looking across the street, at the streaked ruins.
    “To be torn down, Howard. All of it. Razed off. The place where I did not run things. To be supplanted by a park and the Wynand Building….The best structures of New York are wasted because they can’t be seen, squeezed against one another in blocks. My building will be seen. It will reclaim the whole neighborhood. Let the others follow. Not the right location, they’ll say? Who makes right locations? They’ll see. This might become the new center of the city–when the city starts living again. I planned it when the Banner was nothing but a fourth-rate rag. I haven’t miscalculated, have I? I knew what I would become…A monument to my life, Howard. Remember what you said when you came to my office for the first time? A statement of my life. There were things in my past which I have not liked. But all the things of which I was proud will remain. After I am gone that building will be Gail Wynand….I knew I’d find the right architect when the time came. I didn’t know he would be much more than just an architect I hired. I’m glad it happened this way. It’s a kind of reward. It’s as if I had been forgiven. My last and greatest achievement will also be your greatest. It will be not only my monument but the best gift I could offer to the man who means most to me on earth. Don’t frown, you know that’s what you are to me. Look at that horror across the street. I want to sit here and watch you looking at it. That’s what we’re going to destroy–you and I. That’s what it will rise from–the Wynand Building by Howard Roark. I’ve waited for it from the day I was born. From the day you were born, you’ve waited for your one great chance. There it is, Howard, across the street.
    Yours–from me.”
    10.
    IT HAD stopped raining, but Peter Keating wished it would start again. The pavements glistened, there were dark blotches on the walls of buildings, and since it did not come from the sky, it looked as if the city were bathed in cold sweat. The air was heavy with untimely darkness, disquieting like premature old age, and there were yellow puddles of light in windows. Keating had missed the rain, but he felt wet, from his bones out.
    He had left his office early, and he walked home. The office seemed unreal to him, as it had for a long time. He could find reality only in the evenings, when he slipped furtively up to Roark’s apartment. He did not slip and it was not furtive, he told himself angrily–and knew that it was; even though he walked through the lobby of the Enright House and rode up in an elevator, like any man on a legitimate errand. It was the vague anxiety,’ the impulse to glance around at every face, the fear of being recognized; it was a load of anonymous guilt, not toward any person, but the more frightening sense of guilt without a victim.
    He took from Roark rough sketches for every detail of Cortlandt–to have them translated into working drawings by his own staff. He listened to Roark’s instructions. He memorized arguments to offer his employers against every possible objection. He absorbed like a recording machine. Afterward, when he gave explanations to his draftsmen, his voice sounded like a disk being played. He did not mind. He questioned nothing.
    Now he walked slowly, through the streets full of rain that would not come. He looked up and saw empty space where the towers of familiar buildings had been; it did not look like fog or clouds, but like a solid spread of gray sky that had worked a gigantic, soundless destruction. That sight of buildings vanishing through the sky had always made him uneasy. He walked on, looking down.
    It was the shoes that he noticed first. He knew that he must have seen the woman’s face, that the instinct of self-preservation had jerked his glance away from it and let his conscious perception begin with the shoes. They were flat, brown oxfords, offensively competent, too well shined on the muddy pavement, contemptuous of rain and of beauty. His eyes went to the brown skirt, to the tailored jacket, costly and cold like a uniform, to the hand with a hole in the finger of an expensive glove, to the lapel that bore a preposterous ornament–a bow-legged Mexican with red-enameled pants–stuck there in a clumsy attempt at pertness; to the thin lips, to the glasses, to the eyes.
    “Katie,” he said.
    She stood by the window of a bookstore; her glance hesitated halfway between recognition and a book title she had been examining; then, with recognition evident in the beginning of a smile, the glance went back to the book title, to finish and make an efficient note of it. Then her eyes returned to Keating. Her smile was pleasant; not as an effort over bitterness, and not as welcome; just pleasant.
    “Why, Peter Keating,” she said. “Hello, Peter.”
”Katie…” He could not extend his hand or move closer to her.
    “Yes, imagine running into you like this, why, New York is just like any small town, though I suppose without the better features.” There was no strain in her voice.
    “What are you doing here? I thought…I heard…” He knew she had a good job in Washington and had moved there two years ago.
    “Just a business trip. Have to dash right back tomorrow. Can’t say that I mind it, either. New York seems so dead, so slow.”
    “Well, I’m glad you like your job…if you mean…isn’t that what you mean?”
    “Like my job? What a silly thing to say. Washington is the only grownup place in the country. I don’t see how people can live anywhere else. What have you been doing, Peter? I saw your name in the paper the other day, it was something important.”
    “I…I’m working….You haven’t changed much, Katie, not really, have you?–I mean, your face– you look like you used to–in a way…”
    “It’s the only face I’ve got. Why do people always have to talk about changes if they haven’t seen each other for a year or two? I ran into Grace Parker yesterday and she had to go into an inventory of my appearance. I could just hear every word before she said it–‘You look so nice–not a day older, really, Catherine.’ People are provincial.”
    “But…you do look nice….It’s…it’s nice to see you…” “I’m glad to see you, too. How is the building industry?”
    “I don’t know….What you read about must have been Cortlandt…I’m doing Cortlandt Homes, a housing…”
    “Yes, of course. That was it. I think it’s very good for you, Peter. To do a job, not just for private profit and a fat fee, but with a social purpose. I think architects should stop money grubbing and give a little time to government work and broader objectives.”
    “Why, most of them would grab it if they could get it, it’s one of the hardest rackets to break into, it’s a closed…”
    “Yes, yes, I know. It’s simply impossible to make the laymen understand our methods of working, and that’s why all we hear are all those stupid, boring complaints. You mustn’t read the Wynand papers, Peter.”
    “I never read the Wynand papers. What on earth has it got to do with…Oh, I…I don’t know what we’re talking about. Katie.”
    He thought that she owed him nothing, or every kind of anger and scorn she could command; and yet there was a human obligation she still had toward him: she owed him an evidence of strain in this meeting. There was none.
    “We really should have a great deal to talk about, Peter.” The words would have lifted him, had they not been pronounced so easily. “But we can’t stand here all day.” She glanced at her wrist watch. “I’ve got an hour or so, suppose you take me somewhere for a cup of tea, you could use some hot tea, you look frozen.”
    That was her first comment on his appearance; that, and a glance without reaction. He thought, even Roark had been shocked, had acknowledged the change.
    “Yes, Katie. That will be wonderful. I…” He wished she had not been the one to suggest it; it was the right thing for them to do; he wished she had not been able to think of the right thing; not so quickly. “Let’s find a nice, quiet place…”
    “We’ll go to Thorpe’s. There’s one around the corner. They have the nicest watercress sandwiches.”
    It was she who took his arm to cross the street, and dropped it again on the other side. The gesture had been automatic. She had not noticed it.
    There was a counter of pastry and candy inside the door of Thorpe’s. A large bowl of sugar- coated almonds, green and white, glared at Keating. The place smelled of orange icing. The lights were dim, a stuffy orange haze; the odor made the light seem sticky. The tables were too small, set close together.
    He sat, looking down at a paper lace doily on a black glass table top. But when he lifted his
    eyes to Catherine, he knew that no caution was necessary: she did not react to his scrutiny; her expression remained the same, whether he studied her face or that of the woman at the next table; she seemed to have no consciousness of her own person.
    It was her mouth that had changed most, he thought; the lips were drawn in, with only a pale edge of flesh left around the imperious line of their opening; a mouth to issue orders, he thought, but not big orders or cruel orders; just mean little ones–about plumbing and disinfectants. He saw the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes–a skin like paper that had been crumpled and then smoothed out.
    She was telling him about her work in Washington, and he listened bleakly. He did not hear the words, only the tone of her voice, dry and crackling.
    A waitress in a starched orchid uniform came to take their orders. Catherine snapped: “The tea sandwiches special. Please.”
Keating said:
    “A cup of coffee.” He saw Catherine’s eyes on him, and in a sudden panic of embarrassment, feeling he must not confess that he couldn’t swallow a bite of food now, feeling that the confession would anger her, he added: “A ham and swiss on rye, I guess.”
    “Peter, what ghastly food habits! Wait a minute, waitress. You don’t want that, Peter. It’s very bad for you. You should have a fresh salad. And coffee is bad at this time of the day. Americans drink too much coffee.”
    “All right,” said Keating.
    “Tea and a combination salad, waitress … And–oh, waitress!–no bread with the salad– you’re gaining weight, Peter–some diet crackers. Please.”
    Keating waited until the orchid uniform had moved away, and then he said, hopefully:
    “I have changed, haven’t I, Katie? I do look pretty awful?” Even a disparaging comment would be a personal link.
    “What? Oh, I guess so. It isn’t healthy. But Americans know nothing whatever about the proper nutritional balance. Of course, men do make too much fuss over mere appearance. They’re much vainer than women. It’s really women who’re taking charge, of all productive work now, and women will build a better world.”
    “How does one build a better world, Katie?”
    “Well, if you consider the determining factor, which is, of course, economic…”
    “No, I…I didn’t ask it that way….Katie, I’ve been very unhappy.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. One hears so many people say that nowadays. That’s because it’s a transition period and people feel rootless. But you’ve always had a bright disposition, Peter.”
    “Do you…do you remember what I was like?”
”Goodness, Peter, you talk as if it had been sixty-five years ago.”
    “But so many things happened. I…” He took the plunge; he had to take it; the crudest way seemed the easiest. “I was married. And divorced.”
    “Yes, I read about that. I was glad when you were divorced.” He leaned forward. “If your wife was the kind of woman who could marry Gail Wynand, you were lucky to get rid of her.”
    The tone of chronic impatience that ran words together had not altered to pronounce this. He had to believe it: this was all the subject meant to her.
    “Katie, you’re very tactful and kind…but drop the act,” he said, knowing in dread that it was not an act. “Drop it….Tell me what you thought of me then….Say everything…I don’t mind….I want to hear it….Don’t you understand? I’ll feel better if I hear it.”
    “Surely, Peter, you don’t want me to start some sort of recriminations? I’d say it was conceited of you, if it weren’t so childish.”
    “What did you feel–that day–when I didn’t come–and then you heard I was married?” He did not know what instinct drove him, through numbness, to be brutal as the only means left to him. “Katie, you suffered then?”
    “Yes, of course I suffered. All young people do in such situations. It seems foolish afterward. I cried, and I screamed some dreadful things at Uncle Ellsworth, and he had to call a doctor to give me a sedative, and then weeks afterward I fainted on the street one day without any reason, which was really disgraceful. All the conventional things, I suppose, everybody goes through them, like measles. Why should I have expected to be exempt?–as Uncle Ellsworth said.” He thought that he had not known there was something worse than a living memory of pain: a dead one. “And of course we knew it was for the best. I can’t imagine myself married to you.”
    “You can’t imagine it, Katie?”
    “That is, nor to anyone else. It wouldn’t have worked, Peter. I’m temperamentally unsuited to domesticity. It’s too selfish and narrow. Of course, I understand what you feel just now and I appreciate it. It’s only human that you should feel something like remorse, since you did what is known as jilted me.” He winced. “You see how stupid those things sound. It’s natural for you to be a little contrite–a normal reflex–but we must look at it objectively, we’re grownup, rational people, nothing is too serious, we can’t really help what we do, we’re conditioned that way, we just charge it off to experience and go on from there.”
    “Katie! You’re not talking some fallen girl out of her problem. You’re speaking about yourself.”
    “Is there any essential difference? Everybody’s problems are the same, just like everybody’s emotions.”
    He saw her nibbling a thin strip of bread with a smear of green, and noticed that his order had been served. He moved his fork about in his salad bowl, and he made himself bite into a gray piece of diet cracker. Then he discovered how strange it was when one lost the knack of eating automatically and had to do it by full conscious effort; the cracker seemed inexhaustible; he could not finish the process of chewing; he moved his jaws without reducing the amount of gritty pulp in his mouth.
    “Katie…for six years…I thought of how I’d ask your forgiveness some day. And now I have the chance, but I won’t ask it. It seems…it seems beside the point. I know it’s horrible to say that, but that’s how it seems to me. It was the worst thing I ever did in my life–but not because I hurt you. I did hurt you, Katie, and maybe more than you know yourself. But that’s not my worst guilt….Katie, I wanted to marry you. It was the only thing I ever really wanted. And that’s the sin that can’t be forgiven–that I hadn’t done what I wanted. It feels so dirty and pointless and monstrous, as one feels about insanity, because there’s no sense to it, no dignity, nothing but pain–and wasted pain….Katie, why do they always teach us that it’s easy and evil to do what we want and that we need discipline to restrain ourselves? It’s the hardest thing in the world–to do what we want. And it takes the greatest kind of courage. I mean, what we really want. As I wanted to marry you. Not as I want to sleep with some woman or get drunk or get my name in the papers. Those things–they’re not even desires–they’re things people do to escape from desires–because it’s such a big responsibility, really to want something.”
    “Peter, what you’re saying is very ugly and selfish.”
    “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve always had to tell you the truth. About everything. Even if you didn’t ask. I had to.”
    “Yes. You did. It was a commendable trait. You were a charming boy, Peter.”
    It was the bowl of sugar-coated almonds on the counter that hurt him, he thought in a dull anger. The almonds were green and white; they had no business being green and white at this time of the year; the colors of St. Patrick’s Day–then there was always candy like that in all the store windows–and St. Patrick’s Day meant spring–no, better than spring, that moment of wonderful anticipation just before spring is to begin.
    “Katie, I won’t say that I’m still in love with you. I don’t know whether I am or not. I’ve never asked myself. It wouldn’t matter now. I’m not saying this because I hope for anything or think of trying or…I know only that I loved you, Katie, I loved you, whatever I made of it, even if this is how I’ve got to say it for the last time, I loved you, Katie.”
    She looked at him–and she seemed pleased. Not stirred, not happy, not pitying; but pleased in a casual way. He thought: If she were completely the spinster, the frustrated social worker, as people think of those women, the kind who would scorn sex in the haughty conceit of her own virtue, that would still be recognition, if only in hostility. But this–this amused tolerance seemed to admit that romance was only human, one had to take it, like everybody else, it was a popular weakness of no great consequence–she was gratified as she would have been gratified by the same words from any other man–it was like that red-enamel Mexican on her lapel, a contemptuous concession to people’s demand of vanity.
    “Katie…Katie, let’s say that this doesn’t count–this, now–it’s past counting anyway, isn’t it? This can’t touch what it was like, can it, Katie?…People always regret that the past is so final, that nothing can change it–but I’m glad it’s so. We can’t spoil it. We can think of the past, can’t we? Why shouldn’t we? I mean, as you said, like grownup people, not fooling ourselves, not trying to hope, but only to look back at it….Do you remember when I came to your house in New York for the first time? You looked so thin and small, and your hair hung every which way. I told you I would never love anyone else. I held you on my lap, you didn’t weigh anything at all, and I told you I would never love anyone else. And you said you knew it.”
    “I remember.”
    “When we were together…Katie, I’m ashamed of so many things, but not of one moment when we were together. When I asked you to marry me–no, I never asked you to marry me–I just said we were engaged–and you said ‘yes’–it was on a park bench–it was snowing…”
    “Yes.”
    “You had funny woolen gloves. Like mittens. I remember–there were drops of water in the fuzz–round–like crystal–they flashed–it was because a car passed by.”
    “Yes, I think it’s agreeable to look back occasionally. But one’s perspective widens. One grows richer spiritually with the years.”
    He kept silent for a long time. Then he said, his voice flat:
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Why? You’re very sweet, Peter. I’ve always said men are the sentimentalists.”
    He thought: It’s not an act–one can’t put on an act like that–unless it’s an act inside, for oneself, and then there is no limit, no way out, no reality….
    She went on talking to him, and after a while it was about Washington again. He answered when it was necessary.
    He thought that he had believed it was a simple sequence, the past and the present, and if there was loss in the past one was compensated by pain in the present, and pain gave it a form of immortality–but he had not known that one could destroy like this, kill retroactively–so that to her it had never existed.
    She glanced at her wrist watch and gave a little gasp of impatience,
    “I’m late already. I must run along.”
He said heavily:
”Do you mind if I don’t go with you, Katie? It’s not rudeness. I just think it’s better.”
    “But of course. Not at all. I’m quite able to find my way in the streets and there’s no need for formalities among old friends.” She added, gathering her bag and gloves, crumpling a paper napkin into a ball, dropping it neatly into her teacup: “I’ll give you a ring next time I’m in town and we’ll have a bite together again. Though I can’t promise when that will be. I’m so busy, I have to go so many places, last month it was Detroit and next week I’m flying to St. Louis, but when they shoot me out to New York again, I’ll ring you up, so long, Peter, it was ever so nice.”
    11.
    GAIL WYNAND looked at the shining wood of the yacht deck. The wood and a brass doorknob that had become a smear of fire gave him a sense of everything around him: the miles of space filled with sun, between the burning spreads of sky and ocean. It was February, and the yacht lay still, her engines idle, in the southern Pacific.
    He leaned on the rail and looked down at Roark in the water. Roark floated on his back, his body stretched into a straight line, arms spread, eyes closed. The tan of his skin implied a month of days such as this. Wynand thought that this was the way he liked to apprehend space and time: through the power of his yacht, through the tan of Roark’s skin or the sunbrown of his own arms folded before him on the rail.
    He had not sailed his yacht for several years. This time he had wanted Roark to be his only guest. Dominique was left behind.
    Wynand had said: “You’re killing yourself, Howard. You’ve been going at a pace nobody can stand for long. Ever since Monadnock, isn’t it? Think you’d have the courage to perform the feat most difficult for you–to rest?”
    He was astonished when Roark accepted without argument. Roark laughed:
    “I’m not running away from my work, if that’s what surprises you. I know when to stop–and I can’t stop, unless it’s completely. I know I’ve overdone it. I’ve been wasting too much paper lately and doing awful stuff.”
    “Do you ever do awful stuff?”
    “Probably more of it than any other architect and with less excuse. The only distinction I can claim is that my botches end up in my own wastebasket.”
    “I warn you, we’ll be away for months. If you begin to regret it and cry for your drafting table in a week, like all men who’ve never learned to loaf, I won’t take you back. I’m the worst kind of dictator aboard my yacht. You’ll have everything you can imagine, except paper or pencils. I won’t even leave you any freedom of speech. No mention of girders, plastics or reinforced concrete once you step on board. I’ll teach you to eat, sleep and exist like the most worthless millionaire.”
    “I’d like to try that.”
    The work in the office did not require Roark’s presence for the next few months. His current jobs were being completed. Two new commissions were not to be started until spring.
    He had made all the sketches Keating needed for Cortlandt. The construction was about to begin. Before sailing, on a day in late December, Roark went to take a last look at the site of Cortlandt. An anonymous spectator in a group of the idle curious, he stood and watched the
    steam shovels biting the earth, breaking the way for future foundations. The East River was a broad band of sluggish black water; and beyond, in a sparse haze of snowflakes, the towers of the city stood softened, half suggested in watercolors of orchid and blue.
    Dominique did not protest when Wynand told her that he wanted to sail on a long cruise with Roark. “Dearest, you understand that it’s not running away from you? I just need some time taken out of everything. Being with Howard is like being alone with myself, only more at peace.”
    “Of course, Gail. I don’t mind.”
    But he looked at her, and suddenly he laughed, incredulously pleased. “Dominique, I believe you’re jealous. It’s wonderful, I’m more grateful to him than ever–if it could make you jealous of me.”
    She could not tell him that she was jealous or of whom.
    The yacht sailed at the end of December. Roark watched, grinning, Wynand’s disappointment when Wynand found that he needed to enforce no discipline. Roark did not speak of buildings, lay for hours stretched out on deck in the sun, and loafed like an expert. They spoke little. There were days when Wynand could not remember what sentences they had exchanged. It would have seemed possible to him that they had not spoken at all. Their serenity was their best means of communication.
    Today they had dived together to swim and Wynand had climbed back first. As he stood at the rail, watching Roark in the water, he thought of the power he held in this moment: he could order the yacht to start moving, sail away and leave that redheaded body to sun and ocean. The thought gave him pleasure: the sense of power and the sense of surrender to Roark in the knowledge that no conceivable force could make him exercise that power. Every physical instrumentality was on his side: a few contractions of his vocal cords giving the order and someone’s hand opening a valve–and the obedient machine would move away. He thought: It’s not just a moral issue, not the mere horror of the act, one could conceivably abandon a man if the fate of a continent depended on it. But nothing would enable him to abandon this man. He, Gail Wynand, was the helpless one in this moment, with the solid planking of the deck under his feet. Roark, floating like a piece of driftwood, held a power greater than that of the engine in the belly of the yacht. Wynand thought: Because that is the power from which the engine has come.
    Roark climbed back on deck; Wynand looked at Roark’s body, at the threads of water running down the angular planes. He said:
    “You made a mistake on the Stoddard Temple, Howard. That statue should have been, not of Dominique, but of you.”
    “No. I’m too egotistical for that.”
”Egotistical? An egotist would have loved it. You use words in the strangest way.”
    “In the exact way. I don’t wish to be the symbol of anything. I’m only myself.” #
    Stretched in a deck chair, Wynand glanced up with satisfaction at the lantern, a disk of frosted glass on the bulkhead behind him: it cut off the black void of the ocean and gave him privacy within solid walls of light. He heard the sound of the yacht’s motion, he felt the warm night air on his face, he saw nothing but the stretch of deck around him, enclosed and final.
    Roark stood before him at the rail; a tall white figure leaning back against black space, his head lifted as Wynand had seen it lifted in an unfinished building. His hands clasped the rail. The short shirt sleeves left his arms in the light; vertical ridges of shadow stressed the tensed muscles of his arms and the tendons of his neck. Wynand thought of the yacht’s engine, of skyscrapers, of transatlantic cables, of everything man had made.
    “Howard, this is what I wanted. To have you here with me.”
    “I know.”
    “Do you know what it really is? Avarice. I’m a miser about two things on earth: you and Dominique. I’m a millionaire who’s never owned anything. Do you remember what you said about ownership? I’m like a savage who’s discovered the idea of private property and run amuck on it. It’s funny. Think of Ellsworth Toohey.”
    “Why Ellsworth Toohey?”
    “I mean, the things he preaches, I’ve been wondering lately whether he really understands what he’s advocating. Selflessness in the absolute sense? Why, that’s what I’ve been. Does he know that I’m the embodiment of his ideal? Of course, he wouldn’t approve of my motive, but motives never alter facts. If it’s true selflessness he’s after, in the philosophical sense–and Mr. Toohey is a philosopher–in a sense much beyond matters of money, why, let him look at me. I’ve never owned anything. I’ve never wanted anything. I didn’t give a damn–in the most cosmic way Toohey could ever hope for. I made myself into a barometer subject to the pressure of the whole world. The voice of his masses pushed me up and down. Of course, I collected a fortune in the process. Does that change the intrinsic reality of the picture? Suppose I gave away every penny of it. Suppose I had never wished to take any money at all, but had set out in pure altruism to serve the people. What would I have to do? Exactly what I’ve done. Give the greatest pleasure to the greatest number. Express the opinions, the desires, the tastes of the majority. The majority that voted me its approval and support freely, in the shape of a three-cent ballot dropped at the corner newsstand every morning. The Wynand papers? For thirty-one years they have represented everybody except Gail Wynand. I erased my ego out of existence in a way never achieved by any saint in a cloister. Yet people call me corrupt. Why? The saint in a cloister sacrifices only material things. It’s a small price to pay for the glory of his soul. He hoards his soul and gives up the world. But I–I took automobiles, silk pyjamas, a penthouse, and gave the world my soul in exchange. Who’s sacrificed more–if sacrifice is the test of virtue? Who’s the actual saint?”
    “Gail…I didn’t think you’d ever admit that to yourself.”
    “Why not? I knew what I was doing. I wanted power over a collective soul and I got it. A collective soul. It’s a messy kind of concept, but if anyone wishes to visualize it concretely, let him pick up a copy of the New York Banner.”
    “Yes…”
    “Of course, Toohey would tell me that this is not what he means by altruism. He means I shouldn’t leave it up to the people to decide what they want I should decide it. I should determine, not what I like nor what they like, but what I think they should like, and then ram it down their throats. It would have to be rammed, since their voluntary choice is the Banner. Well, there are several such altruists in the world today.”
    “You realize that?”
    “Of course. What else can one do if one must serve the people? If one must live for others? Either pander to everybody’s wishes and be called corrupt; or impose on everybody by force your own idea of everybody’s good. Can you think of any other way?”
    “No.”
    “What’s left then? Where does decency start? What begins where altruism ends? Do you see what I’m in love with?”
    “Yes, Gail.” Wynand had noticed that Roark’s voice had a reluctance that sounded almost like sadness.
    “What’s the matter with you? Why do you sound like that?”
    “I’m sorry. Forgive me. It’s just something I thought. I’ve been thinking of this for a long time. And particularly all these days when you’ve made me lie on deck and loaf.”
    “Thinking about me?”
”About you–among many other things.”
”What have you decided?”
”I’m not an altruist, Gail. I don’t decide for others.”
    “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve sold myself, but I’ve held no illusions about it. I’ve never become an Alvah Scarret. He really believes whatever the public believes. I despise the public. That’s my only vindication. I’ve sold my life, but I got a good price. Power. I’ve never used it. I couldn’t afford a personal desire. But now I’m free. Now I can use it for what I want. For what I believe. For Dominique. For you.”
    Roark turned away. When he looked back at Wynand, he said only: “I hope so, Gail.”
”What have you been thinking about these past weeks?”
”The principle behind the dean who fired me from Stanton.”
    “What principle?”
”The thing that is destroying the world. The thing you were talking about. Actual selflessness.” “The ideal which they say does not exist?”
    “They’re wrong. It does exist–though not in the way they imagine. It’s what I couldn’t understand about people for a long time. They have no self. They live within others. They live second-hand. Look at Peter Keating.”
    “You look at him. I hate his guts.”
    “I’ve looked at him–at what’s left of him–and it’s helped me to understand. He’s paying the price and wondering for what sin and telling himself that he’s been too selfish. In what act or thought of his has there ever been a self? What was his aim in life? Greatness–in other people’s eyes. Fame, admiration, envy–all that which comes from others. Others dictated his convictions, which he did not hold, but he was satisfied that others believed he held them. Others were his motive power and his prime concern. He didn’t want to be great, but to be thought great. He didn’t want to build, but to be admired as a builder. He borrowed from others in order to make an impression on others. There’s your actual selflessness. It’s his ego he’s betrayed and given up. But everybody calls him selfish.”
    “That’s the pattern most people follow.”
    “Yes! And isn’t that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of a self. Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he’s honest and he derives his self- respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he’s great in the eyes of others. The frustrated wretch who professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to establish his own superiority by comparison. The man whose sole aim is to make money. Now I don’t see anything evil in a desire to make money. But money is only a means to some end. If a man wants it for a personal purpose–to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury–he’s completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They’re second-handers. Look at our so-called cultural endeavors. A lecturer who spouts some borrowed rehash of nothing at all that means nothing at all to him–and the people who listen and don’t give a damn, but sit there in order to tell their friends that they have attended a lecture by a famous name. All second-handers.”
    “If I were Ellsworth Toohey, I’d say: aren’t you making out a case against selfishness? Aren’t they all acting on a selfish motive–to be noticed, liked, admired?”
    “–by others. At the price of their own self-respect. In the realm of greatest importance–the realm of values, of judgment, of spirit, of thought–they place others above self, in the exact manner which altruism demands. A truly selfish man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn’t need it.”
    “I think Toohey understands that. That’s what helps him spread his vicious nonsense. Just weakness and cowardice. It’s so easy to run to others. It’s so hard to stand on one’s own record. You can fake virtue for an audience. You can’t fake it in your own eyes. Your ego is the strictest judge. They run from it. They spend their lives running. It’s easier to donate a few thousand to charity and think oneself noble than to base self-respect on personal standards of personal achievement. It’s simple to seek substitutes for competence–such easy substitutes: love, charm, kindness, charity. But there is no substitute for competence.”
    “That, precisely, is the deadliness of second-handers. They have no concern for facts, ideas, work. They’re concerned only with people. They don’t ask: ‘Is this true?’ They ask: ‘Is this what others think is true?’ Not to judge, but to repeat. Not to do, but to give the impression of doing. Not creation, but show. Not ability, but friendship. Not merit, but pull. What would happen to the world without those who do, think, work, produce? Those are the egotists. You don’t think through another’s brain and you don’t work through another’s hands. When you suspend your faculty of independent judgment, you suspend consciousness. To stop consciousness is to stop life. Second-handers have no sense of reality. Their reality is not within them, but somewhere in that space which divides one human body from another. Not an entity, but a relation–anchored to nothing. That’s the emptiness I couldn’t understand in people. That’s what stopped me whenever I faced a committee. Men without an ego. Opinion without a rational process. Motion without brakes or motor. Power without responsibility. The second- hander acts, but the source of his actions is scattered in every other living person. It’s everywhere and nowhere and you can’t reason with him. He’s not open to reason. You can’t speak to him–he can’t hear. You’re tried by an empty bench. A blind mass running amuck, to crush you without sense or purpose. Steve Mallory couldn’t define the monster, but he knew. That’s the drooling beast he fears. The second-hander.”
    “I think your second-handers understand this, try as they might not to admit it to themselves. Notice how they’ll accept anything except a man who stands alone. They recognize him at once. By instinct. There’s a special, insidious kind of hatred for him. They forgive criminals. They admire dictators. Crime and violence are a tie. A form of mutual dependence. They need ties. They’ve got to force their miserable little personalities on every single person they meet. The independent man kills them–because they don’t exist within him and that’s the only form of existence they know. Notice the malignant kind of resentment against any idea that propounds independence. Notice the malice toward an independent man. Look back at your own life, Howard, and at the people you’ve met. They know. They’re afraid. You’re a reproach.”
    “That’s because some sense of dignity always remains in them. They’re still human beings. But they’ve been taught to seek themselves in others. Yet no man can achieve the kind of absolute humility that would need no self-esteem in any form. He wouldn’t survive. So after centuries of being pounded with the doctrine that altruism is the ultimate ideal, men have accepted it in the only way it could be accepted. By seeking self-esteem through others. By living second-hand. And it has opened the way for every kind of horror. It has become the dreadful form of selfishness which a truly selfish man couldn’t have conceived. And now, to cure a world perishing from selflessness, we’re asked to destroy the self. Listen to what is being preached today. Look at everyone around us. You’ve wondered why they suffer, why they seek happiness and never find it. If any man stopped and asked himself whether he’s ever held a truly personal desire, he’d find the answer. He’d see that all his wishes, his efforts, his dreams, his ambitions are motivated by other men. He’s not really struggling even for material wealth, but for the second-hander’s delusion–prestige. A stamp of approval, not his own. He can find no joy in the struggle and no joy when he has succeeded. He can’t say about a single thing: ‘This is what I wanted because I wanted it, not because it made my neighbors gape at me.’ Then he wonders why he’s unhappy. Every form of happiness is private. Our greatest moments are personal, self-motivated, not to be touched. The things which are sacred or precious to us are the things we withdraw from promiscuous sharing. But now we
    are taught to throw everything within us into public light and common pawing. To seek joy in meeting halls. We haven’t even got a word for the quality I mean–for the self-sufficiency of man’s spirit. It’s difficult to call it selfishness or egotism, the words have been perverted, they’ve come to mean Peter Keating. Gail, I think the only cardinal evil on earth is that of placing your prime concern within other men. I’ve always demanded a certain quality in the people I liked. I’ve always recognized it at once–and it’s the only quality I respect in men. I chose my friends by that. Now I know what it is. A self-sufficient ego. Nothing else matters.”
    “I’m glad you admit that you have friends.”
    “I even admit that I love them. But I couldn’t love them if they were my chief reason for living. Do you notice that Peter Keating hasn’t a single friend left? Do you see why? If one doesn’t respect oneself one can have neither love nor respect for others.”
    “To hell with Peter Keating. I’m thinking of you–and your friends.”
    Roark smiled. “Gail, if this boat were sinking, I’d give my life to save you. Not because it’s any kind of duty. Only because I like you, for reasons and standards of my own. I could die for you. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t live for you.”
    “Howard, what were the reasons and standards?” Roark looked at him and realized that he had said all the things he had tried not to say to Wynand. He answered: “That you weren’t born to be a second-hander.” Wynand smiled. He heard the sentence–and nothing else. Afterward, when Wynand had gone below to his cabin, Roark remained alone on deck. He stood at the rail, staring out at the ocean, at nothing.
    He thought: I haven’t mentioned to him the worst second-hander of all–the man who goes after power.
    12.
    IT WAS April when Roark and Wynand returned to the city. The skyscrapers looked pink against the blue sky, an incongruous shade of porcelain on masses of stone. There were small tufts of green on the trees in the streets.
    Roark went to his office. His staff shook hands with him and he saw the strain of smiles self- consciously repressed, until a young boy burst out: “What the hell! Why can’t we say how glad we are to see you back, boss?” Roark laughed. “Go ahead. I can’t tell you how damn glad I am to be back.” Then he sat on a table in the drafting room, while they all reported to him on the past three months, interrupting one another; he played with a ruler in his hands, not noticing it, like a man with the feel of his farm’s soil under his fingers, after an absence.
    In the afternoon, alone at his desk, he opened a newspaper. He had not seen a newspaper for three months. He noticed an item about the construction of Cortlandt Homes. He saw the line: “Peter Keating, architect. Gordon L. Prescott and Augustus Webb, associate designers.” He sat very still.
    That evening he went to see Cortlandt. The first building was almost completed. It stood alone on the large, empty tract. The workers had left for the day; a small light showed in the shack of the night watchman. The building had the skeleton of what Roark had designed, with the remnants of ten different breeds piled on the lovely symmetry of the bones. He saw the economy of plan preserved, but the expense of incomprehensible features added; the variety of modeled masses gone, replaced by the monotony of brutish cubes; a new wing added, with a vaulted roof, bulging out of a wall like a tumor, containing a gymnasium; strings of balconies added, made of metal stripes painted a violent blue; comer windows without purpose; an angle cut off for a useless door, with a round metal awning supported by a pole, like a haberdashery in the Broadway district; three vertical bands of brick, leading from nowhere to nowhere; the general style of what the profession called “Bronx Modern”; a panel of bas-relief over the main entrance, representing a mass of muscle which could be discerned as either three or four bodies, one of them with an arm raised, holding a screwdriver.
    There were white crosses on the fresh panes of glass in the windows, and it looked appropriate, like an error X-ed out of existence. There was a band of red in the sky, to the west, beyond Manhattan, and the buildings of the city rose straight and black against it.
    Roark stood across the space of the future road before the first house of Cortlandt. He stood straight, the muscles of his throat pulled, his wrists held down and away from his body, as he would have stood before a firing squad.
#
    No one could tell how it had happened. There had been no deliberate intention behind it. It had just happened.
    First, Toohey told Keating one morning that Gordon L. Prescott and Gus Webb would be put on the payroll as associate designers. “What do you care, Peter? It won’t come out of your fee. It won’t cut your prestige at all, since you’re the big boss. They won’t be much more than your draftsmen. All I want is to give the boys a boost. It will help their reputation, to be tagged with this project in some way. I’m very interested in building up their reputation.”
    “But what for? There’s nothing for them to do. It’s all done.”
    “Oh, any kind of last-minute drafting. Save time for your own staff. You can share the expense with them. Don’t be a hog.”
    Toohey had told the truth; he had no other purpose in mind.
    Keating could not discover what connections Prescott and Webb possessed, with whom, in what office, on what terms–among the dozens of officials involved in the project. The entanglement of responsibility was such that no one could be quite certain of anyone’s authority. It was clear only that Prescott and Webb had friends, and that Keating could not keep them off the job.
    The changes began with the gymnasium. The lady in charge of tenant selection demanded a gymnasium. She was a social worker and her task was to end with the opening of the project. She acquired a permanent job by getting herself appointed Director of Social Recreation for Cortlandt. No gymnasium had been provided in the original plans; there were two schools and a Y.M.C.A. within walking distance. She declared that this was an outrage against the children of the poor, Prescott and Webb supplied the gymnasium. Other changes followed, of a purely esthetic nature. Extras piled on the cost of construction so carefully devised for economy. The Director of Social Recreation departed for Washington to discuss the matter of a Little Theater and a Meeting Hall she wished added to the next two buildings of Cortlandt.
    The changes in the drawings came gradually, a few at a time. The others okaying the changes came from headquarters. “But we’re ready to start!” cried Keating. “What the hell,” drawled Gus Webb, “set ’em back just a coupla thousand bucks more, that’s all.”
    “Now as to the balconies,” said Gordon L. Prescott, “they lend a certain modern style. You don’t want the damn thing to look so bare. It’s depressing. Besides, you don’t understand psychology. The people who’ll live here are used to sitting out on fire-escapes. They love it. They’ll miss it. You gotta give ’em a place to sit on in the fresh air….The cost? Hell, if you’re so damn worried about the cost, I’ve got an idea where we can save plenty. We’ll do without closet doors. What do they need doors for on closets? It’s old-fashioned.” All the closet doors were omitted.
    Keating fought. It was the kind of battle he had never entered, but he tried everything possible to him, to the honest limit of his exhausted strength. He went from office to office, arguing, threatening, pleading. But he had no influence, while his associate designers seemed to control an underground river with interlocking tributaries. The officials shrugged and referred him to someone else. No one cared about an issue of esthetics. “What’s the difference?” “It doesn’t come out of your pocket, does it?” “Who are you to have it all your way? Let the boys contribute something.”
    He appealed to Ellsworth Toohey, but Toohey was not interested. He was busy with other
    matters and he had no desire to provoke a bureaucratic quarrel. In all truth, he had not prompted his protégés to their artistic endeavor, but he saw no reason for attempting to stop them. He was amused by the whole thing. “But it’s awful, Ellsworth! You know it’s awful!” “Oh, I suppose so. What do you care, Peter? Your poor but unwashed tenants won’t be able to appreciate the finer points of architectural art. See that the plumbing works.”
    “But what for? What for? What for?” Keating cried to his associate designers. “Well, why shouldn’t we have any say at all?” asked Gordon L. Prescott. “We want to express our individuality too.”
    When Keating invoked his contract, he was told: “All right, go ahead, try to sue the government. Try it.” At times, he felt a desire to kill. There was no one to kill. Had he been granted the privilege, he could not have chosen a victim. Nobody was responsible. There was no purpose and no cause. It had just happened.
    Keating came to Roark’s house on the evening after Roark’s return. He had not been summoned. Roark opened the door and said: “Good evening, Peter,” but Keating could not answer. They walked silently into the work room. Roark sat down, but Keating remained standing in the middle of the floor and asked his voice dull:
    “What are you going to do?”
    “You must leave that up to me now.”
    “I couldn’t help it, Howard….I couldn’t help it!”
    “I suppose not.”
    “What can you do now? You can’t sue the government.”
    “No.”
    Keating thought that he should sit down, but the distance to a chair seemed too great. He felt he would be too conspicuous if he moved.
    “What are you going to do to me, Howard?”
”Nothing.”
”Want me to confess the truth to them? To everybody?”
”No.”
After a while Keating whispered:
”Will you let me give you the fee…everything…and…”
Roark smiled.
”I’m sorry…” Keating whispered, looking away.
He waited, and then the plea he knew he must not utter came out as:
”I’m scared, Howard…”
Roark shook his head.
”Whatever I do, it won’t be to hurt you, Peter. I’m guilty, too. We both are.” “You’re guilty?”
    “It’s I who’ve destroyed you, Peter. From the beginning. By helping you. There are matters in which one must not ask for help nor give it. I shouldn’t have done your projects at Stanton. I
    shouldn’t have done the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. Nor Cortlandt. I loaded you with more than you could carry. It’s like an electric current too strong for the circuit. It blows the fuse. Now we’ll both pay for it. It will be hard on you, but it will be harder on me.”
    “You’d rather…I went home now, Howard?” “Yes.”
At the door Keating said:
”Howard! They didn’t do it on purpose.” “That’s what makes it worse.”

    Dominique heard the sound of the car rising up the hill road. She thought it was Wynand coming home. He had worked late in the city every night of the two weeks since his return.
    The motor filled the spring silence of the countryside. There was no sound in the house; only the small rustle of her hair as she leaned her head back against a chair cushion. In a moment she was not conscious of hearing the car’s approach, it was so familiar at this hour, part of the loneliness and privacy outside.
    She heard the car stop at the door. The door was never locked; there were no neighbors or guests to expect. She heard the door opening, and steps in the hall downstairs. The steps did not pause, but walked with familiar certainty up the stairs. A hand turned the knob of her door.
    It was Roark. She thought, while she was rising to her feet, that he had never entered her room before; but he knew every part of this house; as he knew everything about her body. She felt no moment of shock, only the memory of one, a shock in the past tense, the thought: I must have been shocked when I saw him, but not now. Now, by the time she was standing before him, it seemed very simple.
    She thought: The most important never has to be said between us. It has always been said like this. He did not want to see me alone. Now he’s here. I waited and I’m ready.
    “Good evening, Dominique.”
She heard the name pronounced to fill the space of five years. She said quietly: “Good evening, Roark.”
”I want you to help me.”
    She was standing on the station platform of Clayton, Ohio, on the witness stand of the Stoddard trial, on the ledge of a quarry, to let herself–as she had been then–share this sentence she heard now.
    “Yes, Roark.”
    He walked across the room he had designed for her, he sat down, facing her, the width of the room between them. She found herself seated too, not conscious of her own movements, only of his, as if his body contained two sets of nerves, his own and hers.
    “Next Monday night, Dominique, exactly at eleven-thirty, I want you to drive up to the site of Cortlandt Homes.”
    She noticed that she was conscious of her eyelids; not painfully, but just conscious; as if they had tightened and would not move again. She had seen the first building of Cortlandt. She knew what she was about to hear.
    “You must be alone in your car and you must be on your way home from some place where you had an appointment to visit, made in advance. A place that can be reached from here only
    by driving past Cortlandt. You must be able to prove that afterward. I want your car to run out of gas in front of Cortlandt, at eleven-thirty. Honk your horn. There’s an old night watchman there. He will come out. Ask him to help you and send him to the nearest garage, which is a mile away.”
    She said steadily, “Yes, Roark.”
    “When he’s gone, get out of your car. There’s a big stretch of vacant land by the road, across from the building, and a kind of trench beyond. Walk to that trench as fast as you can, get to the bottom and lie down on the ground. Lie flat. After a while, you can come back to the car. You will know when to come back. See that you’re found in the car and that your condition matches its condition–approximately.”
    “Yes, Roark.”
    “Have you understood?”
    “Yes.”
    “Everything?”
    “Yes. Everything.”
    They were standing. She saw only his eyes and that he was smiling.
    She heard him say: “Good night, Dominique,” he walked out and she heard his car driving away. She thought of his smile.
    She knew that he did not need her help for the thing he was going to do, he could find other means to get rid of the watchman; that he had let her have a part in this, because she would not survive what was to follow if he hadn’t; that this had been the test.
    He had not wanted to name it; he had wanted her to understand and show no fear. She had not been able to accept the Stoddard trial, she had run from the dread of seeing him hurt by the world, but she had agreed to help him in this. Had agreed in complete serenity. She was free and he knew it.

    The road ran flat across the dark stretches of Long Island, but Dominique felt as if she were driving uphill. That was the only abnormal sensation: the sensation of rising, as if her car were speeding vertically. She kept her eyes on the road, but the dashboard on the rim of her vision looked like the panel of an airplane. The clock on the dashboard said 11:10.
    She was amused, thinking: I’ve never learned to fly a plane and now I know how it feels; just like this, the unobstructed space and no effort. And no weight. That’s supposed to happen in the stratosphere–or is it the interplanetary space?–where one begins to float and there’s no law of gravity. No law of any kind of gravity at all. She heard herself laughing aloud.
    Just the sense of rising….Otherwise, she felt normal. She had never driven a car so well. She thought: It’s a dry, mechanical job, to drive a car, so I know I’m very clearheaded; because driving seemed easy, like breathing or swallowing, an immediate function requiring no attention. She stopped for red lights that hung in the air over crossings of anonymous streets in unknown suburbs, she turned corners, she passed other cars, and she was certain that no accident could happen to her tonight; her car was directed by remote control–one of those automatic rays she’d read about–was it a beacon or a radio beam?–and she only sat at the wheel.
    It left her free to be conscious of nothing but small matters, and to feel careless and…unserious, she thought; so completely unserious. It was a kind of clarity, being more normal than normal, as crystal is more transparent than empty air. Just small matters: the thin silk of her short, black dress and the way it was pulled over her knee, the flexing of her toes inside her pump when she moved her foot, “Danny’s Diner” in gold letters on a dark window that flashed past.
    She had been very gay at the dinner given by the wife of some banker, important friends of Gail’s, whose names she could not quite remember now. It had been a wonderful dinner in a huge Long Island mansion. They had been so glad to see her and so sorry that Gail could not come. She had eaten everything she had seen placed before her. She had had a splendid appetite–as on rare occasions of her childhood when she came running home after a day spent in the woods and her mother was so pleased, because her mother was afraid that she might grow up to be anemic.
    She had entertained the guests at the dinner table with stories of her childhood, she had made them laugh, and it had been the gayest dinner party her hosts could remember. Afterward, in the drawing room with the windows open wide to a dark sky–a moonless sky that stretched out beyond the trees, beyond the towns, all the way to the banks of the East River– she had laughed and talked, she had smiled at the people around her with a warmth that made them all speak freely of the things dearest to them, she had loved those people, and they had known they were loved, she had loved every person anywhere on earth, and some woman had said: “Dominique, I didn’t know you could be so wonderful!” and she had answered: “I haven’t a care in the world.”
    But she had really noticed nothing except the watch on her wrist and that she must be out of that house by 10:50. She had no idea of what she would say to take her leave, but by 10:45 it had been said, correctly and convincingly, and by 10:50 her foot was on the accelerator.
    It was a closed roadster, black with red leather upholstery. She thought how nicely John, the chauffeur, had kept that red leather polished. There would be nothing left of the car, and it was proper that it should look its best for its last ride. Like a woman on her first night. I never dressed for my first night–I had no first night–only something ripped off me and the taste of quarry dust in my teeth.
    When she saw black vertical strips with dots of light filling the glass of the car’s side window, she wondered what had happened to the glass. Then she realized that she was driving along the East River and that this was New York, on the other side. She laughed and thought: No, this is not New York, this is a private picture pasted to the window of my car, all of it, here, on one small pane, under my hand, I own it, it’s mine now–she ran one hand across the buildings from the Battery to Queensboro Bridge–Roark, it’s mine and I’m giving it to you.

    The figure of the night watchman was now fifteen inches tall in the distance. When it gets to be ten inches, I’ll start, thought Dominique. She stood by the side of her car and wished the watchman would walk faster.
    The building was a black mass that propped the sky in one spot. The rest of the sky sagged, intimately low over a flat stretch of ground. The closest streets and houses were years away, far on the rim of space, irregular little dents, like the teeth of a broken saw.
    She felt a large pebble under the sole of her pump; it was uncomfortable, but she would not move her foot; it would make a sound. She was not alone. She knew that he was somewhere in that building, the width of a street away from her. There was no sound and no light in the building; only white crosses on black windows. He would need no light; he knew every hall, every stairwell.
    The watchman had shrunk away. She jerked the door of her car open. She threw her hat and bag inside, and flung the door shut. She heard the slam of sound when she was across the road, running over the empty tract, away from the building.
    She felt the silk of her dress clinging to her legs, and it served as a tangible purpose of flight, to push against that, to tear past that barrier as fast as she could. There were pits and dry stubble on the ground. She fell once, but she noticed it only when she was running again.
    She saw the trench in the darkness. Then she was on her knees, at the bottom, and then stretched flat on her stomach, face down, her mouth pressed to the earth.
    She felt the pounding of her thighs and she twisted her body once in a long convulsion, to feel
    the earth with her legs, her breasts, the skin of her arms. It was like lying in Roark’s bed.
    The sound was the crack of a fist on the back of her head. She felt the thrust of the earth against her, flinging her up to her feet, to the edge of the trench. The upper part of the Cortlandt building had tilted and hung still while a broken streak of sky grew slowly across it. As if the sky were slicing the building in half. Then the streak became turquoise blue light. Then there was no upper part, but only window frames and girders flying through the air, the building spreading over the sky, a long, thin tongue of red shooting from the center, another blow of a fist, and then another, a blinding flash and the glass panes of the skyscrapers across the river glittering like spangles.
    She did not remember that he had ordered her to lie flat, that she was standing, that glass and twisted iron were raining around her. In the flash when walls rose outward and a building opened like a sunburst, she thought of him there, somewhere beyond, the builder who had to destroy, who knew every crucial point of that structure, who had made the delicate balance of stress and support; she thought of him selecting these key spots, placing the blast, a doctor turned murderer, expertly cracking heart, brain and lungs at once. He was there, he saw it and what it did to him was worse than what it did to the building. But he was there and he welcomed it.
    She saw the city enveloped in light for half a second, she could see window ledges and cornices miles away, she thought of dark rooms and ceilings licked by this fire, she saw the peaks of towers lighted against the sky, her city now and his. “Roark!” she screamed. “Roark! Roark!” She did not know she screamed. She could not hear her voice in the blast.
    Then she was running across the field to the smoking ruin, running over broken glass, planting her feet down full with each step, because she enjoyed the pain. There was no pain left ever to be felt by her again. A spread of dust stood over the field like an awning. She heard the shriek of sirens starting far away.
    It was still a car, though the rear wheels were crushed under a piece of furnace machinery, and an elevator door lay over the hood. She crawled to the seat. She had to look as if she had not moved from here. She gathered handfuls of glass off the floor and poured it over her lap, over her hair. She took a sharp splinter and slashed the skin of her neck, her legs, her arms. What she felt was not pain. She saw blood shooting out of her arm, running down on her lap, soaking the black silk, trickling between her thighs. Her head fell back, mouth open, panting. She did not want to stop. She was free. She was invulnerable. She did not know she had cut an artery. She felt so light. She was laughing at the law of gravity.
    When she was found by the men of the first police car to reach the scene, she was unconscious, a few minutes’ worth of life left in her body.
    13.
    DOMINIQUE glanced about the bedroom of the penthouse. It was her first contact with surroundings she was ready to recognize. She knew she had been brought here after many days in a hospital. The bedroom seemed lacquered with light. It’s that clarity of crystal over everything, she thought; that has remained; it will remain forever. She saw Wynand standing by her bed. He was watching her. He looked amused.
    She remembered seeing him at the hospital. He had not looked amused then. She knew the doctor had told him she would not survive, that first night. She had wanted to tell them all that she would, that she had no choice now but to live; only it did not seem important to tell people anything, ever.
    Now she was back. She could feel bandages on her throat, her legs, her left arm. But her hands lay before her on the blanket, and the gauze had been removed; there were only a few thin red scars left.
    “You blasted little fool!” said Wynand happily. “Why did you have to make such a good job of
    it?”
    Lying on the white pillow, with her smooth gold hair and a white, high-necked hospital gown, she looked younger than she had ever looked as a child. She had the quiet radiance presumed and never found in childhood: the full consciousness of certainty, of innocence, of peace.
    “I ran out of gas,” she said, “and I was waiting there in my car when suddenly…”
    “I’ve already told that story to the police. So has the night watchman. But didn’t you know that glass must be handled with discretion?”
    Gail looks rested, she thought, and very confident. It has changed everything for him, too; in the same way.
    “It didn’t hurt,” she said.
    “Next time you want to play the innocent bystander, let me coach you.”
    “They believe it though, don’t they?”
    “Oh yes, they believe it. They have to. You almost died. I don’t see why he had to save the watchman’s life and almost take yours.”
    “W ho?”
”Howard, my dear. Howard Roark.” “What has he to do with it?”
    “Darling, you’re not being questioned by the police. You will be, though, and you’ll have to be more convincing than that. However, I’m sure you’ll succeed. They won’t think of the Stoddard trial.”
    “Oh.”
    “You did it then and you’ll always do it. Whatever you think of him, you’ll always feel what I feel about his work.”
    “Gail, you’re glad I did it?” “Yes.”
    She saw him looking down at her hand that lay on the edge of the bed. Then he was on his knees, his lips pressed to her hand, not raising it, not touching it with his fingers, only with his mouth. That was the sole confession he would permit himself of what her days in the hospital had cost him. She lifted her other hand and moved it over his hair. She thought: It will be worse for you than if I had died, Gail, but it will be all right, it won’t hurt you, there’s no pain left in the world, nothing to compare with the fact that we exist: he, you and I–you’ve understood all that matters, though you don’t know you’ve lost me.
    He lifted his head and got up.
”I didn’t intend to reproach you in any way. Forgive me.” “I won’t die, Gail. I feel wonderful.”
”You look it.”
”Have they arrested him?”
”He’s out on bail.”
    “You’re happy?”
    “I’m glad you did it and that it was for him. I’m glad he did it. He had to.”
    “Yes. And it will be the Stoddard trial again.”
    “Not quite.”
    “You’ve wanted another chance, Gail? All these years?”
    “Yes.”
    “May I see the papers?”
    “No. Not until you’re up.”
    “Not even the Banner!”
    “Particularly not the Banner.”
    “I love you, Gail. If you stick to the end…”
    “Don’t offer me any bribes. This is not between you and me. Not even between him and me.”
    “But between you and God?”
    “If you want to call it that. But we won’t discuss it. Not until after it’s over. You have a visitor waiting for you downstairs. He’s been here every day.”
    “W ho?”
”Your lover. Howard Roark. Want to let him thank you now?”
    The gay mockery, the tone of uttering the most preposterous thing he could think of, told her how far he was from guessing the rest. She said:
    “Yes. I want to see him. Gail, if I decide to make him my lover?”
    “I’ll kill you both. Now don’t move, lie flat, the doctor said you must take it easy, you’ve got twenty-six assorted stitches all over you.”
    He walked out and she heard him descending the stairs. #
    When the first policeman had reached the scene of the explosion, he had found, behind the building, on the shore of the river, the plunger that had set off the dynamite. Roark stood by the plunger, his hands in his pockets, looking at the remnants of Cortlandt.
    “What do you know about this, buddy?” the policeman asked.
”You’d better arrest me,” said Roark. “I’ll talk at the trial.”
He had not added another word in reply to all the official questions that followed.
    It was Wynand who got him released on bail, in the early hours of the morning. Wynand had been calm at the emergency hospital where he had seen Dominique’s wounds and had been told she would not live. He had been calm while he telephoned, got a county judge out of bed and arranged Roark’s bail. But when he stood in the warden’s office of a small county jail, he began to shake suddenly. “You bloody fools!” he said through his teeth and there followed every obscenity he had learned on the waterfront. He forgot all the aspects of the situation save one: Roark being held behind bars. He was Stretch Wynand of Hell’s Kitchen again and this was the kind of fury that had shattered him in sudden flashes in those days, the fury he had felt when standing behind a crumbling wall, waiting to be killed. Only now he knew that he
    was also Gail Wynand, the owner of an empire, and he couldn’t understand why some sort of legal procedure was necessary, why he didn’t smash this jail, with his fists or through his papers, it was all one to him at the moment, he wanted to kill, he had to kill, as that night behind the wall, in defense of his life.
    He managed to sign papers, he managed to wait until Roark was brought out to him. They walked out together, Roark leading him by the wrist, and by the time they reached the car, Wynand was calm. In the car, Wynand asked:
    “You did it, of course?”
    “Of course.”
    “We’ll fight it out together.”
    “If you want to make it your battle.”
    “At the present estimate, my personal fortune amounts to forty million dollars. That should be enough to hire any lawyer you wish or the whole profession.”
    “I won’t use a lawyer.”
”Howard! You’re not going to submit photographs again?”
    “No. Not this time.” #
    Roark entered the bedroom and sat down on a chair by the bed. Dominique lay still, looking at him. They smiled at each other. Nothing has to be said, not this time either, she thought.
    She asked:
”You were in jail?”
”For a few hours.”
”What was it like?”
”Don’t start acting about it as Gail did.”
”Gail took it very badly?”
”Very.”
”I won’t.”
”I might have to go back to a cell for years. You knew that when you agreed to help me.” “Yes. I knew that.”
”I’m counting on you to save Gail, if I go.”
”Counting on me?’
He looked at her and shook his head. “Dearest…” It sounded
like a reproach.
”Yes?” she whispered.
”Don’t you know by now that it was a trap I set for you?”
”How?”
    “What would you do if I hadn’t asked you to help me?”
”I’d be with you, in your apartment, at the Enright House, right now, publicly and openly.”
    “Yes. But now you can’t. You’re Mrs. Gail Wynand, you’re above suspicion, and everyone believes you were at the scene by accident. Just let it be known what we are to each other– and it will be a confession that I did it.”
    “I see.”
    “I want you to keep quiet. If you had any thoughts of wanting to share my fate, drop them. I won’t tell you what I intend to do, because that’s the only way I have of controlling you until the trial. Dominique, if I’m convicted, I want you to remain with Gail. I’m counting on that, I want you to remain with him, and never tell him about us, because he and you will need each other.”
    “And if you’re acquitted?”
    “Then…” He glanced about the room, Wynand’s bedroom. “I don’t want to say it here. But you know it.”
    “You love him very much?”
”Yes.”
”Enough to sacrifice…”
He smiled. “You’ve been afraid of that ever since I came here for the first time?” “Yes.”
    He looked straight at her. “Did you think that possible?” “No.”
    “Not my work nor you, Dominique. Not ever. But I can do this much for him: I can leave it to him if I have to go.”
    “You’ll be acquitted.”
”That’s not what I want to hear you say.”
    “If they convict you–if they lock you in jail or put you in a chain gang–if they smear your name in every filthy headline–if they never let you design another building–if they never let me see you again–it will not matter. Not too much. Only down to a certain point.”
    “That’s what I’ve waited to hear for seven years, Dominique.” He took her hand, he raised it and held it to his lips, and she felt his lips where Wynand’s had been. Then he got up.
    “I’ll wait,” she said. “I’ll keep quiet. I won’t come near you. I promise.”
    He smiled and nodded. Then he left. #
    “It happens, upon rare occasions, that world forces too great to comprehend become focused in a single event, like rays gathered by a lens to one point of superlative brightness, for all of us to see. Such an event is the outrage of Cortlandt. Here, in a microcosm, we can observe the evil that has crushed our poor planet from the day of its birth in cosmic ooze. One man’s Ego against all the concepts of mercy, humanity and brotherhood. One man destroying the future home of the disinherited. One man condemning thousands to the horror of the slums, to filth, disease and death. When an awakening society, with a new sense of humanitarian duty, made a mighty effort to rescue the underprivileged, when the best talents of society united to
    create a decent home for them–the egotism of one man blew the achievement of others to pieces. And for what? For some vague matter of personal vanity, for some empty conceit. I regret that the laws of our state allow nothing more than a prison sentence for this crime. That man should forfeit his life. Society needs the right to rid itself of men such as Howard Roark.”
    Thus spoke Ellsworth M. Toohey in the pages of the New Frontiers.
    Echoes answered him from all over the country. The explosion of Cortlandt had lasted half a minute. The explosion of public fury went on and on, with a cloud of powdered plaster filling the air, with rust and refuse raining out of the cloud.
    Roark had been indicted by a grand jury, had pleaded “Not guilty” and had refused to make any other statement. He had been released on a bond furnished by Gail Wynand, and he awaited trial.
    There were many speculations on his motive. Some said it was professional jealousy. Others declared that there was a certain similarity between the design of Cortlandt and Roark’s style of building, that Keating, Prescott and Webb might have borrowed a little from Roark–“a legitimate adaptation”–“there’s no property rights on ideas”–“in a democracy, art belongs to all the people”–and that Roark had been prompted by the vengeance lust of an artist who had believed himself plagiarized.
    None of it was too clear, but nobody cared too much about the motive. The issue was simple: one man against many. He had no right to a motive.
    A home, built in charity, for the poor. Built upon ten thousand years in which men had been taught that charity and self-sacrifice are an absolute not to be questioned, the touchstone of virtue, the ultimate ideal. Ten thousand years of voices speaking of service and sacrifice– sacrifice is the prime rule of life–serve or be served–crush or get crushed–sacrifice is noble– make what you can of it, at the one end or the other–serve and sacrifice–serve and serve and serve…
    Against that–one man who wished neither to serve nor to rule. And had thereby committed the only unforgivable crime.
    It was a sensational scandal, and there was the usual noise and the usual lust of righteous anger, such as is proper to all lynchings. But there was a fierce, personal quality in the indignation of every person who spoke about it.
    “He’s just an egomaniac devoid of all moral sense”–
–said the society woman dressing for a charity bazaar, who dared not contemplate what
    means of self-expression would be left to her and how she could impose her ostentation on her friends, if charity were not the all-excusing virtue–
    –said the social worker who had found no aim in life and could generate no aim from within the sterility of his soul, but basked in virtue and held an unearned respect from all, by grace of his fingers on the wounds of others–
    –said the novelist who had nothing to say if the subject of service and sacrifice were to be taken away from him, who sobbed in the hearing of attentive thousands that he loved them and loved them and would they please love him a little in return–
    –said the lady columnist who had just bought a country mansion because she wrote so tenderly about the little people–
    –said all the little people who wanted to hear of love, the great love, the unfastidious love, the love that embraced everything, forgave everything and permitted them everything–
    –said every second-hander who could not exist except as a leech on the souls of others. Ellsworth Toohey sat back, watched, listened and smiled.
    Gordon L. Prescott and Gus Webb were entertained at dinners and cocktail parties; they were treated with tender, curious solicitude, like survivors of disaster. They said that they could not understand what possible motive Roark could have had, and they demanded justice.
    Peter Keating went nowhere. He refused to see the press. He refused to see anyone. But he issued a written statement that he believed Roark was not guilty. His statement contained one
    curious sentence, the last. It said: “Leave him alone, please can’t you leave him alone?”
    Pickets from the Council of American Builders paced in front of the Cord Building. It served no purpose, because there was no work in Roark’s office. The commissions he was to start had been canceled.
    This was solidarity. The debutante having her toenails pedicured–the housewife buying carrots from a pushcart–the bookkeeper who had wanted to be a pianist, but had the excuse of a sister to support–the businessman who hated his business–the worker who hated his work–the intellectual who hated everybody–all were united as brothers in the luxury of common anger that cured boredom and took them out of themselves, and they knew well enough what a blessing it was to be taken out of themselves. The readers were unanimous. The press was unanimous.
    Gail Wynand went against the current.
    “Gail!” Alvah Scarret had gasped. “We can’t defend a dynamiter!”
    “Keep still, Alvah,” Wynand had said, “before I bash your teeth in.”
    Gail Wynand stood alone in the middle of his office, his head thrown back, glad to be living, as he had stood on a wharf on a dark night facing the lights of a city.
    “In the filthy howling now going on all around us,” said an editorial in the Banner, signed “Gail Wynand” in big letters, “nobody seems to remember that Howard Roark surrendered himself of his own free will. If he blew up that building–did he have to remain at the scene to be arrested? But we don’t wait to discover his reasons. We have convicted him without a hearing. We want him to be guilty. We are delighted with this case. What you hear is not indignation– it’s gloating. Any illiterate maniac, any worthless moron who commits some revolting murder, gets shrieks of sympathy from us and marshals an army of humanitarian defenders. But a man of genius is guilty by definition. Granted that it is vicious injustice to condemn a man simply because he is weak and small. To what level of depravity has a society descended when it condemns a man simply because he is strong and great? Such, however, is the whole moral atmosphere of our century–the century of the second-rater.”
    “We hear it shouted,” said another Wynand editorial, “that Howard Roark spends his career in and out of courtrooms. Well, that is true. A man like Roark is on trial before society all his life. Whom does that indict–Roark or society?”
    “We have never made an effort to understand what is greatness in man and how to recognize it,” said another Wynand editorial. “We have come to hold, in a kind of mawkish stupor, that greatness is to be gauged by self-sacrifice. Self-sacrifice, we drool, is the ultimate virtue. Let’s stop and think for a moment. Is sacrifice a virtue? Can a man sacrifice his integrity? His honor? His freedom? His ideal? His convictions? The honesty of his feelings? The independence of his thought? But these are a man’s supreme possessions. Anything he gives up for them is not a sacrifice but an easy bargain. They, however, are above sacrificing to any cause or consideration whatsoever. Should we not, then, stop preaching dangerous and vicious nonsense? Self-sacrifice? But it is precisely the self that cannot and must not be sacrificed. It is the unsacrificed self that we must respect in man above all.”
    This editorial was quoted in the New Frontiers and in many newspapers, reprinted in a box under the heading: “Look who’s talking!”
    Gail Wynand laughed. Resistance fed him and made him stronger. This was a war, and he had not engaged in a real war for years, not since the time when he laid the foundations of his empire amid cries of protest from the whole profession. He was granted the impossible, the dream of every man: the chance and intensity of youth, to be used with the wisdom of experience. A new beginning and a climax, together. I have waited and lived, he thought, for this.
    His twenty-two newspapers, his magazines, his newsreels were given the order: Defend Roark. Sell Roark to the public. Stem the lynching.
    “Whatever the facts,” Wynand explained to his staff, “this is not going to be a trial by facts. It’s a trial by public opinion. We’ve always made public opinion. Let’s make it. Sell Roark. I don’t care how you do it. I’ve trained you. You’re experts at selling. Now show me how good you are.”
    He was greeted by silence, and his employees glanced at one another. Alvah Scarret mopped his forehead. But they obeyed.
    The Banner printed a picture of the Enright House, with the caption: “Is this the man you want to destroy?” A picture of Wynand’s home: “Match this, if you can.” A picture of Monadnock Valley: “Is this the man who has contributed nothing to society?”
    The Banner ran Roark’s biography, under the byline of a writer nobody had ever heard of; it was written by Gail Wynand. The Banner ran a series on famous trials in which innocent men had been convicted by the majority prejudice of the moment. The Banner ran articles on man martyred by society: Socrates, Galileo, Pasteur, the thinkers, the scientists, a long, heroic line–each a man who stood alone, the man who defied men.
    “But, Gail, for God’s sake, Gail, it was a housing project!” wailed Alvah Scarret.
    Wynand looked at him helplessly: “I suppose it’s impossible to make you fools understand that that has nothing to do with it. All right. We’ll talk about housing projects.”
    The Banner ran an expose on the housing racket: the graft, the incompetence, the structures erected at five times the cost a private builder would have needed, the settlements built and abandoned, the horrible performance accepted, admired, forgiven, protected by the sacred cow of altruism. “Hell is said to be paved with good intentions,” said the Banner. “Could it be because we’ve never learned to distinguish what intentions constitute the good? Is it not time to learn? Never have there been so many good intentions so loudly proclaimed in the world. And look at it.”
    The Banner editorials were written by Gail Wynand as he stood at a table in the composing room, written as always on a huge piece of print stock, with a blue pencil, in letters an inch high. He slammed the G W at the end, and the famous initials had never carried such an air of reckless pride.
    Dominique had recovered and returned to their country house. Wynand drove home late in the evening. He brought Roark along as often as he could. They sat together in the living room, with the windows open to the spring night. The dark stretches of the hill rolled gently down to the lake from under the walls of the house, and the lake glittered through the trees far below. They did not talk of the case or of the coming trial. But Wynand spoke of his crusade, impersonally, almost as if it did not concern Roark at all. Wynand stood in the middle of the room, saying: “All right, it was contemptible–the whole career of the Banner. But this will vindicate everything. Dominique, I know you’ve never been able to understand why I’ve felt no shame in my past. Why I love the Banner. Now you’ll see the answer. Power. I hold a power I’ve never tested. Now you’ll see the test. They’ll think what I want them to think. They’ll do as I say. Because it is my city and I do run things around here. Howard, by the time you come to trial, I’ll have them all twisted in such a way there won’t be a jury who’ll dare convict you.”
    He could not sleep at night. He felt no desire to sleep. “Go on to bed,” he would say to Roark and Dominique, “I’ll come up in a few minutes.” Then, Dominique from the bedroom, Roark from the guest room across the hall, would hear Wynand’s steps pacing the terrace for hours, a kind of joyous restlessness in the sound, each step like a sentence anchored, a statement pounded into the floor.
    Once, when Wynand dismissed them, late at night, Roark and Dominique went up the stairs together and stopped on the first landing; they heard the violent snap of a match in the living room below, a sound that carried the picture of a hand jerked recklessly, lighting the first of the cigarettes that would last till dawn, a small dot of fire crossing and recrossing the terrace to the pounding of steps.
    They looked down the stairs and then looked at each other.
    “It’s horrible,” said Dominique.
    “It’s great,” said Roark.
    “He can’t help you, no matter what he does.”
    “I know he can’t. That’s not the point.”
    “He’s risking everything he has to save you. He doesn’t know he’ll lose me if you’re saved.”
    “Dominique, which will be worse for him–to lose you or to lose his crusade?” She nodded, understanding. He added: “You know that it’s not me he wants to save. I’m only the excuse.”
    She lifted her hand. She touched his cheekbone, a faint pressure of her fingertips. She could allow herself nothing else. She turned and went on to her bedroom, and heard him closing the guestroom door.
    “Is it not appropriate,” wrote Lancelot Clokey in a syndicated article, “that Howard Roark is being defended by the Wynand papers? If anyone doubts the moral issues involved in this appalling case, here is the proof of what’s what and who stands where. The Wynand papers– that stronghold of yellow journalism, vulgarity, corruption and muckraking, that organized insult to public taste and decency, that intellectual underworld ruled by a man who has less conception of principles than a cannibal–the Wynand papers are the proper champions of Howard Roark, and Howard Roark is their rightful hero. After a lifetime devoted to blasting the integrity of the press, it is only fit that Gail Wynand should now support a cruder fellow dynamiter.”
    “All this fancy talk going ’round,” said Gus Webb in a public speech, “is a lot of bull. Here’s the plain dope. That guy Wynand’s salted away plenty, and I mean plenty, by skinning suckers in the real-estate racket all these years. Does he like it when the government muscles in and shoves him out, so’s the little fellows can get a clean roof over their heads and a modern john for their kids? You bet your boots he don’t like it, not one bit. It’s a put-up job between the two of them, Wynand and that redheaded boy friend of his, and if you ask me the boy friend got a good hunk of cash out of Mr. Wynand for pulling the job.”
    “We have it from an unimpeachable source,” wrote a radical newspaper, “that Cortlandt was only the first step in a gigantic plot to blow up every housing project, every public power plant, post office and schoolhouse in the U.S.A. The conspiracy is headed by Gail Wynand–as we can see–and by other bloated capitalists of his kind, including some of our biggest moneybags.”
    “Too little attention has been paid to the feminine angle of this case,” wrote Sally Brent in the New Frontiers. “The part played by Mrs. Gail Wynand is certainly highly dubious, to say the least. Isn’t it just the cutest coincidence that it was Mrs. Wynand who just so conveniently sent the watchman away at just the right time? And that her husband is now raising the roof to defend Mr. Roark? If we weren’t blinded by a stupid, senseless, old-fashioned sense of gallantry where a so-called beautiful woman is concerned, we wouldn’t allow that part of the case to be hushed up. If we weren’t overawed by Mrs. Wynand’s social position and the so- called prestige of her husband–who’s making an utter fool of himself–we’d ask a few question about the story that she almost lost her life in the disaster. How do we know she did? Doctors can be bought, just like anybody else, and Mr. Gail Wynand is an expert in such matters. If we consider all this, we might well see the outlines of something that looks like a most revolting ‘design for living.’”
    “The position taken by the Wynand press,” wrote a quiet, conservative newspaper, “is inexplicable and disgraceful.”
    The circulation of the Banner dropped week by week, the speed accelerating in the descent, like an elevator out of control. Stickers and buttons inscribed “We Don’t Read Wynand” grew on walls, subway posts, windshields and coat lapels. Wynand newsreels were booed off the theater screens. The Banner vanished from corner newsstands; the news vendors had to carry it, but they hid it under their counters and produced it grudgingly, only upon request. The ground had been prepared, the pillars eaten through long ago; the Cortlandt case provided the
    final impact.
    Roark was almost forgotten in the storm of indignation against Gail Wynand. The angriest protests came from Wynand’s own public: from the Women’s Clubs, the ministers, the mothers, the small shopkeepers. Alvah Scarret had to be kept away from the room where hampers of letters to the editor were being filled each day; he started by reading the letters– and his friends on the staff undertook to prevent a repetition of the experience, fearing a stroke.
    The staff of the Banner worked in silence. There were no furtive glances, no whispered cuss words, no gossip in washrooms any longer. A few men resigned. The rest worked on, slowly, heavily, in the manner of men with life belts buckled, waiting for the inevitable.
    Gail Wynand noticed a kind of lingering tempo in every action around him. When he entered the Banner Building, his employees stopped at sight of him; when he nodded to them, their greeting came a second too late; when he walked on and turned, he found them staring after him. The “Yes, Mr. Wynand,” that had always answered his orders without a moment’s cut between the last syllable of his voice and the first letter of the answer, now came late, and the pause had a tangible shape, so that the answer sounded like a sentence not followed but preceded by a question mark.
    “One Small Voice” kept silent about the Cortlandt case. Wynand had summoned Toohey to his office, the day after the explosion, and had said: “Listen, you. Not a word in your column. Understand? What you do or yell outside is none of my business–for the time being. But if you yell too much, I’ll take care of you when this is over.”
    “Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
    “As far as your column is concerned, you’re deaf, dumb and blind. You’ve never heard of any explosion. You’ve never heard of anyone named Roark. You don’t know what the word Cortlandt means. So long as you’re in this building.”
    “Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
    “And don’t let me see too much of you around here.”
    “Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
    Wynand’s lawyer, an old friend who had served him for years, tried to stop him.
    “Gail, what’s the matter? You’re acting like a child. Like a green amateur. Pull yourself together, man.”
    “Shut up,” said Wynand.
    “Gail, you are…you were the greatest newspaperman on earth. Do I have to tell you the obvious? An unpopular cause is a dangerous business for anyone. For a popular newspaper– it’s suicide.”
    “If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll send you packing and get myself another shyster.”
    Wynand began to argue about the case–with the prominent men he met at business luncheons and dinners. He had never argued before on any subject; he had never pleaded. He had merely tossed final statements to respectful listeners. Now he found no listeners. He found no indifferent silence, half boredom, half resentment. The men who had gathered every word he cared to drop about the stock market, real estate, advertising, politics, had no interest in his opinion on art, greatness and abstract justice.
    He heard a few answers:
    “Yes, Gail, yes, sure. But on the other hand, I think it was damn selfish of the man. And that’s the trouble with the world today–selfishness. Too much selfishness everywhere. That’s what Lancelot Clokey said in his book–swell book, all about his childhood, you read it, saw your
    picture with Clokey. Clokey’s been all over the world, he knows what he’s talking about.”
    “Yes, Gail, but aren’t you kind of old-fashioned about it? What’s all that great man stuff? What’s great about a glorified bricklayer? Who’s great anyway? We’re all just a lot of glands and chemicals and whatever we ate for breakfast. I think Lois Cook explained it very well in that beautiful little–what’s its name?–yes, The Gallant Gallstone. Yes, sir. Your own Banner plugged like blazes for that little book.”
    “But look, Gail, he should’ve thought of other people before he thought of himself. I think if a man’s got no love in his heart he can’t be much good. I heard that in a play last night–that was a grand play–the new one by Ike–what the hell’s his last name?–you ought to see it–your own Jules Fougler said it’s a brave and tender stage poem.”
    “You make out a good case, Gail, and I wouldn’t know what to say against it, I don’t know where you’re wrong, but it doesn’t sound right to me, because Ellsworth Toohey–now don’t misunderstand me, I don’t agree with Toohey’s political views at all, I know he’s a radical, but on the other hand you’ve got to admit that he’s a great idealist with a heart as big as a house– well, Ellsworth Toohey said…”
    These were the millionaires, the bankers, the industrialists, the businessmen who could not understand why the world was going to hell, as they moaned in all their luncheon speeches.
    One morning when Wynand stepped out of his car in front of the Banner Building, a woman rushed up to him as he crossed the sidewalk. She had been waiting by the entrance. She was fat and middle-aged. She wore a filthy cotton dress and a crushed hat. She had a pasty, sagging face, a shapeless mouth and black, round, brilliant eyes. She stood before Gail Wynand and she flung a bunch of rotted beet leaves at his face. There were no beets, just the leaves, soft and slimy, tied with a string. They hit his cheek and rolled down to the sidewalk.
    Wynand stood still. He looked at the woman. He saw the white flesh, the mouth hanging open in triumphs, the face of self-righteous evil. Passersby had seized the woman and she was screaming unspeakable obscenities. Wynand raised his hand, shook his head, gesturing for them to let the creature go, and walked into the Banner Building, a smear of greenish-yellow across his cheek.
    “Ellsworth, what are we going to do?” moaned Alvah Scarret. “What are we going to do?”
    Ellsworth Toohey sat perched on the edge of his desk, and smiled as if he wished he could kiss Alvah Scarret.
    “Why don’t they drop the damn thing, Ellsworth? Why doesn’t something break to take it off the front pages? Couldn’t we scare up an international situation or something? In all my born days I’ve never seen people go so wild over so little. A dynamiting job! Christ, Ellsworth, it’s a back-page story. We get them every month, practically with every strike, remember?–the furriers’ strike, the dry cleaners’ strike…oh what the hell! Why all this fury? Who cares? Why do they care?”
    “There are occasions, Alvah, when the issues at stake are not the ostensible facts at all. And the public reaction seems out of all proportion, but isn’t. You shouldn’t be so glum about it. I’m surprised at you. You should be thanking your stars. You see, this is what I meant by waiting for the right moment. The right moment always comes. Damned if I expected it to be handed to me on a platter like that, though. Cheer up, Alvah. This is where we take over.”
    “Take over what?” “The Wynand papers.”
    “You’re crazy, Ellsworth. Like all of them. You’re crazy. What do you mean? Gail holds fifty- one per cent of…”
    “Alvah, I love you. You’re wonderful, Alvah. I love you, but I wish to God you weren’t such a God-damn fool, so I could talk to you! I wish I could talk to somebody!”
    Ellsworth Toohey tried to talk to Gus Webb, one evening, but it was disappointing. Gus Webb drawled:
    “Trouble with you, Ellsworth, is you’re too romantic. Too God-damn metaphysical. What’s all the gloating about? There’s no practical value to the thing. Nothing to get your teeth into, except for a week or two. I wish he’d blasted it when it was full of people–a few children blown to pieces–then you’d have something. Then I’d love it. The movement could use it. But this? Hell, they’ll send the fool to the clink and that’s that. You–a realist? You’re an incurable specimen of the intelligentsia, Ellsworth, that’s all you are. You think you’re the man of the future? Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. I am.”
    Toohey sighed. “You’re right, Gus,” he said.
    14.
    “IT’S kind of you, Mr. Toohey,” said Mrs. Keating humbly. “I’m glad you came. I don’t know what to do with Petey. He won’t see anyone. He won’t go to his office. I’m scared, Mr. Toohey. Forgive me, I mustn’t whine. Maybe you can help, pull him out of it. He thinks so much of you, Mr. Toohey.”
    “Yes, I’m sure. Where is he?”
”Right here. In his room. This way, Mr. Toohey.”
    The visit was unexpected. Toohey had not been here for years. Mrs. Keating felt very grateful. She led the way down the hall and opened a door without knocking, afraid to announce the visitor, afraid of her son’s refusal. She said brightly:
    “Look, Petey, look what a guest I have for you!”
    Keating lifted his head. He sat at a littered table, bent under a squat lamp that gave a poor light; he was doing a crossword puzzle torn out of a newspaper. There was a full glass on the table with a dried red rim that had been tomato juice; a box containing a jigsaw puzzle; a deck of cards; a Bible.
    “Hello, Ellsworth,” he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the effort, halfway. Mrs. Keating saw the smile and stepped out hastily, relieved, closing the door.
    The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory. Then he remembered many things which he had tried not to understand.
    “Hello, Ellsworth,” he repeated helplessly.
    Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.
    “Touching, Peter,” he said. “Very touching. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if he saw it.”
    “W ho?”
    “Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?”
    “I wanted to see you, Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you.” Toohey grasped a chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish, planted it by the table and sat down.
    “Well, that’s what I came here for,” he said. “To hear you talk.” Keating said nothing.
”W ell?”
    “You mustn’t think I didn’t want to see you, Ellsworth. It was only…what I told Mother about not letting anyone in…it was on account of the newspaper people. They won’t leave me alone.”
    “My, how times change, Peter. I remember when one couldn’t keep you away from newspaper people.”
    “Ellsworth, I haven’t any sense of humor left. Not any at all.” “That’s lucky. Or you’d die laughing.”
”I’m so tired, Ellsworth….I’m glad you came.”
    The light glanced off Toohey’s glasses and Keating could not see his eyes; only two circles filled with a metallic smear, like the dead headlights of a car reflecting the approach of something from a distance.
    “Think you can get away with it?” asked Toohey.
    “With what?”
    “The hermit act. The great penance. The loyal silence.”
    “Ellsworth, what’s the matter with you?”
    “So he’s not guilty, is he? So you want us to please leave him alone, do you?”
    Keating’s shoulders moved, more an intention than the reality of sitting up straight, but still an intention, and his jaw moved enough to ask:
    “What do you want?” “The whole story.” “What for?”
    “Want me to make it easier for you? Want a good excuse, Peter? I could, you know. I could give you thirty-three reasons, all noble, and you’d swallow any one of them. But I don’t feel like making it easier for you. So I’ll just tell you the truth: to send him to the penitentiary, your hero, your idol, your generous friend, your guardian angel!”
    “I have nothing to tell you, Ellsworth.”
    “While you’re being shocked out of the last of your wits you’d better hang on to enough to realize that you’re no match for me. You’ll talk if I want you to talk and I don’t feel like wasting time. Who designed Cortlandt?”
    “I did.”
”Do you know that I’m an architectural expert?” “I designed Cortlandt.”
”Like the Cosmo-Slotnick Building?”
”What do you want from me?”
    “I want you on the witness stand, Petey. I want you to tell the story in court. Your friend isn’t as obvious as you are. I don’t know what he’s up to. That remaining at the scene was a bit too smart. He knew he’d be suspected and he’s playing it subtle. God knows what he intends to say in court. I don’t intend to let him get away with it. The motive is what they’re all stuck on. I know the motive. Nobody will believe me if I try to explain it. But you’ll state it under oath. You’ll tell the truth. You’ll tell them who designed Cortlandt and why.”
    “I designed it.”
    “If you want to say that on the stand, you’d better do something about your muscular control. What are you shaking for?”
    “Leave me alone.”
”Too late, Petey. Ever read Faust?”
”What do you want?”
”Howard Roark’s neck.”
”He’s not my friend. He’s never been. You know what I think of him.”
    “I know, you God-damn fool! I know you’ve worshipped him all your life. You’ve knelt and worshipped, while stabbing him in the back. You didn’t even have the courage of your own malice. You couldn’t go one way or the other. You hated me–oh, don’t you suppose I knew it?–and you followed me. You loved him and you’ve destroyed him. Oh, you’ve destroyed him all right, Petey, and now there’s no place to run, and you’ll have to go through with it!”
    “What’s he to you? What difference does it make to you?”
    “You should have asked that long ago. But you didn’t. Which means that you knew it. You’ve always known it. That’s what’s making you shake. Why should I help you lie to yourself? I’ve done that for ten years. That’s what you came to me for. That’s what they all come to me for. But you can’t get something for nothing. Ever. My socialistic theories to the contrary notwithstanding. You got what you wanted from me. It’s my turn now.”
    “I won’t talk about Howard. You can’t make me talk about Howard.”
    “No? Why don’t you throw me out of here? Why don’t you take me by the throat and choke me? You’re much stronger than I am. But you won’t. You can’t. Do you see the nature of power, Petey? Physical power? Muscle or guns or money? You and Gail Wynand should get together. You have a lot to tell him. Come on, Peter. Who designed Cortlandt?”
    “Leave me alone.”
”Who designed Cortlandt?”
”Let me go!”
”Who designed Cortlandt?”
”It’s worse…what you’re doing…it’s much worse…” “Than what?”
”Than what I did to Lucius Heyer.”
”What did you do to Lucius Heyer?”
”I killed him.”
”What are you talking about?”
”That’s why it was better. Because I let him die.” “Stop raving.”
”Why do you want to kill Howard?”
    “I don’t want to kill him. I want him in jail. You understand? In jail. In a cell. Behind bars. Locked, stopped, strapped–and alive. He’ll get up when they tell him to. He’ll eat what they give him. He’ll move when he’s told to move and stop when he’s told. He’ll walk to the jute mill, when he’s told, and he’ll work as he’s told. They’ll push him, if he doesn’t move fast enough, and they’ll slap his face when they feel like it, and they’ll beat him with rubber hose if he doesn’t obey. And he’ll obey. He’ll take orders. He’ll take orders!”
    “Ellsworth!” Keating screamed. “Ellsworth!”
    “You make me sick. Can’t you take the truth? No, you want your sugar-coating. That’s why I prefer Gus Webb. There’s one who has no illusions.”
    Mrs. Keating threw the door open. She had heard the scream. “Get out of here!” Toohey snapped at her. She backed out, and Toohey slammed the door. Keating raised his head. “You have no right to talk to Mother that way. She had nothing to do with you.”
    “Who designed Cortlandt?”
    Keating got up. He dragged his feet to a dresser, opened a drawer, took out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to Toohey. It was his contract with Roark.
    Toohey read it and chuckled once, a dry snap of sound. Then he looked at Keating.
    “You’re a complete success, Peter, as far as I’m concerned. But at times I have to want to turn away from the sight of my successes.”
    Keating stood by the dresser, his shoulders slumped, his eyes empty.
    “I didn’t expect you to have it in writing like that, with his signature. So that’s what he’s done for you–and this is what you do in return….No, I take back the insults, Peter. You had to do it. Who are you to reverse the laws of history? Do you know what this paper is? The impossible perfect, the dream of the centuries, the aim of all of mankind’s great schools of thought. You harnessed him. You made him work for you. You took his achievement, his reward, his money, his glory, his name. We only thought and wrote about it. You gave a practical demonstration. Every philosopher from Plato up should thank you. Here it is, the philosopher’s stone–for turning gold into lead. I should be pleased, but I guess I’m human and I can’t help it, I’m not pleased, I’m just sick. The others, Plato and all the rest, they really thought it would turn lead into gold. I knew the truth from the first. I’ve been honest with myself, Peter, and that’s the hardest form of honesty. The one you all run from at any price. And right now I don’t blame you, it is the hardest one, Peter.”
    He sat down wearily and held the paper by the corners in both hands. He said:
    “If you want to know how hard it is, I’ll tell you: right now I want to burn this paper. Make what you wish of that. I don’t claim too great a credit, because I know that tomorrow I’ll send this to the district attorney. Roark will never know it–and it would make no difference to him if he knew–but in the truth of things, there was one moment when I wanted to burn this paper.”
    He folded the paper cautiously and slipped it into his pocket. Keating followed his gestures, moving his whole head, like a kitten watching a ball on a string.
    “You make me sick,” said Toohey. “God, how you make me sick, all you hypocritical sentimentalists! You go along with me, you spout what I teach you, you profit by it–but you haven’t the grace to admit to yourself what you’re doing. You turn green when you see the truth. I suppose that’s in the nature of your natures and that’s precisely my chief weapon–but God! I get tired of it. I must allow myself a moment free of you. That’s what I have to put on an act for all my life–for mean little mediocrities like you. To protect your sensibilities, your posturings, your conscience and the peace of the mind you haven’t got. That’s the price I pay for what I want–but at least I know that I’ve got to pay it. And I have no illusions about the price or the purchase.”
    “What do you…want…Ellsworth?”
    “Power, Petey.”
    There were steps in the apartment above, someone skipping gaily, a few sounds on the ceiling as of four or five tap beats. The light fixture jingled and Keating’s head moved up in obedience. Then it came back to Toohey. Toohey was smiling, almost indifferently.
    “You…always said…” Keating began thickly, and stopped.
    “I’ve always said just that. Clearly, precisely and openly. It’s not my fault if you couldn’t hear. You could, of course. You didn’t want to. Which was safer than deafness–for me. I said I intended to rule. Like all my spiritual predecessors. But I’m luckier than they were. I inherited the fruit of their efforts and I shall be the one who’ll see the great dream made real. I see it all around me today. I recognize it. I don’t like it. I didn’t expect to like it. Enjoyment is not my destiny. I shall find such satisfaction as my capacity permits. I shall rule.”
    “Whom…?”
    “You. The world. It’s only a matter of discovering the lever. If you learn how to rule one single man’s soul, you can get the rest of mankind. It’s the soul, Peter, the soul. Not whips or swords or fire or guns. That’s why the Caesars, the Attilas, the Napoleons were fools and did not last. We will. The soul, Peter, is that which can’t be ruled. It must be broken. Drive a wedge in, get your fingers on it–and the man is yours. You won’t need a whip–he’ll bring it to you and ask to be whipped. Set him in reverse–and his own mechanism will do your work for you. Use him against himself. Want to know how it’s done? See if I ever lied to you. See if you haven’t heard all this for years, but didn’t want to hear, and the fault is yours, not mine. There are many ways. Here’s one. Make man feel small. Make him feel guilty. Kill his aspiration and his integrity. That’s difficult. The worst among you gropes for an ideal in his own twisted way. Kill integrity by internal corruption. Use it against itself. Direct it toward a goal destructive of all integrity. Preach selflessness. Tell man that he must live for others. Tell men that altruism is the ideal. Not a single one of them has ever achieved it and not a single one ever will. His every living instinct screams against it. But don’t you see what you accomplish? Man realizes that he’s incapable of what he’s accepted as the noblest virtue–and it gives him a sense of guilt, of sin, of his own basic unworthiness. Since the supreme ideal is beyond his grasp, he gives up eventually all ideals, all aspiration, all sense of his personal value. He feels himself obliged to preach what he can’t practice. But one can’t be good halfway or honest approximately. To preserve one’s integrity is a hard battle. Why preserve that which one knows to be corrupt already? His soul gives up its self-respect. You’ve got him. He’ll obey. He’ll be glad to obey–because he can’t trust himself, he feels uncertain, he feels unclean. That’s one way. Here’s another. Kill man’s sense of values. Kill his capacity to recognize greatness or to achieve it. Great men can’t be ruled. We don’t want any great men. Don’t deny the conception of greatness. Destroy it from within. The great is the rare, the difficult, the exceptional. Set up standards of achievement open to all, to the least, to the most inept–and you stop the impetus to effort in all men, great or small. You stop all incentive to improvement, to excellence, to perfection. Laugh at Roark and hold Peter Keating as a great architect. You’ve destroyed architecture. Build up Lois Cook and you’ve destroyed literature. Hail Ike and you’ve destroyed the theater. Glorify Lancelot Clokey and you’ve destroyed the press. Don’t set out to raze all shrines–you’ll frighten men. Enshrine mediocrity–and the shrines are razed. Then there’s another way. Kill by laughter. Laughter is an instrument of human joy. Learn to use it as a weapon of destruction. Turn it into a sneer. It’s simple. Tell them to laugh at everything. Tell them that a sense of humor is an unlimited virtue. Don’t let anything remain sacred in a man’s soul–and his soul won’t be sacred to him. Kill reverence and you’ve killed the hero in man. One doesn’t reverence with a giggle. He’ll obey and he’ll set no limits to his obedience–anything goes–nothing is too serious. Here’s another way. This is most important. Don’t allow men to be happy. Happiness is self-contained and self-sufficient. Happy men have no time and no use for you. Happy men are free men. So kill their joy in living. Take away from them whatever is dear or important to them. Never let them have what they want. Make them feel that the mere fact of a personal desire is evil. Bring them to a state where saying I want’ is no longer a natural right, but a shameful admission. Altruism is of great help in this. Unhappy men will come to you. They’ll need you. They’ll come for consolation, for support, for escape. Nature allows no vacuum. Empty man’s soul–and the space is yours to fill. I don’t see why you should look so shocked, Peter. This is the oldest one of all. Look back at history. Look at any great system of ethics, from the Orient up. Didn’t they all preach the sacrifice of personal joy? Under all the complications of verbiage, haven’t they all had a single leitmotif:
    sacrifice, renunciation, self-denial? Haven’t you been able to catch their theme song–‘Give up, give up, give up, give up’? Look at the moral atmosphere of today. Everything enjoyable, from cigarettes to sex to ambition to the profit motive, is considered depraved or sinful. Just prove that a thing makes men happy–and you’ve damned it. That’s how far we’ve come. We’ve tied happiness to guilt. And we’ve got mankind by the throat. Throw your first-born into a sacrificial furnace–lie on a bed of nails–go into the desert to mortify the flesh–don’t dance–don’t go to the movies on Sunday–don’t try to get rich–don’t smoke–don’t drink. It’s all the same line. The great line. Fools think that taboos of this nature are just nonsense. Something left over, old- fashioned. But there’s always a purpose in nonsense. Don’t bother to examine a folly–ask yourself only what it accomplishes. Every system of ethics that preached sacrifice grew into a world power and ruled millions of men. Of course, you must dress it up. You must tell people that they’ll achieve a superior kind of happiness by giving up everything that makes them happy. You don’t have to be too clear about it. Use big vague words. ‘Universal Harmony’–‘Eternal Spirit’–‘Divine Purpose’–‘Nirvana’–‘Paradise’–‘Racial Supremacy’–‘The Dictatorship of the Proletariat.’ Internal corruption, Peter. That’s the oldest one of all. The farce has been going on for centuries and men still fall for it. Yet the test should be so simple: just listen to any prophet and if you hear him speak of sacrifice–run. Run faster than from a plague. It stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there’s someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master. But if ever you hear a man telling you that you must be happy, that it’s your natural right, that your first duty is to yourself–that will be the man who’s not after your soul. That will be the man who has nothing to gain from you. But let him come and you’ll scream your empty heads off, howling that he’s a selfish monster. So the racket is safe for many, many centuries. But here you might have noticed something. I said, ‘It stands to reason.’ Do you see? Men have a weapon against you. Reason. So you must be very sure to take it away from them. Cut the props from under it. But be careful. Don’t deny outright. Never deny anything outright, you give your hand away. Don’t say reason is evil–though some have gone that far and with astonishing success. Just say that reason is limited. That there’s something above it. What? You don’t have to be too clear about it either. The field’s inexhaustible. ‘Instinct’–‘Feeling’–‘Revelation’–‘Divine Intuition’–‘Dialectic Materialism.’ If you get caught at some crucial point and somebody tells you that your doctrine doesn’t make sense–you’re ready for him. You tell him that there’s something above sense. That here he must not try to think, he must feel. He must believe. Suspend reason and you play it deuces wild. Anything goes in any manner you wish whenever you need it. You’ve got him. Can you rule a thinking man? We don’t want any thinking men.”
    Keating had sat down on the floor, by the side of the dresser; he had felt tired and he had simply folded his legs. He did not want to abandon the dresser; he felt safer, leaning against it; as if it still guarded the letter he had surrendered.
    “Peter, you’ve heard all this. You’ve seen me practicing it for ten years. You see it being practiced all over the world. Why are you disgusted? You have no right to sit there and stare at me with the virtuous superiority of being shocked. You’re in on it. You’ve taken your share and you’ve got to go along. You’re afraid to see where it’s leading. I’m not I’ll tell you. The world of the future. The world I want. A world of obedience and of unity. A world where the thought of each man will not be his own, but an attempt to guess the thought of the brain of his neighbor who’ll have no thought of his own but an attempt to guess the thought of the next neighbor who’ll have no thought–and so on, Peter, around the globe. Since all must agree with all. A world where no man will hold a desire for himself, but will direct all his efforts to satisfy the desires of his neighbor who’ll have no desires except to satisfy the desires of the next neighbor who’ll have no desires–around the globe, Peter. Since all must serve all. A world in which man will not work for so innocent an incentive as money, but for that headless monster–prestige. The approval of his fellows–their good opinion–the opinion of men who’ll be allowed to hold no opinion. An octopus, all tentacles and no brain. Judgment, Peter! Not judgment, but public polls. An average drawn upon zeroes–since no individuality will be permitted. A world with its motor cut off and a single heart, pumped by hand. My hand–and the hands of a few, a very few other men like me. Those who know what makes you tick–you great, wonderful average, you who have not risen in fury when we called you the average, the little, the common, you who’ve liked and accepted those names. You’ll sit enthroned and enshrined, you, the little people, the absolute ruler to make all past rulers squirm with envy, the absolute, the unlimited, God and Prophet and King combined. Vox populi. The average, the common, the general. Do you know the proper antonym for Ego? Bromide, Peter. The rule of the bromide. But even the trite has to be originated by someone at some time. We’ll do the
    originating. Vox dei. We’ll enjoy unlimited submission–from men who’ve learned nothing except to submit. We’ll call it ‘to serve.’ We’ll give out medals for service. You’ll fall over one another in a scramble to see who can submit better and more. There will be no other distinction to seek. No other form of personal achievement. Can you see Howard Roark in the picture? No? Then don’t waste time on foolish questions. Everything that can’t be ruled, must go. And if freaks persist in being born occasionally, they will not survive beyond their twelfth year. When their brain begins to function, it will feel the pressure and it will explode. The pressure gauged to a vacuum. Do you know the fate of deep-sea creatures brought out to sunlight? So much for future Roarks. The rest of you will smile and obey. Have you noticed that the imbecile always smiles? Man’s first frown is the first touch of God on his forehead. The touch of thought. But we’ll have neither God nor thought. Only voting by smiles. Automatic levers–all saying yes…Now if you were a little more intelligent–like your ex-wife, for instance– you’d ask: What of us, the rulers? What of me, Ellsworth Monkton Toohey? And I’d say, Yes, you’re right. I’ll achieve no more than you will. I’ll have no purpose save to keep you contented. To lie, to flatter you, to praise you, to inflate your vanity. To make speeches about the people and the common good. Peter, my poor old friend, I’m the most selfless man you’ve every known. I have less independence than you, whom I just forced to sell your soul. You’ve used people at least for the sake of what you could get from them for yourself. I want nothing for myself. I use people for the sake of what I can do to them. It’s my only function and satisfaction. I have no private purpose. I want power. I want my world of the future. Let all live for all. Let all sacrifice and none profit. Let all suffer and none enjoy. Let progress stop. Let all stagnate. There’s equality in stagnation. All subjugated to the will of all. Universal slavery– without even the dignity of a master. Slavery to slavery. A great circle–and a total equality. The world of the future.”
    “Ellsworth…you’re…”
    “Insane? Afraid to say it? There you sit and the world’s written all over you, your last hope. Insane? Look around you. Pick up any newspaper and read the headlines. Isn’t it coming? Isn’t it here? Every single thing I told you? Isn’t Europe swallowed already and we’re stumbling on to follow? Everything I said is contained in a single word–collectivism. And isn’t that the god of our century? To act together. To think–together. To feel–together. To unite, to agree, to obey. To obey, to serve, to sacrifice. Divide and conquer–first. But then–unite and rule. We’ve discovered that one at last. Remember the Roman Emperor who said he wished humanity had a single neck so he could cut it? People have laughed at him for centuries. But we’ll have the last laugh. We’ve accomplished what he couldn’t accomplish. We’ve taught men to unite. This makes one neck ready for one leash. We found the magic word. Collectivism. Look at Europe, you fool. Can’t you see past the guff and recognize the essence? One country is dedicated to the proposition that man has no rights, that the collective is all. The individual held as evil, the mass–as God, No motive and no virtue permitted–except that of service to the proletariat. That’s one version. Here’s another. A country dedicated to the proposition that man has no rights, that the State is all. The individual held as evil, the race–as God. No motive and no virtue permitted–except that of service to the race. Am I raving or is this the cold reality of two continents already? Watch the pincer movement. If you’re sick of one version, we push you into the other. We get you coming and going. We’ve closed the doors. We’ve fixed the coin. Heads–collectivism, and tails– collectivism. Fight the doctrine which slaughters the individual with a doctrine which slaughters the individual. Give up your soul to a council–or give it up to a leader. But give it up, give it up, give it up. My technique, Peter. Offer poison as food and poison as antidote. Go fancy on the trimmings, but hang on to the main objective. Give the fools a choice, let them have their fun– but don’t forget the only purpose you have to accomplish. Kill the individual. Kill man’s soul. The rest will follow automatically. Observe the state of the world as of the present moment. Do you still think I’m crazy, Peter?”
    Keating sat on the floor, his legs spread out. He lifted one hand and studied his fingertips, then put it to his mouth and bit off a hangnail. But the movement was deceptive; the man was reduced to a single sense, the sense of hearing, and Toohey knew that no answer could be expected.
    Keating waited obediently; it seemed to make no difference; the sounds had stopped and it was now his function to wait until they started again.
    Toohey put his hands on the arms of his chair, then lifted his palms, from the wrists, and
    clasped the wood again, a little slap of resigned finality. He pushed himself up to his feet.
    “Thank you, Peter,” he said gravely. “Honesty is a hard thing to eradicate. I have made speeches to large audiences all my life. This was the speech I’ll never have a chance to make.”
    Keating lifted his head. His voice had the quality of a down payment on terror; it was not frightened, but it held the advance echoes of the next hour to come:
    “Don’t go, Ellsworth.”
Toohey stood over him, and laughed softly.
    “That’s the answer, Peter. That’s my proof. You know me for what I am, you know what I’ve done to you, you have no illusions of virtue left. But you can’t leave me and you’ll never be able to leave me. You’ve obeyed me in the name of ideals. You’ll go on obeying me without ideals. Because that’s all you’re good for now….Good night, Peter.”
    15.
    “THIS is a test case. What we think of it will determine what we are. In the person of Howard Roark, we must crush the forces of selfishness and antisocial individualism–the curse of our modern world–here shown to us in ultimate consequences. As mentioned at the beginning of this column, the district attorney now has in his possession a piece of evidence–we cannot disclose its nature at this moment–which proves conclusively that Roark is guilty. We, the people, shall now demand justice.”
    This appeared in “One Small Voice” on a morning late in May. Gail Wynand read it in his car, driving home from the airport. He had flown to Chicago in a last attempt to hold a national advertiser who had refused to renew a three-million-dollar contract. Two days of skillful effort had failed; Wynand lost the advertiser. Stepping off the plane in Newark, he picked up the New York papers. His car was waiting to take him to his country house. Then he read “One Small Voice.”
    He wondered for a moment what paper he held. He looked at the name on the top of the page. But it was the Banner, and the column was there, in its proper place, column one, first page, second section.
    He leaned forward and told the chauffeur to drive to his office. He sat with the page spread open on his lap, until the car stopped before the Banner Building.
    He noticed it at once, when he entered the building. In the eyes of two reporters who emerged from an elevator in the lobby; in the pose of the elevator man who fought a desire to turn and stare back at him; in the sudden immobility of all the men in his anteroom, in the break of a typewriter’s clicking on the desk of one secretary, in the lifted hand of another–he saw the waiting. Then he knew that all the implications of the unbelievable were understood by everyone on his paper.
    He felt a first dim shock; because the waiting around him contained wonder in anyone’s mind about the outcome of an issue between him and Ellsworth Toohey.
    But he had no time to take notice of his own reactions. He had no attention to spare for anything except a sense of tightness, a pressure against the bones of his face, his teeth, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose–and he knew he must press back against that, keep it down, hold it.
    He greeted no one and walked into his office. Alvah Scarret sat slumped in a chair before his desk. Scarret had a bandage of soiled white gauze on his throat, and his cheeks were flushed. Wynand stopped in the middle of the room. The people outside had felt relieved: Wynand’s face looked calm. Alvah Scarret knew better.
    “Gail, I wasn’t here,” he gulped in a cracked whisper that was not a voice at all. “I haven’t been here for two days. Laryngitis, Gail. Ask my doctor. I wasn’t here. I just got out of bed, look at me, I’ve got a hundred and three, fever, I mean, the doctor didn’t want me to, but I…to get up, I mean, Gail, I wasn’t here, I wasn’t here!”
    He could not be certain that Wynand heard. But Wynand let him finish, then assumed the appearance of listening, as if the sounds were reaching him, delayed. After a moment, Wynand asked:
    “Who was on the copy desk?” “It…it went through Alien and Falk.”
    “Fire Harding, Allen, Falk and Toohey. Buy off Harding’s contract. But not Toohey’s. Have them all out of the building in fifteen minutes.”
    Harding was the managing editor; Falk, a copy reader; Alien, the slot man, head of the copy desk; all had worked on the Banner for more than ten years. It was as if Scarret had heard a news flash announcing the impeachment of a President, the destruction of New York City by a meteor and the sinking of California into the Pacific Ocean.
    “Gail!” he screamed. “We can’t!”
    “Get out of here.”
    Scarret got out.
    Wynand pressed a switch on his desk and said in answer to the trembling voice of the woman outside:
    “Don’t admit anyone.”
”Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
He pressed a button and spoke to the circulation manager: “Stop every copy on the street.”
”Mr. Wynand, it’s too late! Most of them are…”
”Stop them.”
”Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
    He wanted to put his head down on the desk, lie still and rest, only the form of rest he needed did not exist, greater than sleep, greater than death, the rest of having never lived. The wish was like a secret taunt against himself, because he knew that the splitting pressure in his skull meant the opposite, an urge to action, so strong that he felt paralyzed. He fumbled for some sheets of clean paper, forgetting where he kept them. He had to write the editorial that would explain and counteract. He had to hurry. He felt no right to any minute that passed with the thing unwritten.
    The pressure disappeared with the first word he put on paper. He thought–while his hand moved rapidly–what a power there was in words; later, for those who heard them, but first for the one who found them; a healing power, a solution, like the breaking of a barrier. He thought, perhaps the basic secret the scientists have never discovered, the first fount of life, is that which happens when a thought takes shape in words.
    He heard the rumble, the vibration in the walls of his office, in the floor. The presses were running off his afternoon paper, a small tabloid, the Clarion. He smiled at the sound. His hand went faster, as if the sound were energy pumped into his fingers.
    He had dropped his usual editorial “we.” He wrote: “…And if my readers or my enemies wish to laugh at me over this incident, I shall accept it and consider it the payment of a debt incurred. I have deserved it.”
    He thought: It’s the heart of this building, beating–what time is it?–do I really hear it or is it my own heart?–once, a doctor put the ends of his stethoscope into my ears and let me hear my own heartbeats–it sounded just like this–he said I was a healthy animal and good for many years–for many…years…
    “I have foisted upon my readers a contemptible blackguard whose spiritual stature is my only excuse. I had not reached a degree of contempt for society such as would have permitted me to consider him dangerous. I am still holding on to a respect for my fellow men sufficient to let me say that Ellsworth Toohey cannot be a menace.”
    They say sound never dies, but travels on in space–what happens to a man’s heartbeats?–so many of them in fifty-six years–could they be gathered again, in some sort of condenser, and put to use once more? If they were re-broadcast, would the result be the beating of those presses?
    “But I have sponsored him under the masthead of my paper, and if public penance is a strange, humiliating act to perform in our modern age, such is the punishment I impose upon myself hereby.”
    Not fifty-six years of those soft little drops of sound a man never hears, each single and final, not like a comma, but like a period, a long string of periods on a page, gathered to feed those presses–not fifty-six, but thirty-one, the other twenty-five went to make me ready–I was twenty-five when I raised the new masthead over the door–Publishers don’t change the name of a paper–This one does–The New York Banner–Gail Wynand’s Banner…
    “I ask the forgiveness of every man who has ever read this paper.”
    A healthy animal–and that which comes from me is healthy–I must bring that doctor here and have him listen to those presses–he’ll grin in his good, smug, satisfied way, doctors like a specimen of perfect health occasionally, it’s rare enough–I must give him a treat–the healthiest sound he ever heard–and he’ll say the Banner is good for many years….
    The door of his office opened and Ellsworth Toohey came in.
    Wynand let him cross the room and approach the desk, without a gesture of protest. Wynand thought that what he felt was curiosity–if curiosity could be blown into the dimensions of a thing from the abyss–like those drawings of beetles the size of a house advancing upon human figures in the pages of the Banner’s Sunday supplement–curiosity, because Ellsworth Toohey was still in the building, because Toohey had gained admittance past the orders given, and because Toohey was laughing.
    “I came to take my leave of absence, Mr. Wynand,” said Toohey. His face was composed; it expressed no gloating; the face of an artist who knew that overdoing was defeat and achieved the supreme of offensiveness by remaining normal. “And to tell you that I’ll be back. On this job, on this column, in this building. In the interval you will have seen the nature of the mistake you’ve made. Do forgive me, I know this is in utterly bad taste, but I’ve waited for it for thirteen years and I think I can permit myself five minutes as a reward. So you were a possessive man, Mr. Wynand, and you loved your sense of property? Did you ever stop to think what it rested upon? Did you stop to secure the foundations? No, because you were a practical man. Practical men deal in bank accounts, real estate, advertising contracts and gilt-edged securities. They leave to the impractical intellectuals, like me, the amusements of putting the gilt edges through a chemical analysis to learn a few things about the nature and the source of gold. They hang on to Kream-O Pudding, and leave us such trivia as the theater, the movies, the radio, the schools, the book reviews and the criticism of architecture. Just a sop to keep us quiet if we care to waste our time playing with the inconsequentials of life, while you’re making money. Money is power. Is it, Mr. Wynand? So you were after power, Mr. Wynand? Power over men? You poor amateur! You never discovered the nature of your own ambition or you’d have known that you weren’t fit for it. You couldn’t use the methods required and you wouldn’t want the results. You’ve never been enough of a scoundrel. I don’t mind handing you
    that, because I don’t know which is worse: to be a great scoundrel or a gigantic fool. That’s why I’ll be back. And when I am, I’ll run this paper.”
    Wynand said quietly:
    “When you are. Now get out of here.” #
    The city room of the Banner walked out on strike.
    The Union of Wynand Employees walked out in a body. A great many others, non-members, joined them. The typographical staff remained.
    Wynand had never given a thought to the Union. He paid higher wages than any other publisher and no economic demands had ever been made upon him. If his employees wished to amuse themselves by listening to speeches, he saw no reason to worry about it. Dominique had tried to warn him once: “Gail, if people want to organize for wages, hours or practical demands, it’s their proper right. But when there’s no tangible purpose, you’d better watch closely.”
    “Darling, how many times do I have to ask you? Keep off the Banner.”
    He had never taken the trouble to learn who belonged to the Union. He found now that the membership was small–and crucial; it included all his key men, not the big executives, but the rank below, expertly chosen, the active ones, the small, indispensable spark plugs: the best leg men, the general assignment men, the rewrite men, the assistant editors. He looked up their records: most of them had been hired in the last eight years; recommended by Mr.
    T oohey.
    Non-members walked out for various reasons: some, because they hated Wynand; others, because they were afraid to remain and it seemed easier than to analyze the issue. One man, a timid little fellow, met Wynand in the hall and stopped to shriek: “We’ll be back, sweetheart, and then it’ll be a different tune!” Some left, avoiding the sight of Wynand. Others played safe. “Mr. Wynand, I hate to do it, I hate it like hell, I had nothing to do with that Union, but a strike’s a strike and I can’t permit myself to be a scab.” “Honest, Mr. Wynand, I don’t know who’s right or wrong, I do think Ellsworth pulled a dirty trick and Harding had no business letting him get away with it, but how can one be sure who’s right about anything nowadays? And one thing I won’t do is I won’t picket line. No, sir. The way I feel is, pickets right or wrong.”
    The strikers presented two demands: the reinstatement of the four men who had been discharged; a reversal of the Banner’s stand on the Cortlandt case.
    Harding, the managing editor, wrote an article explaining his position; it was published in the New Frontiers. “I did ignore Mr. Wynand’s orders in a matter of policy, perhaps an unprecedented action for a managing editor to take. I did so with full realization of the responsibility involved. Mr. Toohey, Alien, Falk and I wished to save the Banner for the sake of its employees, its stockholders and its readers. We wished to bring Mr. Wynand to reason by peaceful means. We hoped he would give in with good grace, once he had seen the Banner committed to the stand shared by most of the press of the country. We knew the arbitrary, unpredictable and unscrupulous character of our employer, but we took the chance, willing to sacrifice ourselves to our professional duty. While we recognize an owner’s right to dictate the policy of his paper on political, sociological or economic issues, we believe that a situation has gone past the limits of decency when an employer expects self-respecting men to espouse the cause of a common criminal. We wish Mr. Wynand to realize that the day of dictatorial one-man rule is past. We must have some say in the running of the place where, we make our living. It is a fight for the freedom of the press.
    Mr. Harding was sixty years old, owned an estate on Long Island, and divided his spare time between skeet-shooting and breeding pheasants. His childless wife was a member of the Board of Directors of the Workshop for Social Study; Toohey, its star lecturer, had introduced her to the Workshop. She had written her husband’s article.
    The two men off the copy desk were not members of Toohey’s Union. Alien’s daughter was a
    beautiful young actress who starred in all of Ike’s plays. Falk’s brother was secretary to Lancelot Clokey.
    Gail Wynand sat at the desk in his office and looked down at a pile of paper. He had many things to do, but one picture kept coming back to him and he could not get rid of it and the sense of it clung to all his actions–the picture of a ragged boy standing before the desk of an editor: “Can you spell cat?”–“Can you spell anthropomorphology?” The identities cracked and became mixed, it seemed to him that the boy stood here, at his desk, waiting, and once he said aloud: “Go away!” He caught himself in anger, he thought: You’re cracking, you fool, now’s not the time. He did not speak aloud again, but the conversation went on silently while he read, checked and signed papers: “Go away! We have no jobs here.” I’ll hang around. Use me when you want to. You don’t have to pay me.”
    “They’re paying you, don’t you understand, you little fool? They’re paying you.” Aloud, his voice normal, he said into a telephone: ‘Tell Manning that we’ll have to fill in with mat stuff….Send up the proofs as soon as you can….Send up a sandwich. Any kind.”
    A few had remained With him: the old men and the copy boys. They came in, in the morning, often with cuts on their faces and blood on their collars; one stumbled in, his skull open, and had to be sent away in an ambulance. It was neither courage nor loyalty; it was inertia; they had lived too long with the thought that the world would end if they lost their jobs on the Banner. The old ones did not understand. The young ones did not care.
    Copy boys were sent out on reporter’s beats. Most of the stuff they sent in was of such quality that Wynand was forced past despair into howls of laughter: he had never read such highbrow English; he could see the pride of the ambitious youth who was a journalist at last. He did not laugh when the stories appeared in the Banner as written; there were not enough rewrite men.
    He tried to hire new men. He offered extravagant salaries. The people he wanted refused to work for him. A few men answered his call, and he wished they hadn’t, though he hired them. They were men who had not been employed by a reputable newspaper for ten years; the kind who would not have been allowed, a month ago, into the lobby of his building. Some of them had to be thrown out in two days; others remained. They were drunk most of the time. Some acted as if they were granting Wynand a favor. “Don’t you get huffy, Gail, old boy,” said one– and was tossed bodily down two flights of stairs. He broke an ankle and sat on the bottom landing, looking up at Wynand with an air of complete astonishment. Others were subtler; they merely stalked about and looked at Wynand slyly, almost winking, implying that they were fellow criminals tied together in a dirty deal.
    He appealed to schools of journalism. No one responded. One student body sent him a resolution signed by all its members: “…Entering our careers with a high regard for the dignity of our profession, dedicating ourselves to uphold the honor of the press, we feel that none among us could preserve his self-respect and accept an offer such as yours.”
    The news editor had remained at his desk; the city editor had gone. Wynand filled in as city editor, managing editor, wire man, rewrite man, copy boy. He did not leave the building. He slept on a couch in his office–as he had done in the first years of the Banner’s existence. Goalless, tieless, his shirt collar torn open, he ran up and down the stairs, his steps like the rattle of a machine gun. Two elevator boys had remained; the others had vanished, no one knew just when or why, whether prompted by sympathy for the strike, fear or plain discouragement.
    Alvah Scarret could not understand Wynand’s calm. The brilliant machine–and that, thought Scarret, was really the word which had always stood for Wynand in his mind–had never functioned better. His words were brief, his orders rapid, his decisions immediate. In the confusion of machines, lead, grease, ink, waste paper, unswept offices, untenanted desks, glass crashing in sudden showers when a brick was hurled from the street below, Wynand moved like a figure in double-exposure, superimposed on his background, out of place and scale. He doesn’t belong here, thought Scarret, because he doesn’t look modern–that’s what it is–he doesn’t look modern, no matter what kind of pants he’s wearing–he looks like something out of a Gothic cathedral. The patrician head, held level, the fleshless face that had shrunk tighter together. The captain of a ship known by all, save the captain, to be sinking.
    Alvah Scarret had remained. He had not grasped that the events were real; he shuffled about in a stupor; he felt a fresh jolt of bewilderment each morning when he drove up to the building and saw the pickets. He suffered no injury beyond a few tomatoes hurled at his windshield. He tried to help Wynand; he tried to do his work and that of five other men, but he could not complete a normal day’s task. He was going quietly to pieces, his joints wrenched loose by a question mark. He wasted everybody’s time, interrupting anything to ask: “But why? Why? How, just like that all of a sudden?”
    He saw a nurse in white uniform walking down the hall–an emergency first-aid station had been established on the ground floor. He saw her carrying a wastebasket to the incinerator, with wadded clumps of gauze, bloodstained. He turned away; he felt sick. It was not the sight, but the greater terror of an implication grasped by his instinct: this civilized building–secure in the neatness of waxed floors, respectable with the strict grooming of modern business, a place where one dealt in such rational matters as written words and trade contracts, where one accepted ads for baby garments and chatted about golf–had become, in the span of a few days, a place where one carried bloody refuse through the halls. Why?–thought Alvah Scarret.
    “I can’t understand it,” he droned in an accentless monotone to anyone around him, “I can’t understand how Ellsworth got so much power….And Ellsworth’s a man of culture, an idealist, not a dirty radical off a soapbox, he’s so friendly and witty, and what an erudition!–a man who jokes all the time is not a man of violence–Ellsworth didn’t mean this, he didn’t know what it would lead to, he loves people, I’d stake my shirt on Ellsworth Toohey.”
    Once, in Wynand’s office, he ventured to say:
    “Gail, why don’t you negotiate? Why don’t you meet with them at least?”
    “Shut up.”
    “But, Gail, there might be a bit of truth on their side, too. They’re newspapermen. You know what they say, the freedom of the press…”
    Then he saw the fit of fury he had expected for days and had thought safely sidetracked–the blue irises vanishing in a white smear, the blind, luminous eyeballs in a face that was all cavities, the trembling hands. But in a moment, he saw what he had never witnessed before: he saw Wynand break the fit, without sound, without relief. He saw the sweat of the effort on the hollow temples, and the fists on the edge of the desk.
    “Alvah…if I had not sat on the stairs of the Gazette for a week…where would be the press for them to be free on?”
    There were policemen outside, and in the halls of the building. It helped, but not much. One night acid was thrown at the main entrance. It burned the big plate glass of the ground floor windows and left leprous spots on the walls. Sand in the bearings stopped one of the presses. An obscure delicatessen owner got his shop smashed for advertising in the Banner. A great many small advertisers withdrew. Wynand delivery trucks were wrecked. One driver was killed. The striking Union of Wynand Employees issued a protest against acts of violence; the Union had not instigated them; most of its members did not know who had. The New Frontiers said something about regrettable excesses, but ascribed them to “spontaneous outbursts of justifiable popular anger.”
    Homer Slottern, in the name of a group who called themselves the liberal businessmen, sent Wynand a notice canceling their advertising contracts. “You may sue us if you wish. We feel we have a legitimate cause for cancellation. We signed to advertise in a reputable newspaper, not in a sheet that has become a public disgrace, brings pickets to our doors, ruins our business and is not being read by anybody.” The group included most of the Banner’s wealthiest advertisers.
    Gail Wynand stood at the window of his office and looked at his city.
    “I have supported strikes at a time when it was dangerous to do so. I have fought Gail Wynand all my life. I had never expected to see the day or the issue when I would be forced to
    say–as I say now–that I stand on the side of Gail Wynand,” wrote Austen Heller in the Chronicle.
    Wynand sent him a note: “God damn you, I didn’t ask you to defend me. G W
    The New Frontiers described Austen Heller as “A reactionary who has sold himself to Big Business.” Intellectual society ladies said that Austin Heller was old-fashioned.
    Gail Wynand stood at a desk in the city room and wrote editorials as usual. His derelict staff saw no change in him; no haste, no outbursts of anger. There was nobody to notice that some of his actions were new: he would go to the pressroom and stand looking at the white stream shot out of the roaring giants, and listen to the sound. He would pick up a lead slug off the composing room floor, and finger it absently on the palm of his hand, like a piece of jade, and lay it carefully on a table, as if he did not want it to be wasted. He fought other forms of such waste, not noticing it, the gestures instinctive: he retrieved pencils, he spent a half-hour, while telephones shrieked unanswered, repairing a typewriter that had broken down. It was not a matter of economy; he signed checks without looking at the figures; Scarret was afraid to think of the amounts each passing day cost him. It was a matter of things that were part of the building where he loved every doorknob, things that belonged to the Banner that belonged to him.
    Late each afternoon he telephoned Dominique in the country. “Fine. Everything under control. Don’t listen to panic-mongers….No, to hell with it, you know I don’t want to talk about the damn paper. Tell me what the garden looks like….Did you go swimming today?…Tell me about the lake….What dress are you wearing?…Listen to WLX tonight, at eight, they’ll have your pet– Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto….Of course I have time to keep informed about everything….Oh, all right, I see one can’t fool an ex-newspaper woman, I did go over the radio page….Of course we have plenty of help, it’s just that I can’t quite trust some of the new boys and I had a moment to spare….Above all, don’t come to town. You promised me that….Good night, dearest….”
    He hung up and sat looking at the telephone, smiling. The thought of the countryside was like the thought of a continent beyond an ocean that could not be crossed; it gave him a sense of being locked in a besieged fortress and he liked that–not the fact, but the feeling. His face looked like a throwback to some distant ancestor who had fought on the ramparts of a castle.
    One evening he went out to the restaurant across the street; he had not eaten a complete meal for days. The streets were still light when he came back–the placid brown haze of summer, as if dulled sunrays remained stretched too comfortably on the warm air to undertake a movement of withdrawal, even though the sun had long since gone; it made the sky look fresh and the street dirty; there were patches of brown and tired orange in the corners of old buildings. He saw pickets pacing in front of the Banner’s entrance. There were eight of them and they marched around and around in a long oval on the sidewalk. He recognized one boy–a police reporter, he had never seen any of the others. They carried signs: “Toohey, Harding, Alien, Falk…” “The Freedom of the Press…” “Gail Wynand Tramples Human Rights…”
    His eyes kept following one woman. Her hips began at her ankles, bulging over the tight straps of her shoes; she had square shoulders and a long coat of cheap brown tweed over a huge square body. She had small white hands, the kind that would drop things all over the kitchen. She had an incision of a mouth, without lips, and she waddled as she moved, but she moved with surprising briskness. Her steps defied the whole world to hurt her, with a malicious slyness that seemed to say she would like nothing better, because what a joke it would be on the world if it tried to hurt her, just try it and see, just try it. Wynand knew she had never been employed on the Banner; she never could be; it did not appear likely that she could be taught to read; her steps seemed to add that she jolly well didn’t have to. She carried a sign: “We demand…”
    He thought of the nights when he had slept on the couch in the old Banner Building, in the first years, because the new presses had to be paid for and the Banner had to be on the streets before its competitors, and he coughed blood one night and refused to see a doctor, but it turned out to be nothing, just exhaustion.
    He hurried into the building. The presses were rolling. He stood and listened for a while.
    At night the building was quiet. It seemed bigger, as if sound took space and vacated it; there were panels of light at open doors, between long stretches of dim hallways. A lone typewriter clicked somewhere, evenly, like a dripping faucet. Wynand walked through the halls. He thought that men had been willing to work for him when he plugged known crooks for municipal elections, when he glamorized red-light districts, when he ruined reputations by scandalous libel, when he sobbed over the mothers of gangsters. Talented men, respected men had been eager to work for him. Now he was being honest for the first time in his career. He was leading his greatest crusade–with the help of finks, drifters, drunkards, and humble drudges too passive to quit. The guilt, he thought, was not perhaps with those who now refused to work for him.

    The sun hit the square crystal inkstand on his desk. It made Wynand think of a cool drink on a lawn, white clothes, the feel of grass under bare elbows. He tried not to look at the gay glitter and went on writing. It was a morning in the second week of the strike. He had retreated to his office for an hour and given orders not to be disturbed; he had an article to finish; he knew he wanted the excuse, one hour of not seeing what went on in the building.
    The door of his office opened without announcement, and Dominique came in. She had not been allowed to enter the Banner Building since their marriage.
    He got up, a kind of quiet obedience in his movement, permitting himself no questions. She wore a coral linen suit, she stood as if the lake were behind her and the sunlight rose from the surface to the folds of her clothes. She said:
    “Gail, I’ve come for my old job on the Banner.”
    He stood looking at her silently; then he smiled; it was a smile of convalescence.
    He turned to the desk, picked up the sheets he had written, handed them to her and said:
    “Take this to the back room. Pick up the wire flimsies and bring them to me. Then report to Manning at the city desk.”
    The impossible, the not to be achieved in word, glance or gesture, the complete union of two beings in complete understanding, was done by a small stack of paper passing from his hand to hers. Their fingers did not touch. She turned and walked out of the office.
    Within two days, it was as if she had never left the staff of the Banner. Only now she did not write a column on houses, but kept busy wherever a competent hand was needed to fill a gap. “It’s quite all right, Alvah,” she said to Scarret, “it’s a proper feminine job to be a seamstress. I’m here to slap on patches where necessary–and boy! is this cloth ripping fast! Just call me when one of your new journalists runs amuck more than usual.”
    Scarret could not understand her tone, her manner or her presence. “You’re a lifesaver, Dominique,” he mumbled sadly. “It’s like the old days, seeing you here–and oh! how I wish it were the old days! Only I can’t understand. Gail wouldn’t allow a photo of you in the place, when it was a decent, respectable place–and now when it’s practically as safe as a penitentiary during a convict riot, he lets you work here!”
    “Can the commentaries, Alvah. We haven’t the time.”
    She wrote a brilliant review of a movie she hadn’t seen. She dashed off a report on a convention she hadn’t attended. She batted out a string of recipes for the “Daily Dishes” column, when the lady in charge failed to show up one morning. “I didn’t know you could cook,” said Scarret. “I didn’t either,” said Dominique. She went out one night to cover a dock fire, when it was found that the only man on duty had passed out on the floor of the men’s room. “Good job,” Wynand told her when he read the story, “but try that again and you’ll get fired. If you want to stay, you’re not to step out of the building.”
    This was his only comment on her presence. He spoke to her when necessary, briefly and
    simply, as to any other employee. He gave orders. There were days when they did not have time to see each other. She slept on a couch in the library. Occasionally, in the evening, she would come to his office, for a short rest, when they could take it, and then they talked, about nothing in particular, about small events of the day’s work, gaily, like any married couple gossiping about the normal routine of their common life.
    They did not speak of Roark or Cortlandt. She had noticed Roark’s picture on the wall of his office and asked: “When did you hang that up?”
    “Over a year ago.” It had been their only reference to Roark. They did not discuss the growing public fury against the Banner. They did not speculate on the future. They felt relief in forgetting the question beyond the walls of the building; it could be forgotten because it stood no longer as a question between them; it was solved and answered; what remained was the peace of the simplified: they had a job to do–the job of keeping a newspaper going–and they were doing it together.
    She would come in, unsummoned, in the middle of the night, with a cup of hot coffee, and he would snatch it gratefully, not pausing in his work. He would find fresh sandwiches left on his desk when he needed them badly. He had no time to wonder where she got things. Then he discovered that she had established an electric plate and a stock of supplies in a closet. She cooked breakfast for him, when he had to work all night, she came in carrying dishes on a piece of cardboard for a tray, with the silence of empty streets beyond the windows and the first light of morning on the rooftops.
    Once he found her, broom in hand, sweeping an office; the maintenance department had fallen apart, charwomen appeared and disappeared, no one had time to notice.
    “Is that what I’m paying you for?” he asked.
    “Well, we can’t work in a pigsty. I haven’t asked you what you’re paying me, but I want a raise.”
    “Drop this thing, for God’s sake! It’s ridiculous.”
    “What’s ridiculous? It’s clean now. It didn’t take me long. Is it a good job?”
    “It’s a good job.”
    She leaned on the broom handle and laughed. “I believe you thought, like everybody else, that I’m just a kind of luxury object, a high-class type of kept woman, didn’t you, Gail?”
    “Is this the way you can keep going when you want to?”
”This is the way I’ve wanted to keep going all my life–if I could find a reason for it.”
    He learned that her endurance was greater than his. She never showed a sign of exhaustion. He supposed that she slept, but he could not discover when.
    At any time, in any part of the building, not seeing him for hours, she was aware of him, she knew when he needed her most. Once, he fell asleep, slumped across his desk. He awakened and found her looking at him. She had turned off the lights, she sat on a chair by the window, in the moonlight, her face turned to him, calm, watching. Her face was the first thing he saw. Lifting his head painfully from his arm, in the first moment, before he could return fully to control and reality, he felt a sudden wrench of anger, helplessness and desperate protest, not remembering what had brought them here, to this, remembering only that they were both caught in some vast, slow process of torture and that he loved her.
    She had seen it in his face, before he had completed the movement of straightening his body. She walked to him, she stood by his chair, she took his head and let it rest against her, she held him, and he did not resist, slumped in her arms, she kissed his hair, she whispered: “It will be all right, Gail, it will be all right.”
    At the end of three weeks Wynand walked out of the building one evening, not caring whether
    there would be anything left of it when he returned, and went to see Roark.
    He had not telephoned Roark since the beginning of the siege. Roark telephoned him often; Wynand answered, quietly, just answering, originating no statement, refusing to prolong the conversation. He had warned Roark at the beginning: “Don’t try to come here. I’ve given orders. You won’t be admitted.” He had to keep out of his mind the actual form which the issue of his battle could take; he had to forget the fact of Roark’s physical existence; because the thought of Roark’s person brought the thought of the county jail.
    He walked the long distance to the Enright House; walking made the distance longer and safer; a ride in a cab would pull Roark too close to the Banner Building. He kept his glance slanted toward a point six feet ahead of him on the sidewalk; he did not want to look at the city.
    “Good evening, Gail,” Roark said calmly when he came in.
    “I don’t know what’s a more conspicuous form of bad discipline,” said Wynand, throwing his hat down on a table by the door, “to blurt things right out or to ignore them blatantly. I look like hell. Say it.”
    “You do look like hell. Sit down, rest and don’t talk. Then I’ll run you a hot bath–no, you don’t look that dirty, but it will be good for you for a change. Then we’ll talk.”
    Wynand shook his head and remained standing at the door. “Howard, the Banner is not helping you. It’s ruining you.”
It had taken him eight weeks to prepare himself to say that. “Of course,” said Roark. “What of it?”
    Wynand would not advance into the room.
    “Gail, it doesn’t matter, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not counting on public opinion, one way or the other.”
    “You want me to give in?”
”I want you to hold out if it takes everything you own.”
    He saw that Wynand understood, that it was the thing Wynand had tried not to face, and that Wynand wanted him to speak.
    “I don’t expect you to save me. I think I have a chance to win. The strike won’t make it better or worse. Don’t worry about me. And don’t give in. If you stick to the end–you won’t need me any longer.”
    He saw the look of anger, protest–and agreement. He added:
    “You know what I’m saying. We’ll be better friends than ever–and you’ll come to visit me in jail, if necessary. Don’t wince, and don’t make me say too much. Not now. I’m glad of this strike. I knew that something like that had to happen, when I saw you for the first time. You knew it long before that.”
    “Two months ago, I promised you…the one promise I wanted to keep…”
”You’re keeping it.”
”Don’t you really want to despise me? I wish you’d say it now. I came here to hear it.”
    “All right. Listen. You have been the one encounter in my life that can never be repeated. There was Henry Cameron who died for my own cause. And you’re the publisher of filthy tabloids. But I couldn’t say this to him, and I’m saying it to you. There’s Steve Mallory who’s
    never compromised with his soul. And you’ve done nothing but sell yours in every known way. But I couldn’t say this to him and I’m saying it to you. Is that what you’ve always wanted to hear from me? But don’t give in.”
    He turned away, and added: “That’s all. We won’t talk about your damn strike again. Sit down, I’ll get you a drink. Rest, get yourself out of looking like hell.”
    Wynand returned to the Banner late at night. He took a cab. It did not matter. He did not notice the distance.
    Dominique said, “You’ve seen Roark.”
    “Yes. How do you know?”
    “Here’s the Sunday makeup. It’s fairly lousy, but it’ll have to do. I sent Manning home for a few hours–he was going to collapse. Jackson quit, but we can do without him. Alvah’s column was a mess–he can’t even keep his grammar straight any more–I rewrote it, but don’t tell him, tell him you did.”
    “Go to sleep. I’ll take Manning’s place. I’m good for hours.”
    They went on, and the days passed, and in the mailing room the piles of returns grew, running over into the corridor, white stacks of paper like marble slabs. Fewer copies of the Banner were run off with every edition, but the stacks kept growing. The days passed, days of heroic effort to put out a newspaper that came back unbought and unread.
    16.
    IN THE glass-smooth mahogany of the long table reserved for the board of directors there was a monogram in colored wood–G W–reproduced from his signature. It had always annoyed the directors. They had no time to notice it now. But an occasional glance fell upon it–and then it was a glance of pleasure.
    The directors sat around the table. It was the first meeting in the board’s history that had not been summoned by Wynand. But the meeting had convened and Wynand had come. The strike was in its second month.
    Wynand stood by his chair at the head of the table. He looked like a drawing from a men’s magazine, fastidiously groomed, a white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his dark suit. The directors caught themselves in peculiar thoughts: some thought of British tailors, others– of the House of Lords–of the Tower of London–of the executed English King–or was it a Chancellor?–who had died so well.
    They did not want to look at the man before them. They leaned upon visions of the pickets outside–of the perfumed, manicured women who shrieked their support of Ellsworth Toohey in drawing-room discussions–of the broad, flat face of a girl who paced Fifth Avenue with a placard “We Don’t Read Wynand”–for support and courage to say what they were saying.
    Wynand thought of a crumbling wall on the edge of the Hudson. He heard steps approaching blocks away. Only this time there were no wires in his hand to hold his muscles ready.
    “It’s gone beyond all sense. Is this a business organization or a charitable society for the defense of personal friends?”
    “Three hundred thousand dollars last week….Never mind how I know it, Gail, no secret about it, your banker told me. All right, it’s your money, but if you expect to get that back out of the sheet, let me tell you we’re wise to your smart tricks. You’re not going to saddle the corporation with that one, not a penny of it, you don’t get away with it this time, it’s too late, Gail, the day’s past for your bright stunts.”
    Wynand looked at the fleshy lips of the man making sounds, and thought: You’ve run the Banner, from the beginning, you didn’t know it, but I know, it was you, it was your paper, there’s nothing to save now.
    “Yes, Slottern and his bunch are willing to come back at once, all they ask is that we accept the Union’s demands, and they’ll pick up the balance of their contracts, on the old terms, even without waiting for you to rebuild circulation–which will be some job, friend, let me tell you–and I think that’s pretty white of them. I spoke to Homer yesterday and he gave me his word–care to hear me name the sums involved, Wynand, or do you know it without my help?”
    “No, Senator Eldridge wouldn’t see you….Aw, skip it, Gail, we know you flew to Washington last week. What you don’t know is that Senator Eldridge is going around saying he wouldn’t touch this with a ten-foot pole. And Boss Craig suddenly got called out to Florida, did he?–to sit up with a sick aunt? None of them will pull you out of this one, Gail. This isn’t a road-paving deal or a little watered-stock scandal. And you ain’t what you used to be.”
    Wynand thought: I never used to be, I’ve never been here, why are you afraid to look at me? Don’t you know that I’m the least among you? The half-naked women in the Sunday supplement, the babies in the rotogravure section, the editorials on park squirrels, they were your souls given expression, the straight stuff of your souls–but where was mine?
    “I’ll be damned if I can see any sense to it. Now, if they were demanding a raise in wages, that I could understand, I’d say fight the bastards for all we’re worth. But what’s this–a God-damn intellectual issue of some kind? Are we losing our shirts for principles or something?”
    “Don’t you understand? The Banner’s a church publication now. Mr. Gail Wynand, the evangelist. We’re over a barrel, but we’ve got ideals.”
    “Now if it were a real issue, a political issue–but some fool dynamiter who’s blown up some dump! Everybody’s laughing at us. Honest, Wynand, I’ve tried to read your editorials and if you want my honest opinion, it’s the lousiest stuff ever put in print. You’d think you were writing for college professors!”
    Wynand thought: I know you–you’re the one who’d give money to a pregnant slut, but not to a starving genius–I’ve seen your face before–I picked you and I brought you in–when in doubt about your work, remember that man’s face, you’re writing for him–but, Mr. Wynand, one can’t remember his face–one can, child, one can, it will come back to remind you–it will come back and demand payment–and I’ll pay–I signed a blank check long ago and now it’s presented for collection–but a blank check is always made out to the sum of everything you’ve got.
    “The situation is medieval and a disgrace to democracy.” The voice whined. It was Mitchell Layton speaking. “It’s about time somebody had some say around here. One man running all those papers as he damn pleases–what is this, the nineteenth century?” Layton pouted; he looked somewhere in the direction of a banker across the table. “Has anybody here ever bothered to inquire about my ideas? I’ve got ideas. We’ve all got to pool ideas. What I mean is teamwork, one big orchestra. It’s about time this paper had a modem, liberal, progressive policy! For instance, take the question of the sharecroppers…”
    “Shut up, Mitch,” said Alvah Scarret. Scarret had drops of sweat running down his temples; he didn’t know why; he wanted the board to win; there was just something in the room…it’s too hot in here, he thought, I wish somebody’d open a window.
    “I won’t shut up!” shrieked Mitchell Layton. “I’m just as good as…” “Please, Mr. Layton,” said the banker.
    “All right,” said Layton, “all right. Don’t forget who holds the biggest hunk of stock next to Superman here.” He jerked his thumb at Wynand, not looking at him. “Just don’t forget it. Just you guess who’s going to run things around here.”
    “Gail,” said Alvah Scarret, looking up at Wynand, his eyes strangely honest and tortured, “Gail, it’s no use. But we can save the pieces. Look, if we just admit that we were wrong about Cortlandt and…and if we just take Harding back, he’s a valuable man, and…maybe Toohey…”
    “No one is to mention the name of Toohey in this discussion,” said Wynand. Mitchell Layton snapped his mouth open and dropped it shut again.
    “That’s it, Gail!” cried Alvah Scarret. “That’s great! We can bargain and make them an offer. We’ll reverse our policy on Cortlandt–that, we’ve got to, not for the damn Union, but we’ve got to rebuild circulation, Gail–so we’ll offer them that and we’ll take Harding, Alien and Falk, but not To…not Ellsworth. We give in and they give in. Saves everybody’s face. Is that it, Gail?”
    Wynand said nothing.
    “I think that’s it, Mr. Scarret,” said the banker. “I think that’s the solution. After all, Mr. Wynand must be allowed to maintain his prestige. We can sacrifice…a columnist and keep peace among ourselves.”
    “I don’t see it!” yelled Mitchell Layton. “I don’t see it at all! Why should we sacrifice Mr….a great liberal, just because…”
    “I stand with Mr. Scarret,” said the man who had spoken of Senators, and the voices of the others seconded him, and the man who had criticized the editorials said suddenly, in the general noise: “I think Gail Wynand was a hell of a swell boss after all!” There was something about Mitchell Layton which he didn’t want to see. Now he looked at Wynand, for protection. Wynand did not notice him.
    “Gail?” asked Scarret. “Gail, what do you say?” There was no answer.
”God damn it, Wynand, it’s now or never! This can’t go on!”
”Make up your mind or get out!”
”I’ll buy you out!” shrieked Layton. “Want to sell? Want to sell and get the hell out of it?” “For God’s sake, Wynand, don’t be a fool!”
    “Gail, it’s the Banner…” whispered Scarret. “It’s our Banner….”
    “We’ll stand by you, Gail, we’ll all chip in, we’ll pull the old paper back on its feet, we’ll do as you say, you’ll be the boss–but for God’s sake, act like a boss now!”
    “Quiet, gentlemen, quiet! Wynand, this is final: we switch policy on Cortlandt, we take Harding, Alien and Falk back, and we save the wreck. Yes or no?”
    There was no answer.
    “Wynand, you know it’s that–or you have to close the Banner. You can’t keep this up, even if you bought us all out. Give in or close the Banner. You had better give in.”
    Wynand heard that. He had heard it through all the speeches. He had heard it for days before the meeting. He knew it better than any man present. Close the Banner.
    He saw a single picture: the new masthead rising over the door of the Gazette.
    “You had better give in.”
    He made a step back. It was not a wall behind him. It was only the side of his chair.
    He thought of the moment in his bedroom when he had almost pulled a trigger. He knew he was pulling it now.
    “All right,” he said. #
    It’s only a bottle cap, thought Wynand looking down at a speck of glitter under his feet; a bottle cap ground into the pavement. The pavements of New York are full of things like that–bottle caps, safety pins, campaign buttons, sink chains; sometimes–lost jewels; it’s all alike now, flattened, ground in; it makes the pavements sparkle at night. The fertilizer of a city. Someone drank the bottle empty and threw the cap away. How many cars have passed over it? Could one retrieve it now? Could one kneel and dig with bare hands and tear it out again? I had no right to hope for escape. I had no right to kneel and seek redemption. Millions of years ago, when the earth was being born, there were living things like me: flies caught in resin that became amber, animals caught in ooze that became rock. I am a man of the twentieth century and I became a bit of tin in the pavements, for the trucks of New York to roll over.
    He walked slowly, the collar of his topcoat raised. The street stretched before him, empty, and the buildings ahead were like the backs of books lining a shelf, assembled without order, of all sizes. The comers he passed led to black channels; street lamps gave the city a protective cover, but it cracked in spots. He turned a corner when he saw a slant of light ahead; it was a goal for three or four blocks.
    The light came from the window of a pawnshop. The shop was closed, but a glaring bulb hung there to discourage looters who might be reduced to this. He stopped and looked at it. He thought, the most indecent sight on earth, a pawnshop window. The things which had been sacred to men, and the things which had been precious, surrendered to the sight of all, to the pawing and the bargaining, trash to the indifferent eyes of strangers, the equality of a junk heap, typewriters and violins–the tools of dreams, old photographs and wedding rings–the tags of love, together with soiled trousers, coffee pots, ash trays, pornographic plaster figures; the refuse of despair, pledged, not sold, not cut off in clean finality, but hocked to a stillborn hope, never to be redeemed. “Hello, Gail Wynand,” he said to the things in the window, and walked on.
    He felt an iron grate under his feet and an odor struck him in the face, an odor of dust, sweat and dirty clothing, worse than the smell of stockyards, because it had a homey, normal quality, like decomposition made routine. The grating of a subway. He thought, this is the residue of many people put together, of human bodies pressed into a mass, with no space to move, with no air to breathe. This is the sum, even though down there, among the packed flesh, one can find the smell of starched white dresses, of clean hair, of healthy young skin. Such is the nature of sums and of quests for the lowest common denominator. What, then, is the residue of many human minds put together, unaired, unspaced, undifferentiated? The Banner, he thought, and walked on.
    My city, he thought, the city I loved, the city I thought I ruled.
    He had walked out of the board meeting, he had said: “Take over, Alvah, until I come back.” He had not stopped to see Manning drunk with exhaustion at the city desk, nor the people in the city room, still functioning, waiting, knowing what was being decided in the board room; nor Dominique. Scarret would tell them. He had walked out of the building and gone to his penthouse and sat alone in the bedroom without windows. Nobody had come to disturb him.
    When he left the penthouse, it was safe to go out: it was dark. He passed a newsstand and saw late editions of the afternoon papers announcing the settlement of the Wynand strike. The Union had accepted Scarret’s compromise. He knew that Scarret would take care of all the rest. Scarret would replate the front page of tomorrow’s Banner. Scarret would write the editorial that would appear on the front page. He thought, the presses are rolling right now. Tomorrow morning’s Banner will be out on the streets in an hour.
    He walked at random. He owned nothing, but he was owned by any part of the city. It was right that the city should now direct his way and that he should be moved by the pull of chance corners. Here I am, my masters, I am coming to salute you and acknowledge, wherever you want me, I shall go as I’m told. I’m the man who wanted power.
    That woman sitting on the stoop of an old brownstone house, her fat white knees spread apart–the man pushing the white brocade of his stomach out of a cab in front of a great hotel–the little man sipping root beer at a drugstore counter–the woman leaning over a stained mattress on the sill of a tenement window–the taxi driver parked on a corner–the lady with orchids, drunk at the table of a sidewalk cafe–the toothless woman selling chewing gum–
    the man in shirt sleeves, leaning against the door of a poolroom–they are my masters. My owners, my rulers without a face.
    Stand here, he thought, and count the lighted windows of a city. You cannot do it But behind each yellow rectangle that climbs, one over another, to the sky–under each bulb–down to there, see that spark over the river which is not a star?–there are people whom you will never see and who are your masters. At the supper tables, in the drawing rooms, in their beds and in their cellars, in their studies and in their bathrooms. Speeding in the subways under your feet. Crawling up in elevators through vertical cracks around you. Jolting past you in every bus. Your masters, Gail Wynand. There is a net–longer than the cables that coil through the walls of this city, larger than the mesh of pipes that carry water, gas and refuse–there is another hidden net around you; it is strapped to you, and the wires lead to every hand in the city. They jerked the wires and you moved. You were a ruler of men. You held a leash. A leash is only a rope with a noose at both ends.
    My masters, the anonymous, the unselected. They gave me a penthouse, an office, a yacht. To them, to any one of them who wished, for the sum of three cents, I sold Howard Roark.
    He walked past an open marble court, a cave cut deep into a building, filled with light, spurting the sudden cold of air-conditioning. It was a movie theater and the marquee had letters made of rainbows: Romeo and Juliet. A placard stood by the glass column of the box office: “Bill Shakespeare’s immortal classic! But there’s nothing highbrow about it! Just a simple human love story. A boy from the Bronx meets a girl from Brooklyn. Just like the folks next door. Just like you and me.”
    He walked past the door of a saloon. There was a smell of stale beer. A woman sat slumped, breasts flattened against the table top. A juke box played Wagner’s “Song to the Evening Star,” adapted, in swing time.
    He saw the trees of Central Park. He walked, his eyes lowered. He was passing by the Aquitania Hotel.
    He came to a corner. He had escaped other corners like it, but this one caught him. It was a dim corner, a slice of sidewalk trapped between the wall of a closed garage and the pillars of an elevated station. He saw the rear end of a truck disappearing down the street. He had not seen the name on it, but he knew what truck it was. A newsstand crouched under the iron stairs of the elevated. He moved his eyes slowly. The fresh pile was there, spread out for him. Tomorrow’s Banner.
    He did not come closer. He stood, waiting. He thought, I still have a few minutes in which not to know.
    He saw faceless people stopping at the stand, one after another. They came for different papers, but they bought the Banner also, when they noticed its front page. He stood pressed to the wall, waiting. He thought, it is right that I should be the last to learn what I have said.
    Then he could delay no longer: no customers came, the stand stood deserted, papers spread in the yellow light of a bulb, waiting for him. He could see no vendor in the black hovel beyond the bulb. The street was empty. A long corridor filled by the skeleton of the elevated. Stone paving, blotched walls, the interlacing of iron pillars. There were lighted windows, but they looked as if no people moved inside the walls. A train thundered over his head, a long roll of clangor that went shuddering down the pillars into the earth. It looked like an aggregation of metal rushing without human driver through the night.
    He waited for the sound to die, then he walked to the stand. “The Banner,” he said. He did not see who sold him the paper, whether it was a man or a woman. He saw only a gnarled brown hand pushing the copy forward.
    He started walking away, but stopped while crossing the street. There was a picture of Roark on the front page. It was a good picture. The calm face, the sharp cheekbones, the implacable mouth. He read the editorial, leaning against a pillar of the elevated.
    “We have always endeavored to give our readers the truth without fear or prejudice…
    “…charitable consideration and the benefit of the doubt even to a man charged with an outrageous crime…
    “…but after conscientious investigation and in the light of new evidence placed before us, we find ourselves obliged honestly to admit that we might have been too lenient…
    “…A society awakened to a new sense of responsibility toward the underprivileged…”…We join the voice of public opinion…”…The past, the career, the personality of Howard Roark seem to support the widespread impression that he is a reprehensible character, a dangerous, unprincipled, antisocial type of man…
    “…If found guilty, as seems inevitable, Howard Roark must be made to bear the fullest penalty the law can impose on him.” It was signed “Gail Wynand.”
    When he looked up, he was in a brightly lighted street, on a trim sidewalk, looking at a wax figure exquisitely contorted on a satin chaise longue in a shop window; the figure wore a salmon-colored negligee, lucite sandals and a string of pearls suspended from one raised finger.
    He did not know when he had dropped the paper. It was not in his hands any longer. He glanced back. It would be impossible to find a discarded paper lying on some street he did not know he had passed. He thought, what for? There are other papers like it The city is full of them.
    “You have been the one encounter in my life that can never be repeated…”
    Howard, I wrote that editorial forty years ago. I wrote it one night when I was sixteen and stood on the roof of a tenement
    He walked on. Another street lay before him, a sudden cut of long emptiness and a chain of green traffic lights strung out to the horizon. Like a rosary without end. He thought, now walk from green bead to green bead. He thought, these are not the words; but the words kept ringing with his steps: Mea culpa–mea culpa–mea maxima culpa.
    He went past a window of old shoes corroded by wear–past the door of a mission with a cross above it–past the peeling poster of a political candidate who ran two years ago–past a grocery store with barrels of rotting greens on the sidewalk. The streets were contracting, walls drawing closer together. He could smell the odor of the river, and there were wads of fog over the rare lights.
    He was in Hell’s Kitchen.
    The facades of the buildings around him were like the walls of secret backyards suddenly exposed: decay without reticence, past the need of privacy or shame. He heard shrieks coming from a saloon on a corner; he could not tell whether it was joy or brawling.
    He stood in the middle of a street. He looked slowly down the mouth of every dark crevice, up the streaked walls, to the windows, to the roofs.
    I never got out of here.
    I never got out. I surrendered to the grocery man–to the deck hands on the ferryboat–to the owner of the poolroom. You don’t run things around here. You don’t run things around here. You’ve never run things anywhere, Gail Wynand. You’ve only added yourself to the things they ran.
    Then he looked up, across the city, to the shapes of the great skyscrapers. He saw a string of lights rising unsupported in black space, a glowing pinnacle anchored to nothing, a small, brilliant square hanging detached in the sky. He knew the famous buildings to which these belonged, he could reconstruct their forms in space. He thought, you’re my judges and witnesses. You rise, unhindered, above the sagging roofs. You shoot your gracious tension to the stars, out of the slack, the tired, the accidental. The eyes one mile out on the ocean will
    see none of this and none of this will matter, but you will be the presence and the city. As down the centuries, a few men stand in lonely rectitude that we may look and say, there is a human race behind us. One can’t escape from you; the streets change, but one looks up and there you stand, unchanged. You have seen me walking through the streets tonight. You have seen all my steps and all my years. It’s you that I’ve betrayed. For I was born to be one of you.
    He walked on. It was late. Circles of light lay undisturbed on the empty sidewalks under the lampposts. The horns of taxis shrieked once in a while like doorbells ringing through the corridors of a vacant interior. He saw discarded newspapers, as he passed: on the pavements, on park benches, in the wire trash-baskets on corners. Many of them were the Banner. Many copies of the Banner had been read in the city tonight. He thought, we’re building circulation, Alvah.
    He stopped. He saw a paper spread out in the gutter before him, front page up. It was the Banner. He saw Roark’s picture. He saw the gray print of a rubber heel across Roark’s face.
    He bent, his body folding itself down slowly, with both knees, both arms, and picked up the paper. He folded the front page and put it in his pocket. He walked on.
    An unknown rubber heel, somewhere in the city, on an unknown foot that I released to march.
    I released them all. I made every one of those who destroyed me. There is a beast on earth, dammed safely by its own impotence. I broke the dam. They would have remained helpless. They can produce nothing. I gave them the weapon. I gave them my strength, my energy, my living power. I created a great voice and let them dictate the words. The woman who threw the beet leaves in my face had a right to do it. I made it possible for her.
    Anything may be betrayed, anyone may be forgiven. But not those who lack the courage of their own greatness. Alvah Scarret can be forgiven. He had nothing to betray. Mitchell Layton can be forgiven. But not I. I was not born to be a second-hander.
    17.
    IT WAS a summer day, cloudless and cool, as if the sun were screened by an invisible film of water, and the energy of heat had been transformed into a sharper clarity, an added brilliance of outline for the buildings of the city. In the streets, scattered like scraps of gray foam, there were a great many copies of the Banner. The city read, chuckling, the statement of Wynand’s renunciation.
    “That’s that,” said Gus Webb, chairman of the “We Don’t Read Wynand” Committee. “It’s slick,” said Ike. “I’d like one peek, just one peek, at the great Mr. Gail Wynand’s face today,” said Sally Brent. “It’s about time,” said Homer Slottern. “Isn’t it splendid? Wynand’s surrendered,” said a tight-lipped woman; she knew little about Wynand and nothing about the issue, but she liked to hear of people surrendering. In a kitchen, after dinner, a fat woman scraped the remnants off the dishes onto a sheet of newspaper; she never read the front page, only the installments of a love serial in the second section; she wrapped onion peelings and lamb-chop bones in a copy of the Banner.
    “It’s stupendous,” said Lancelot Clokey, “only I’m really sore at that Union, Ellsworth. How could they double-cross you like that?”
    “Don’t be a sap, Lance,” said Ellsworth Toohey. “What do you mean?” “I told them to accept the terms.”
”You did?”
”Yep.”
    “But Jesus! ‘One Small Voice’…”
    “You can wait for ‘One Small Voice’ another month or so, can’t you? I’ve filed suit with the labor board today, to be reinstated in my job on the Banner. There are more ways than one to skin a cat, Lance. The skinning isn’t important once you’ve broken its spine.”
    That evening Roark pressed the bell button at the door of Wynand’s penthouse. The butler opened the door and said: “Mr. Wynand cannot see you, Mr. Roark.” From the sidewalk across the street Roark looked up and saw a square of light high over the roofs, in the window of Wynand’s study.
    In the morning Roark came to Wynand’s office in the Banner Building. Wynand’s secretary told him: “Mr. Wynand cannot see you, Mr. Roark.” She added, her voice polite, disciplined: “Mr. Wynand has asked me to tell you that he does not wish ever to see you again.”
    Roark wrote him a long letter: “…Gail, I know. I hoped you could escape it, but since it had to happen, start again from where you are. I know what you’re doing to yourself. You’re not doing it for my sake, it’s not up to me, but if this will help you I want to say that I’m repeating, now, everything I’ve ever said to you. Nothing has changed for me. You’re still what you were. I’m not saying that I forgive you, because there can be no such question between us. But if you can’t forgive yourself, will you let me do it? Let me say that it doesn’t matter, it’s not the final verdict on you. Give me the right to let you forget it. Go on just on my faith until you’ve recovered. I know it’s something no man can do for another, but if I am what I’ve been to you, you’ll accept it. Call it a blood transfusion. You need it. Take it. It’s harder than fighting that strike. Do it for my sake, if that will help you. But do it. Come back. There will be another chance. What you think you’ve lost can neither be lost nor found. Don’t let it go.”
    The letter came back to Roark, unopened.
    Alvah Scarret ran the Banner. Wynand sat in his office. He had removed Roark’s picture from the wall. He attended to advertising contracts, expenses, accounts. Scarret took care of the editorial policy. Wynand did not read the contents of the Banner.
    When Wynand appeared in any department of the building, the employees obeyed him as they had obeyed him before. He was still a machine and they knew that it was a machine more dangerous than ever: a car running downhill, without combustion or brakes.
    He slept in his penthouse. He had not seen Dominique. Scarret had told him that she had gone back to the country. Once Wynand ordered his secretary to telephone Connecticut. He stood by her desk while she asked the butler whether Mrs. Wynand was there. The butler answered that she was. The secretary hung up and Wynand went back to his office.
    He thought he would give himself a few days. Then he’d return to Dominique. Their marriage would be what she had wanted it to be at first–“Mrs. Wynand-Papers.” He would accept it.
    Wait, he thought in an agony of impatience, wait. You must learn to face her as you are now. Train yourself to be a beggar. There must be no pretense at things to which you have no right. No equality, no resistance, no pride in holding your strength against hers. Only acceptance now. Stand before her as a man who can give her nothing, who will live on what she chooses to grant him. It will be contempt, but it will come from her and it will be a bond. Show her that you recognize this. There is a kind of dignity in a renunciation of dignity openly admitted. Learn it. Wait….He sat in the study of his penthouse, his head on the arm of his chair. There were no witnesses in the empty rooms around him….Dominique, he thought, I will have no claim to make except that I need you so much. And that I love you. I told you once not to consider it. Now I’ll use it as a tin cup. But I’ll use it. I love you….
    Dominique lay stretched out on the shore of the lake. She looked at the house on the hill, at the tree branches above her. Flat on her back, hands crossed under her head, she studied the motion of leaves against the sky. It was an earnest occupation, giving her full contentment. She thought, it’s a lovely kind of green, there’s a difference between the color of plants and the color of objects, this has light in it, this is not just green, but also the living force of the tree made visible, I don’t have to look down, I can see the branches, the trunk, the roots just by looking at that color. That fire around the edges is the sun, I don’t have to see it, I can tell what the whole countryside looks like today. The spots of light weaving in circles–that’s the lake,
    the special kind of light that comes refracted from water, the lake is beautiful today, and it’s better not to see it, just to guess by these spots. I have never been able to enjoy it before, the sight of the earth, it’s such great background, but it has no meaning except as a background, and I thought of those who owned it and then it hurt me too much. I can love it now. They don’t own it. They own nothing. They’ve never won. I have seen the life of Gail Wynand, and now I know. One cannot hate the earth in their name. The earth is beautiful. And it is a background, but not theirs.
    She knew what she had to do. But she would give herself a few days. She thought, I’ve learned to bear anything except happiness. I must learn how to carry it. How not to break under it. It’s the only discipline I’ll need from now on.
#
    Roark stood at the window of his house in Monadnock Valley. He had rented the house for the summer; he went there when he wanted loneliness and rest. It was a quiet evening. The window opened on a small ledge in a frame of trees, hanging against the sky. A strip of sunset light stretched above the dark treetops. He knew that there were houses below, but they could not be seen. He was as grateful as any other tenant for the way in which he had built this place.
    He heard the sound of a car approaching up the road at the other side. He listened, astonished. He expected no guests. The car stopped. He walked to open the door. He felt no astonishment when he saw Dominique.
    She came in as if she had left this house half an hour ago. She wore no hat, no stockings, just sandals and a dress intended for back country roads, a narrow sheath of dark blue linen with short sleeves, like a smock for gardening. She did not look as if she had driven across three states, but as if she were returning from a walk down the hill. He knew that this was to be the solemnity of the moment–that it needed no solemnity; it was not to be stressed and set apart, it was not this particular evening, but the completed meaning of seven years behind them.
    “Howard.”
    He stood as if he were looking at the sound of his name in the room. He had all he had wanted.
    But there was one thought that remained as pain, even now. He said: “Dominique, wait till he recovers.”
”You know he won’t recover.”
”Have a little pity on him.”
    “Don’t speak their language.”
”He had no choice.”
”He could have closed the paper.” “It was his life.”
”This is mine.”
    He did not know that Wynand had once said all love is exception-making; and Wynand would not know that Roark had loved him enough to make his greatest exception, one moment when he had tried to compromise. Then he knew it was useless, like all sacrifices. What he said was his signature under her decision:
    “I love you.”
    She looked about the room, to let the ordinary reality of walls and chairs help her keep the discipline she had been learning for this moment. The walls he had designed, the chairs he
    used, a package of his cigarettes on a table, the routine necessities of life that could acquire splendor when life became what it was now.
    “Howard, I know what you intend to do at the trial. So it won’t make any difference if they learn the truth about us.”
    “It won’t make any difference.”
    “When you came that night and told me about Cortlandt, I didn’t try to stop you. I knew you had to do it, it was your time to set the terms on which you could go on. This is my time. My Cortlandt explosion. You must let me do it my way. Don’t question me. Don’t protect me. No matter what I do.”
    “I know what you’ll do.”
    “You know that I have to?”
    “Yes.”
    She bent one arm from the elbow, fingers lifted, in a short, backward jolt, as if tossing the subject over her shoulder. It was settled and not to be discussed.
    She turned away from him, she walked across the room, to let the casual ease of her steps make this her home, to state that his presence was to be the rule for ail her coming days and she had no need to do what she wanted most at this moment: stand and look at him. She knew also what she was delaying, because she was not ready and would never be ready. She stretched her hand out for his package of cigarettes on the table.
    His fingers closed over her wrist and he pulled her hand back. He pulled her around to face him, and then he held her and his mouth was on hers. She knew that every moment of seven years when she had wanted this and stopped the pain and thought she had won, was not past, had never been stopped, had lived on, stored, adding hunger to hunger, and now she had to feel it all, the touch of his body, the answer and the waiting together.
    She didn’t know whether her discipline had helped; not too well, she thought, because she saw that he had lifted her in his arms, carried her to a chair and sat down, holding her on his knees; he laughed without sound, as he would have laughed at a child, but the firmness of his hands holding her showed concern and a kind of steadying caution. Then it seemed simple, she had nothing to hide from him, she whispered: “Yes, Howard…that much…” and he said: “It was very hard for me–all these years.” And the years were ended.
    She slipped down, to sit on the floor, her elbows propped on his knees, she looked up at him and smiled, she knew that she could not have reached this white serenity except as the sum of all the colors, of all the violence she had known. “Howard…willingly, completely, and always…without reservations, without fear of anything they can do to you or me…in any way you wish…as your wife or your mistress, secretly or openly…here, or in a furnished room I’ll take in some town near a jail where I’ll see you through a wire net…it won’t matter….Howard, if you win the trial–even that won’t matter too much. You’ve won long ago….I’ll remain what I am, and I’ll remain with you–now and ever–in any way you want….”
    He held her hands in his, she saw his shoulders sagging down to her, she saw him helpless, surrendered to this moment, as she was–and she knew that even pain can be confessed, but to confess happiness is to stand naked, delivered to the witness, yet they could let each other see it without need of protection. It was growing dark, the room was indistinguishable, only the window remained and his shoulders against the sky in the window.
    She awakened with the sun in her eyes. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling as she had looked at the leaves. Not to move, to guess by hints, to see everything through the greater intensity of implication. The broken triangles of light on the angular modeling of the ceiling’s plastic tiles meant that it was morning and that this was a bedroom at Monadnock, the geometry of fire and structure above her designed by him. The fire was white–that meant it was very early and the rays came through clean country air, with nothing anywhere in space between this bedroom and the sun. The weight of the blanket, heavy and intimate on her
    naked body, was everything that had been last night. And the skin she felt against her arm was Roark asleep beside her.
    She slipped out of bed. She stood at the window, her arms raised, holding on to the frame at each side. She thought if she looked back she would see no shadow of her body on the floor, she felt as if the sunlight went straight through her, because her body had no weight.
    But she had to hurry before he awakened. She found his pyjamas in a dresser drawer and put them on. She went to the living room, closing the door carefully behind her. She picked up the telephone and asked for the nearest sheriff’s office.
    “This is Mrs. Gail Wynand,” she said. “I am speaking from the house of Mr. Howard Roark at Monadnock Valley. I wish to report that my star-sapphire ring was stolen here last night….About five thousand dollars….It was a present from Mr. Roark….Can you get here within an hour?…Thank you.”
    She went to the kitchen, made coffee and stood watching the glow of the electric coil under the coffee pot, thinking that it was the most beautiful light on earth.
    She set the table by the large window in the living room. He came out, wearing nothing but a dressing gown, and laughed at the sight of her in his pyjamas. She said: “Don’t dress. Sit down. Let’s have breakfast.”
    They were finishing when they heard the sound of the car stopping outside. She smiled and walked to open the door.
    There were a sheriff, a deputy and two reporters from local papers. “Good morning,” said Dominique. “Come in.”
”Mrs….Wynand?” said the sheriff.
”That’s right. Mrs. Gail Wynand. Come in. Sit down.”
    In the ludicrous folds of the pyjamas, with dark cloth bulging over a belt wound tightly, with sleeves hanging over her fingertips, she had all the poised elegance she displayed in her best hostess gown. She was the only one who seemed to find nothing unusual in the situation.
    The sheriff held a notebook as if he did not know what to do with it. She helped him to find the right questions and answered them precisely like a good newspaper woman.
    “It was a star-sapphire ring set in platinum. I took it off and left it here, on this table, next to my purse, before going to bed….It was about ten o’clock last night….When I got up this morning, it was gone….Yes, this window was open….No, we didn’t hear anything….No, it was not insured, I have not had the time, Mr. Roark gave it to me recently….No, there are no servants here and no other guests….Yes, please look through the house….Living room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen….Yes, of course, you may look too, gentlemen. The press, I believe? Do you wish to ask me any questions?”
    There were no questions to ask. The story was complete. The reporters had never seen a story of this nature offered in this manner.
    She tried not to look at Roark after her first glance at his face. But he kept his promise. He did not try to stop her or protect her. When questioned, he answered, enough to support her statements.
    Then the men departed. They seemed glad to leave. Even the sheriff knew that he would not have to conduct a search for that ring.
    Dominique said:
”I’m sorry. I know it was terrible for you. But it was the only way to get it into the papers.”
    “You should have told me which one of your star sapphires I gave you.” “I’ve never had any. I don’t like star sapphires.”
”That was a more thorough job of dynamiting than Cortlandt.”
    “Yes. Now Gail is blasted over to the side where he belongs. So he thinks you’re an ‘unprincipled, antisocial type of man’? Now let him see the Banner smearing me also. Why should he be spared that? Sorry. Howard, I don’t have your sense of mercy. I’ve read that editorial. Don’t comment on this. Don’t say anything about self-sacrifice or I’ll break and…and I’m not quite as strong as that sheriff is probably thinking. I didn’t do it for you. I’ve made it worse for you–I’ve added scandal to everything else they’ll throw at you. But, Howard, now we stand together–against all of them. You’ll be a convict and I’ll be an adulteress. Howard, do you remember that I was afraid to share you with lunch wagons and strangers’ windows? Now I’m not afraid to have this past night smeared all over their newspapers. My darling, do you see why I’m happy and why I’m free?”
    He said:
    “I’ll never remind you afterward that you’re crying, Dominique.” #
    The story, including the pyjamas, the dressing gown, the breakfast table and the single bed, was in all the afternoon papers of New York that day.
    Alvah Scarret walked into Wynand’s office and threw a newspaper down on his desk. Scarret had never discovered how much he loved Wynand, until now, and he was so hurt that he could express it only in furious abuse. He gulped:
    “God damn you, you blasted fool! It serves you right! It serves you right and I’m glad, damn your witless soul! Now what are we going to do?”
    Wynand read the story and sat looking at the paper. Scarret stood before the desk. Nothing happened. It was just an office, a man sat at a desk holding a newspaper. He saw Wynand’s hands, one at each side of the sheet, and the hands were still. No, he thought, normally a man would not be able to hold his hands like that, lifted and unsupported, without a tremor.
    Wynand raised his head. Scarret could discover nothing in his eyes, except a kind of mild astonishment, as if Wynand were wondering what Scarret was doing here. Then, in terror, Scarret whispered:
    “Gail, what are we going to do?”
”We’ll run it,” said Wynand. “It’s news.” “But…how?”
”In any way you wish.”
    Scarret’s voice leaped ahead, because he knew it was now or never, he would not have the courage to attempt this again; and because he was caught here, he was afraid to back toward the door.
    “Gail, you must divorce her.” He found himself still standing there, and he went on, not looking at Wynand, screaming in order to get it said: “Gail, you’ve got no choice now! You’ve got to keep what’s left of your reputation! You’ve got to divorce her and it’s you who must file the suit!”
    “All right.”
”Will you? At once? Will you let Paul file the papers at once?” “All right.”
    Scarret hurried out of the room. He rushed to his own office, slammed the door, seized the telephone and called Wynand’s lawyer. He explained and went on repeating: “Drop everything and file it now, Paul, now, today, hurry, Paul, before he changes his mind!”
    Wynand drove to his country house. Dominique was there, waiting for him.
    She stood up when he entered her room. She stepped forward, so that there would be no furniture between them; she wished him to see her whole body. He stood across the empty space and looked at her as if he were observing them both at once, an impartial spectator who saw Dominique and a man facing her, but no Gail Wynand.
    She waited, but he said nothing.
    “Well, I’ve given you a story that will build circulation, Gail.”
    He had heard, but he looked as if nothing of the present were relevant. He looked like a bank teller balancing a stranger’s account that had been overdrawn and had to be closed. He said:
    “I would like only to know this, if you’ll tell me: that was the first time since our marriage?” “Yes.”
”But it was not the first time?”
”No. He was the first man who had me.”
    “I think I should have understood. You married Peter Keating. Right after the Stoddard trial.”
    “Do you wish to ‘know everything? I want to tell you. I met him when he was working in a granite quarry. Why not? You’ll put him in a chain gang or a jute mill. He was working in a quarry. He didn’t ask my consent. He raped me. That’s how it began. Want to use it? Want to run it in the Banner?”
    “He loved you.”
    “Yes.”
    “Yet he built this house for us.”
    “Yes.”
    “I only wanted to know.”
    He turned to leave.
    “God damn you!” she cried. “If you can take it like this, you had no right to become what you became!”
    “That’s why I’m taking it.”
    He walked out of the room. He closed the door softly.
    Guy Francon telephoned Dominique that evening. Since his retirement he had lived alone on his country estate near the quarry town. She had refused to answer calls today, but she took the receiver when the maid told her that it was Mr. Francon. Instead of the fury she expected, she heard a gentle voice saying:
    “Hello, Dominique.”
”Hello, Father.”
”You’re going to leave Wynand now?”
    “Yes.”
    “You shouldn’t move to the city. It’s not necessary. Don’t overdo it. Come and stay here with me. Until…the Cortlandt trial.”
    The things he had not said and the quality of his voice, firm, simple and with a note that sounded close to happiness, made her answer, after a moment:
    “All right, Father.” It was a girl’s voice, a daughter’s voice, with a tired, trusting, wistful gaiety. “I’ll get there about midnight. Have a glass of milk for me and some sandwiches.”
    “Try not to speed as you always do. The roads aren’t too good.”
    When she arrived, Guy Francon met her at the door. They both smiled, and she knew that there would be no questions, no reproaches. He led her to the small morning room where he had set the food on a table by a window open to a dark lawn. There was a smell of grass, candles on the table and a bunch of jasmine in a silver bowl.
    She sat, her fingers closed about a cold glass, and he sat across the table, munching a sandwich peacefully.
    “Want to talk, Father?”
    “No. I want you to drink your milk and go to bed.”
    “All right.”
    He picked up an olive and sat studying it thoughtfully, twisting it on a colored toothpick. Then he glanced up at her.
    “Look, Dominique. I can’t attempt to understand it all. But I know this much–that it’s the right thing for you. This time, it’s the right man.”
    “Yes, Father.”
”That’s why I’m glad.”
She nodded.
”Tell Mr. Roark that he can come here any time he wants.” She smiled. ‘Tell whom, Father?”
”T ell…Howard.”
    Her arm lay on the table; her head dropped down on her arm. He looked at the gold hair in the candlelight. She said, because it was easier to control a voice: “Don’t let me fall asleep here. I’m tired.”
    But he answered:
    “He’ll be acquitted, Dominique.” #
    All the newspapers of New York were brought to Wynand’s office each day, as he had ordered. He read every word of what was written and whispered in town. Everybody knew that the story had been a self-frame-up; the wife of a multimillionaire would not report the loss of a five-thousand-dollar ring in the circumstances; but this did not prevent anyone from accepting the story as given and commenting accordingly. The most offensive comments were spread on the pages of the Banner.
    Alvah Scarret had found a crusade to which he devoted himself with the truest fervor he had
    ever experienced. He felt that it was his atonement for any disloyalty he might have committed toward Wynand in the past. He saw a way to redeem Wynand’s name. He set out to sell Wynand to the public as the victim of a great passion for a depraved woman; it was Dominique who had forced her husband to champion an immoral cause, against his better judgment; she had almost wrecked her husband’s paper, his standing, his reputation, the achievement of his whole life–for the sake of her lover. Scarret begged readers to forgive Wynand–a tragic, self-sacrificing love was his justification. It was an inverse ratio in Scarret’s calculations: every filthy adjective thrown at Dominique created sympathy for Wynand in the reader’s mind; this fed Scarret’s smear talent. It worked. The public responded, the Banner’s old feminine readers in particular. It helped in the slow, painful work of the paper’s reconstruction.
    Letters began to arrive, generous in their condolences, unrestrained in the indecency of their comment on Dominique Francon. “Like the old days, Gail,” said Scarret happily, “just like the old days!” He piled all the letters on Wynand’s desk.
    Wynand sat alone in his office with the letters. Scarret could not suspect that this was the worst of the suffering Gail Wynand was to know. He made himself read every letter. Dominique, whom he had tried to save from the Banner…
    When they met in the building, Scarret looked at him expectantly, with an entreating, tentative half-smile, an eager pupil waiting for the teacher’s recognition of a lesson well learned and well done. Wynand said nothing. Scarret ventured once:
    “It was clever, wasn’t it, Gail?”
”Yes.”
”Have any idea on where we can milk it some more?” “It’s your job, Alvah.”
    “She’s really the cause of everything, Gail. Long before all this. When you married her. I was afraid then. That’s what started it. Remember when you didn’t allow us to cover your wedding? That was a sign. She’s ruined the Banner. But I’ll be damned if I don’t rebuild it now right on her own body. Just as it was. Our old Banner.”
    “Yes.”
”Got any suggestions, Gail? What else would you like me to do?” “Anything you wish, Alvah.”
    18.
    A TREE BRANCH hung in the open window. The leaves moved against the sky, implying sun and summer and an inexhaustible earth to be used. Dominique thought of the world as background. Wynand thought of two hands bending a tree branch to explain the meaning of life. The leaves drooped, touching the spires of New York’s skyline far across the river. The skyscrapers stood like shafts of sunlight, washed white by distance and summer. A crowd filled the county courtroom, witnessing the trial of Howard Roark.
    Roark sat at the defense table. He listened calmly.
    Dominique sat in the third row of spectators. Looking at her, people felt as if they had seen a smile. She did not smile. She looked at the leaves in the window.
    Gail Wynand sat at the back of the courtroom. He had come in, alone, when the room was full. He had not noticed the stares and the flashbulbs exploding around him. He had stood in the aisle for a moment, surveying the place as if there were no reason why he should not
    survey it. He wore a gray summer suit and a panama hat with a drooping brim turned up at one side. His glance went over Dominique as over the rest of the courtroom. When he sat down, he looked at Roark. From the moment of Wynand’s entrance Roark’s eyes kept returning to him. Whenever Roark looked at him, Wynand turned away.
    “The motive which the State proposes to prove,” the prosecutor was making his opening address to the jury, “is beyond the realm of normal human emotions. To the majority of us it will appear monstrous and inconceivable.”
    Dominique sat with Mallory, Heller, Lansing, Enright, Mike–and Guy Francon, to the shocked disapproval of his friends. Across the aisle, celebrities formed a comet: from the small point of Ellsworth Toohey, well in front, a tail of popular names stretched through the crowd: Lois Cook, Gordon L. Prescott, Gus Webb, Lancelot Clokey, Ike, Jules Fougler, Sally Brent, Homer Slottern, Mitchell Layton.
    “Even as the dynamite which swept a building away, his motive blasted all sense of humanity out of this man’s soul. We are dealing, gentlemen of the jury, with the most vicious explosive on earth–the egotist!”
    On the chairs, on the window sills, in the aisles, pressed against the walls, the human mass was blended like a monolith, except for the pale ovals of faces. The faces stood out, separate, lonely, no two alike. Behind each, there were the years of a life lived or half over, effort, hope and an attempt, honest or dishonest, but an attempt. It had left on all a single mark in common: on lips smiling with malice, on lips loose with renunciation, on lips tight with uncertain dignity–on all–the mark of suffering.
    “…In this day and age, when the world is torn by gigantic problems, seeking an answer to questions that hold the survival of man in the balance–this man attached to such a vague intangible, such an unessential as his artistic opinions sufficient importance to let it become his sole passion and the motivation of a crime against society.”
    The people had come to witness a sensational case, to see celebrities, to get material for conversation, to be seen, to kill time. They would return to unwanted jobs, unloved families, unchosen friends, to drawing rooms, evening clothes, cocktail glasses and movies, to unadmitted pain, murdered hope, desire left unreached, left hanging silently over a path on which no step was taken, to days of effort not to think, not to say, to forget and give in and give up. But each of them had known some unforgotten moment–a morning when nothing had happened, a piece of music heard suddenly and never heard in the same way again, a stranger’s face seen in a bus–a moment when each had known a different sense of living. And each remembered other moments, on a sleepless night, on an afternoon of steady rain, in a church, in an empty street at sunset, when each had wondered why there was so much suffering and ugliness in the world. They had not tried to find the answer and they had gone on living as if no answer were necessary. But each had known a moment when, in lonely, naked honesty, he had felt the need of an answer.
    “…a ruthless, arrogant egotist who wished to have his own way at any price…”
    Twelve men sat in the jury box. They listened, their faces attentive and emotionless. People had whispered that it was a tough-looking jury. There were two executives of industrial concerns, two engineers, a mathematician, a truck driver, a bricklayer, an electrician, a gardener and three factory workers. The impaneling of the jury had taken some time. Roark had challenged many talesmen. He had picked these twelve. The prosecutor had agreed, telling himself that this was what happened when an amateur undertook to handle his own defense; a lawyer would have chosen the gentlest types, those most likely to respond to an appeal for mercy; Roark had chosen the hardest faces.
    “…Had it been some plutocrat’s mansion, but a housing project, gentlemen of the jury, a housing project!”
    The judge sat erect on the tall bench. He had gray hair and the stern face of an army officer. “…a man trained to serve society, a builder who became a destroyer…”
    The voice went on, practiced and confident. The faces filling the room listened with the response they granted to a good weekday dinner: satisfying and to be forgotten within an hour. They agreed with every sentence; they had heard it before, they had always heard it, this was what the world lived by; it was self-evident–like a puddle before one’s feet.
    The prosecutor introduced his witnesses. The policeman who had arrested Roark took the stand to tell how he had found the defendant standing by the electric plunger. The night watchman related how he had been sent away from the scene; his testimony was brief; the prosecutor preferred not to stress the subject of Dominique. The contractor’s superintendent testified about the dynamite missing from the stores on the site. Officials of Cortlandt, building inspectors, estimators took the stand to describe the building and the extent of the damage. This concluded the first day of the trial.
    Peter Keating was the first witness called on the following day.
    He sat on the stand, slumped forward. He looked at the prosecutor obediently. His eyes moved, once in a while. He looked at the crowd, at the jury, at Roark. It made no difference.
    “Mr. Keating, will you state under oath whether you designed the project ascribed to you, known as Cortlandt Homes?”
    “No. I didn’t.”
    “Who designed it?”
    “Howard Roark.”
    “At whose request?”
    “At my request.”
    “Why did you call on him?”
    “Because I was not capable of doing it myself.”
    There was no sound of honesty in the voice, because there was no sound of effort to pronounce a truth of such nature; no tone of truth or falsehood; only indifference.
    The prosecutor handed him a sheet of paper. “Is this the agreement you signed?” Keating held the paper in his hand. “Yes.”
”Is that Howard Roark’s signature?”
”Yes.”
    “Will you please read the terms of this agreement to the jury?”
    Keating read it aloud. His voice came evenly, well drilled. Nobody in the courtroom realized that this testimony had been intended as a sensation. It was not a famous architect publicly confessing incompetence; it was a man reciting a memorized lesson. People felt mat were he interrupted, he would not be able to pick up the next sentence, but would have to start all over again from the beginning.
    He answered a great many questions. The prosecutor introduced in evidence Roark’s original drawings of Cortlandt, which Keating had kept; the copies which Keating had made of them; and photographs of Cortlandt as it had been built.
    “Why did you object so strenuously to the excellent structural changes suggested by Mr. Prescott and Mr. Webb?”
    “I was afraid of Howard Roark.”
    “What did your knowledge of his character lead you to expect?’ “Anything.”
”What do you mean?”
”I don’t know. I was afraid. I used to be afraid.”
    The questions went on. The story was unusual, but the audience felt bored. It did not sound like the recital of a participant. The other witnesses had seemed to have a more personal connection with the case.
    When Keating left the stand, the audience had the odd impression that no change had occurred in the act of a man’s exit; as if no person had walked out.
    “The prosecution rests,” said the District Attorney.
    The judge looked at Roark.
    “Proceed,” he said. His voice was gentle.
    Roark got up. “Your Honor, I shall call no witnesses. This will be my testimony and my summation.”
    “Take the oath.”
    Roark took the oath. He stood by the steps of the witness stand. The audience looked at him. They felt he had no chance. They could drop the nameless resentment, the sense of insecurity which he aroused in most people. And so, for the first time, they could see him as he was: a man totally innocent of fear.
    The fear of which they thought was not the normal kind, not a response to a tangible danger, but the chronic, unconfessed fear in which they all lived. They remembered the misery of the moments when, in loneliness, a man thinks of the bright words he could have said, but had not found, and hates those who robbed him of his courage. The misery of knowing how strong and able one is in one’s own mind, the radiant picture never to be made real. Dreams? Self- delusion? Or a murdered reality, unborn, killed by that corroding emotion without name–fear– need–dependence–hatred?
    Roark stood before them as each man stands in the innocence of his own mind. But Roark stood like that before a hostile crowd–and they knew suddenly that no hatred was possible to him. For the flash of an instant, they grasped the manner of his consciousness. Each asked himself: do I need anyone’s approval?–does it matter?–am I tied? And for that instant, each man was free–free enough to feel benevolence for every other man in the room.
    It was only a moment; the moment of silence when Roark was about to speak.
    “Thousands of years ago, the first man discovered how to make fire. He was probably burned at the stake he had taught his brothers to light. He was considered an evildoer who had dealt with a demon mankind dreaded. But thereafter men had fire to keep them warm, to cook their food, to light their caves. He had left them a gift they had not conceived and he had lifted darkness off the earth. Centuries later, the first man invented the wheel. He was probably torn on the rack he had taught his brothers to build. He was considered a transgressor who ventured into forbidden territory. But thereafter, men could travel past any horizon. He had left them a gift they had not conceived and he had opened the roads of the world.
    “That man, the unsubmissive and first, stands in the opening chapter of every legend mankind has recorded about its beginning. Prometheus was chained to a rock and torn by vultures– because he had stolen the fire of the gods. Adam was condemned to suffer–because he had eaten the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Whatever the legend, somewhere in the shadows of its memory mankind knew that its glory began with one and that that one paid for his courage.
    “Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps down new roads armed with
    nothing but their own vision. Their goals differed, but they all had this in common: that the step was first, the road new, the vision unborrowed, and the response they received–hatred. The great creators–the thinkers, the artists, the scientists, the inventors–stood alone against the men of their time. Every great new thought was opposed. Every great new invention was denounced. The first motor was considered foolish. The airplane was considered impossible. The power loom was considered vicious. Anesthesia was considered sinful. But the men of unborrowed vision went ahead. They fought, they suffered and they paid. But they won.
    “No creator was prompted by a desire to serve his brothers, for his brothers rejected the gift he offered and that gift destroyed the slothful routine of their lives. His truth was his only motive. His own truth, and his own work to achieve it in his own way. A symphony, a book, an engine, a philosophy, an airplane or a building–that was his goal and his life. Not those who heard, read, operated, believed, flew or inhabited the thing he had created. The creation, not its users. The creation, not the benefits others derived from it. The creation which gave form to his truth. He held his truth above all things and against all men.
    “His vision, his strength, his courage came from his own spirit. A man’s spirit, however, is his self. That entity which is his consciousness. To think, to feel, to judge, to act are functions of the ego.
    “The creators were not selfless. It is the whole secret of their power–that it was self-sufficient, self-motivated, self-generated. A first cause, a fount of energy, a life force, a Prime Mover. The creator served nothing and no one. He had lived for himself.
    “And only by living for himself was he able to achieve the things which are the glory of mankind. Such is the nature of achievement.
    “Man cannot survive except through his mind. He comes on earth unarmed. His brain is his only weapon. Animals obtain food by force. Man has no claws, no fangs, no horns, no great strength of muscle. He must plant his food or hunt it. To plant, he needs a process of thought. To hunt, he needs weapons, and to make weapons–a process of thought. From this simplest necessity to the highest religious abstraction, from the wheel to the skyscraper, everything we are and everything we have comes from a single attribute of man–the function of his reasoning mind.
    “But the mind is an attribute of the individual. There is no such thing as a collective brain. There is no such thing as a collective thought. An agreement reached by a group of men is only a compromise or an average drawn upon many individual thoughts. It is a secondary consequence. The primary act–the process of reason–must be performed by each man alone. We can divide a meal among many men. We cannot digest it in a collective stomach. No man can use his lungs to breathe for another man. No man can use his brain to think for another. All the functions of body and spirit are private. They cannot be shared or transferred.
    “We inherit the products of the thought of other men. We inherit the wheel. We make a cart. The cart becomes an automobile. The automobile becomes an airplane. But all through the process what we receive from others is only the end product of their thinking. The moving force is the creative faculty which takes this product as material, uses it and originates the next step. This creative faculty cannot be given or received, shared or borrowed. It belongs to single, individual men. That which it creates is the property of the creator. Men learn from one another. But all learning is only the exchange of material. No man can give another the capacity to think. Yet that capacity is our only means of survival.
    “Nothing is given to man on earth. Everything he needs has to be produced. And here man faces his basic alternative: he can survive in only one of two ways–by the independent work of his own mind or as a parasite fed by the minds of others. The creator originates. The parasite borrows. The creator faces nature alone. The parasite faces nature through an intermediary.
    “The creator’s concern is the conquest of nature. The parasite’s concern is the conquest of men.
    “The creator lives for his work. He needs no other men. His primary goal is within himself. The parasite lives second-hand. He needs others. Others become his prime motive.
    “The basic need of the creator is independence. The reasoning mind cannot work under any form of compulsion. It cannot be curbed, sacrificed or subordinated to any consideration whatsoever. It demands total independence in function and in motive. To a creator, all relations with men are secondary.
    “The basic need of the second-hander is to secure his ties with men in order to be fed. He places relations first. He declares that man exists in order to serve others. He preaches altruism.
    “Altruism is the doctrine which demands that man live for others and place others above self.
    “No man can live for another. He cannot share his spirit just as he cannot share his body. But the second-hander has used altruism as a weapon of exploitation and reversed the base of mankind’s moral principles. Men have been taught every precept that destroys the creator. Men have been taught dependence as a virtue.
    “The man who attempts to live for others is a dependent. He is a parasite in motive and makes parasites of those he serves. The relationship produces nothing but mutual corruption. It is impossible in concept. The nearest approach to it in reality–the man who lives to serve others–is the slave. If physical slavery is repulsive, how much more repulsive is the concept of servility of the spirit? The conquered slave has a vestige of honor. He has the merit of having resisted and of considering his condition evil. But the man who enslaves himself voluntarily in the name of love is the basest of creatures. He degrades the dignity of man and he degrades the conception of love. But this is the essence of altruism.
    “Men have been taught that the highest virtue is not to achieve, but to give. Yet one cannot give that which has not been created. Creation comes before distribution–or there will be nothing to distribute. The need of the creator comes before the need of any possible beneficiary. Yet we are taught to admire the second-hander who dispenses gifts he has not produced above the man who made the gifts possible. We praise an act of charity. We shrug at an act of achievement.
    “Men have been taught that their first concern is to relieve the suffering of others. But suffering is a disease. Should one come upon it, one tries to give relief and assistance. To make that the highest test of virtue is to make suffering the most important part of life. Then man must wish to see others suffer–in order that he may be virtuous. Such is the nature of altruism. The creator is not concerned with disease, but with life. Yet the work of the creators has eliminated one form of disease after another, in man’s body and spirit, and brought more relief from suffering than any altruist could ever conceive.
    “Men have been taught that it is a virtue to agree with others. But the creator is the man who disagrees. Men have been taught that it is a virtue to swim with the current. But the creator is the man who goes against the current. Men have been taught that it is a virtue to stand together. But the creator is the man who stands alone.
    “Men have been taught that the ego is the synonym of evil, and selflessness the ideal of virtue. But the creator is the egotist in the absolute sense, and the selfless man is the one who does not think, feel, judge, or act. These are functions of the self.
    “Here the basic reversal is most deadly. The issue has been perverted and man has been left no alternative–and no freedom. As poles of good and evil, he was offered two conceptions: egotism and altruism. Egotism was held to mean the sacrifice of others to self. Altruism–the sacrifice of self to others. This tied man irrevocably to other men and left him nothing but a choice of pain: his own pain borne for the sake of others or pain inflicted upon others for the sake of self. When it was added that man must find joy in self-immolation, the trap was closed. Man was forced to accept masochism as his ideal–under the threat that sadism was his only alternative. This was the greatest fraud ever perpetrated on mankind.
    “This was the device by which dependence and suffering were perpetuated as fundamentals of life.
    “The choice is not self-sacrifice or domination. The choice is independence or dependence. The code of the creator or the code of the second-hander. This is the basic issue. It rests
    upon the alternative of life or death. The code of the creator is built on the needs of the reasoning mind which allows man to survive. The code of the second-hander is built on the needs of a mind incapable of survival. All that which proceeds from man’s independent ego is good. All that which proceeds from man’s dependence upon men is evil.
    “The egotist in the absolute sense is not the man who sacrifices others. He is the man who stands above the need of using others in any manner. He does not function through them. He is not concerned with them in any primary matter. Not in his aim, not in his motive, not in his thinking, not in his desires, not in the source of his energy. He does not exist for any other man–and he asks no other man to exist for him. This is the only form of brotherhood and mutual respect possible between men.
    “Degrees of ability vary, but the basic principle remains the same: the degree of a man’s independence, initiative and personal love for his work determines his talent as a worker and his worth as a man. Independence is the only gauge of human virtue and value. What a man is and makes of himself; not what he has or hasn’t done for others. There is no substitute for personal dignity. There is no standard of personal dignity except independence.
    “In all proper relationships there is no sacrifice of anyone to anyone. An architect needs clients, but he does not subordinate his work to their wishes. They need him, but they do not order a house just to give him a commission. Men exchange their work by free, mutual consent to mutual advantage when their personal interests agree and they both desire the exchange. If they do not desire it, they are not forced to deal with each other. They seek further. This is the only possible form of relationship between equals. Anything else is a relation of slave to master, or victim to executioner.
    “No work is ever done collectively, by a majority decision. Every creative job is achieved under the guidance of a single individual thought. An architect requires a great many men to erect his building. But he does not ask them to vote on his design. They work together by free agreement and each is free in his proper function. An architect uses steel, glass, concrete, produced by others. But the materials remain just so much steel, glass and concrete until he touches them. What he does with them is his individual product and his individual property. This is the only pattern for proper co-operation among men.
    “The first right on earth is the right of the ego. Man’s first duty is to himself. His moral law is never to place his prime goal within the persons of others. His moral obligation is to do what he wishes, provided his wish does not depend primarily upon other men. This includes the whole sphere of his creative faculty, his thinking, his work. But it does not include the sphere of the gangster, the altruist and the dictator.
    “A man thinks and works alone. A man cannot rob, exploit or rule–alone. Robbery, exploitation and ruling presuppose victims. They imply dependence. They are the province of the second-hander.
    “Rulers of men are not egotists. They create nothing. They exist entirely through the persons of others. Their goal is in their subjects, in the activity of enslaving. They are as dependent as the beggar, the social worker and the bandit. The form of dependence does not matter.
    “But men were taught to regard second-handers–tyrants, emperors, dictators–as exponents of egotism. By this fraud they were made to destroy the ego, themselves and others. The purpose of the fraud was to destroy the creators. Or to harness them. Which is a synonym.
    “From the beginning of history, the two antagonists have stood face to face: the creator and the second-hander. When the first creator invented the wheel, the first second-hander responded. He invented altruism.
    “The creator–denied, opposed, persecuted, exploited–went on, moved forward and carried all humanity along on his energy. The second-hander contributed nothing to the process except the impediments. The contest has another name: the individual against the collective.
    “The ‘common good’ of a collective–a race, a class, a state–was the claim and justification of every tyranny ever established over men. Every major horror of history was committed in the name of an altruistic motive. Has any act of selfishness ever equaled the carnage perpetrated
    by disciples of altruism? Does the fault lie in men’s hypocrisy or in the nature of the principle? The most dreadful butchers were the most sincere. They believed in the perfect society reached through the guillotine and the firing squad. Nobody questioned their right to murder since they were murdering for an altruistic purpose. It was accepted that man must be sacrificed for other men. Actors change, but the course of the tragedy remains the same. A humanitarian who starts with declarations of love for mankind and ends with a sea of blood. It goes on and will go on so long as men believe that an action is good if it is unselfish. That permits the altruist to act and forces his victims to bear it. The leaders of collectivist movements ask nothing for themselves. But observe the results.
    “The only good which men can do to one another and the only statement of their proper relationship is–Hands off!
    “Now observe the results of a society built on the principle of individualism. This, our country. The noblest country in the history of men. The country of greatest achievement, greatest prosperity, greatest freedom. This country was not based on selfless service, sacrifice, renunciation or any precept of altruism. It was based on a man’s right to the pursuit of happiness. His own happiness. Not anyone else’s. A private, personal, selfish motive. Look at the results. Look into your own conscience.
    “It is an ancient conflict. Men have come close to the truth, but it was destroyed each time and one civilization fell after another. Civilization is the progress toward a society of privacy. The savage’s whole existence is public, ruled by the laws of his tribe. Civilization is the process of setting man free from men.
    “Now, in our age, collectivism, the rule of the second-hander and second-rater, the ancient monster, has broken loose and is running amuck. It has brought men to a level of intellectual indecency never equaled on earth. It has reached a scale of horror without precedent. It has poisoned every mind. It has swallowed most of Europe. It is engulfing our country.
    “I am an architect. I know what is to come by the principle on which it is built. We are approaching a world in which I cannot permit myself to live.
    “Now you know why I dynamited Cortlandt.
”I designed Cortlandt. I gave it to you. I destroyed it.
    “I destroyed it because I did not choose to let it exist. It was a double monster. In form and in implication. I had to blast both. The form was mutilated by two second-handers who assumed the right to improve upon that which they had not made and could not equal. They were permitted to do it by the general implication that the altruistic purpose of the building superseded all rights and that I had no claim to stand against it.
    “I agreed to design Cortlandt for the purpose of seeing it erected as I designed it and for no other reason. That was the price I set for my work. I was not paid.
    “I do not blame Peter Keating. He was helpless. He had a contract with his employers. It was ignored. He had a promise that the structure he offered would be built as designed. The promise was broken. The love of a man for the integrity of his work and his right to preserve it are now considered a vague intangible and an unessential. You have heard the prosecutor say that. Why was the building disfigured? For no reason. Such acts never have any reason, unless it’s the vanity of some second-handers who feel they have a right to anyone’s property, spiritual or material. Who permitted them to do it? No particular man among the dozens in authority. No one cared to permit it or to stop it. No one was responsible. No one can be held to account. Such is the nature of all collective action.
    “I did not receive the payment I asked. But the owners of Cortlandt got what they needed from me. They wanted a scheme devised to build a structure as cheaply as possible. They found no one else who could do it to their satisfaction. I could and did. They took the benefit of my work and made me contribute it as a gift. But I am not an altruist. I do not contribute gifts of this nature.
    “It is said that I have destroyed the home of the destitute. It is forgotten that but for me the
    destitute could not have had this particular home. Those who were concerned with the poor had to come to me, who have never been concerned, in order to help the poor. It is believed that the poverty of the future tenants gave them a right to my work. That their need constituted a claim on my life. That it was my duty to contribute anything demanded of me. This is the second-hander’s credo now swallowing the world.
    “I came here to say that I do not recognize anyone’s right to one minute of my life. Nor to any part of my energy. Nor to any achievement of mine. No matter who makes the claim, how large their number or how great their need.
    “I wished to come here and say that I am a man who does not exist for others. “It had to be said. The world is perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing.
    “I wished to come here and say that the integrity of a man’s creative work is of greater importance than any charitable endeavor. Those of you who do not understand this are the men who’re destroying the world.
    “I wished to come here and state my terms. I do not care to exist on any others.
    “I recognize no obligations toward men except one: to respect their freedom and to take no part in a slave society. To my country, I wish to give the ten years which I will spend in jail if my country exists no longer. I will spend them in memory and in gratitude for what my country has been. It will be my act of loyalty, my refusal to live or work in what has taken its place.
    “My act of loyalty to every creator who ever lived and was made to suffer by the force responsible for the Cortlandt I dynamited. To every tortured hour of loneliness, denial, frustration, abuse he was made to spend–and to the battles he won. To every creator whose name is known–and to every creator who lived, struggled and perished unrecognized before he could achieve. To every creator who was destroyed in body or in spirit. To Henry Cameron. To Steven Mallory. To a man who doesn’t want to be named, but who is sitting in this courtroom and knows that I am speaking of him.”
    Roark stood, his legs apart, his arms straight at his sides, his head lifted–as he stood in an unfinished building. Later, when he was seated again at the defense table, many men in the room felt as if they still saw him standing; one moment’s picture that would not be replaced.
    The picture remained in their minds through the long legal discussions that followed. They heard the judge state to the prosecutor that the defendant had, in effect, changed his plea: he had admitted his act, but had not pleaded guilty of the crime; an issue of temporary legal insanity was raised; it was up to the jury to decide whether the defendant knew the nature and quality of his act, or, if he did, whether he knew that the act was wrong. The prosecutor raised no objection; there was an odd silence in the room; he felt certain that he had won his case already. He made his closing address. No one remembered what he said. The judge gave his instructions to the jury. The jury rose and left the courtroom.
    People moved, preparing to depart, without haste, in expectation of many hours of waiting. Wynand, at the back of the room, and Dominique, in the front, sat without moving.
    A bailiff stepped to Roark’s side to escort him out Roark stood by the defense table. His eyes went to Dominique, then to Wynand. He turned and followed the bailiff.
    He had reached the door when there was a sharp crack of sound, and a space of blank silence before people realized that it was a knock at the closed door of the jury room. The jury had reached a verdict.
    Those who had been on their feet remained standing, frozen, until the judge returned to the bench. The jury filed into the courtroom.
    “The prisoner will rise and face the jury,” said the clerk of the court.
    Howard Roark stepped forward and stood facing the jury. At the back of the room, Gail Wynand got up and stood also.
    “Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?” “We have.”
”What is your verdict?”
”Not guilty.”
    The first movement of Roark’s head was not to look at the city in the window, at the judge or at Dominique. He looked at Wynand.
    Wynand turned sharply and walked out. He was the first man to leave the courtroom.
    19.
    ROGER ENRIGHT bought the site, the plans and the ruins of Cortlandt from the government. He ordered every twisted remnant of foundations dug out to leave a clean hole in the earth. He hired Howard Roark to rebuild the project. Placing a single contractor in charge, observing the strict economy of the plans, Enright budgeted the undertaking to set low rentals with a comfortable margin of profit for himself. No questions were to be asked about the income, occupation, children or diet of the future tenants; the project was open to anyone who wished to move in and pay the rent, whether he could afford a more expensive apartment elsewhere or not.
    Late in August Gail Wynand was granted his divorce. The suit was not contested and Dominique was not present at the brief hearing. Wynand stood like a man facing a court- martial and heard the cold obscenity of legal language describing the breakfast in a house of Monadnock Valley–Mrs. Gail Wynand–Howard Roark; branding his wife as officially dishonored, granting him lawful sympathy, the status of injured innocence, and a paper that was his passport to freedom for all the years before him, and for all the silent evenings of those years.
    Ellsworth Toohey won his case before the labor board. Wynand was ordered to reinstate him in his job.
    That afternoon Wynand’s secretary telephoned Toohey and told him that Mr. Wynand expected him back at work tonight, before nine o’clock. Toohey smiled, dropping the receiver.
    Toohey smiled, entering the Banner Building that evening. He stopped in the city room. He waved to people, shook hands, made witty remarks about some current movies, and bore an air of guileless astonishment, as if he had been absent just since yesterday and could not understand why people greeted him in the manner of a triumphal homecoming.
    Then he ambled on to his office. He stopped short. He knew, while stopping, that he must enter, must not show the jolt, and that he had shown it: Wynand stood in the open door of his office.
    “Good evening, Mr. Toohey,” said Wynand softly. “Come in.”
    “Hello, Mr. Wynand,” said Toohey, his voice pleasant, reassured by feeling his face muscles manage a smile and his legs walking on.
    He entered and stopped uncertainly. It was his own office, unchanged, with his typewriter and a stack of fresh paper on the desk. But the door remained open and Wynand stood there silently, leaning against the jamb.
    “Sit down at your desk, Mr. Toohey. Go to work. We must comply with the law.”
Toohey gave a gay little shrug of acquiescence, crossed the room and sat down. He put his
    hands on the desk surface, palms spread solidly, then dropped them to his lap. He reached for a pencil, examined its point and dropped it
    Wynand lifted one wrist slowly to the level of his chest and held it still, the apex of a triangle made by his forearm and the long, drooping fingers of his hand; he was looking down at his wrist watch. He said:
    “It is ten minutes to nine. You are back on your job, Mr. Toohey.”
    “And I’m happy as a kid to be back. Honestly, Mr. Wynand, I suppose I shouldn’t confess it, but I missed this place like all hell.”
    Wynand made no movement to go. He stood, slouched as usual, his shoulder blades propped against the doorjamb, arms crossed on his chest, hands holding his elbows. A lamp with a square shade of green glass burned on the desk, but there was still daylight outside, streaks of tired brown on a lemon sky; the room held a dismal sense of evening in the illumination that seemed both premature and too feeble. The light made a puddle on the desk, but it could not shut out the brown, half-dissolved shapes of the street, and it could not reach the door to disarm Wynand’s presence.
    The lamp shade rattled faintly and Toohey felt the nimble under his shoe soles: the presses were rolling. He realized that he had heard them for some time. It was a comforting sound, dependable and alive. The pulse beat of a newspaper–the newspaper that transmits to men the pulse beat of the world. A long, even flow of separate drops, like marbles rolling away in a straight line, like the sound of a man’s heart.
    Toohey moved a pencil over a sheet of paper, until he realized that the sheet lay in the lamplight and Wynand could see the pencil making a water lily, a teapot and a bearded profile. He dropped the pencil and made a self-mocking sound with his lips. He opened a drawer and looked attentively at a pile of carbons and paper clips. He did not know what he could possibly be expected to do: one did not start writing a column just like that. He had wondered why he should be asked to resume his duties at nine o’clock in the evening, but he had supposed that it was Wynand’s manner of softening surrender by overdoing it, and he had felt he could afford not to argue the point.
    The presses were rolling; a man’s heartbeats gathered and re-broadcast. He heard no other sound and he thought it was absurd to keep this up if Wynand had gone, but most inadvisable to look in his direction if he hadn’t.
    After a while he looked up. Wynand was still there. The light picked out two white spots of his figure: the long fingers of one hand closed over an elbow, and the high forehead. It was the forehead that Toohey wanted to see; no, there were no slanting ridges over the eyebrows. The eyes made two solid white ovals, faintly discernible in the angular shadows of the face. The ovals were directed at Toohey. But there was nothing in the face; no indication of purpose.
    After a while, Toohey said:
”Really, Mr. Wynand, there’s no reason why you and I can’t get together.” Wynand did not answer.
    Toohey picked up a sheet of paper and inserted it in the typewriter. He sat looking at the keys, holding his chin between two fingers, in the pose he knew he assumed when preparing to attack a paragraph. The rims of the keys glittered under the lamps, rings of bright nickel suspended in the dim room.
    The presses stopped.
    Toohey jerked back, automatically, before he knew why he had jerked: he was a newspaperman and it was a sound that did not stop like that.
    Wynand looked at his wrist watch. He said:
    “It’s nine o’clock. You’re out of a job, Mr. Toohey. The Banner has ceased to exist.”
    The next incident of reality Toohey apprehended was his own hand dropping down on the typewriter keys: he heard the metal cough of the levers tangling and striking together, and the small jump of the carriage.
    He did not speak, but he thought his face was naked because he heard Wynand answering him:
    “Yes, you had worked here for thirteen years….Yes, I bought them all out, Mitchell Layton included, two weeks ago….” The voice was indifferent. “No, the boys in the city room didn’t know it. Only the boys in the pressroom….”
    Toohey turned away. He picked up a paper clip, held it on his palm, then turned his hand over and let the clip fall, observing with mild astonishment the finality of the law mat had not permitted it to remain on his downturned palm.
    He got up. He stood looking at Wynand, a stretch of gray carpet between them.
    Wynand’s head moved, leaned slightly to one shoulder. Wynand’s face looked as if no barrier were necessary now, it looked simple, it held no anger, the closed lips were drawn in the hint of a smile of pain that was almost humble.
    Wynand said:
    “This was the end of the Banner….I think it’s proper that I should meet it with you.” #
    Many newspapers bid for the services of Ellsworth Monkton Toohey. He selected the Courier, a paper of well-bred prestige and gently uncertain policy.
    In the evening of his first day on the new job Ellsworth Toohey sat on the edge of an associate editor’s desk and they talked about Mr. Talbot, the owner of the Courier, whom Toohey had met but a few times.
    “But Mr. Talbot as a man?” asked Ellsworth Toohey. “What’s his particular god? What would he go to pieces without?”
    In the radio room across the hall somebody was twisting a dial. “Time,” blared a solemn voice, “marches on!”
#
    Roark sat at the drafting table in his office, working. The city beyond the glass walls seemed lustrous, the air washed by the first cold of October.
    The telephone rang. He held his pencil suspended in a jerk of impatience; the telephone was never to ring when he was drawing. He walked to his desk and picked up the receiver.
    “Mr. Roark,” said his secretary, the tense little note in her voice serving as apology for a broken order, “Mr. Gail Wynand wishes to know whether it would be convenient for you to come to his office at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”
    She heard the faint buzz of silence in the receiver at her ear and counted many seconds.
    “Is he on the wire?” asked Roark. She knew it was not the phone connection that made his voice sound like that.
    “No, Mr. Roark. It’s Mr. Wynand’s secretary.”
”Yes. Yes. Tell her yes.”
He walked to the drafting table and looked down at the sketches; it was the first desertion he
    had ever been forced to commit: he knew he would not be able to work today. The weight of hope and relief together was too great.
    When Roark approached the door of what had been the Banner Building, he saw that the sign, the Banner’s masthead, was gone. Nothing replaced it. A discolored rectangle was left over the door. He knew the building now contained the offices of the Clarion and floors of empty rooms. The Clarion, a third-rate afternoon tabloid, was the only representative of the Wynand chain in New York.
    He walked to an elevator. He was glad to be the only passenger: he felt a sudden, violent possessiveness for the small cage of steel; it was his, found again, given back to him. The intensity of the relief told him the intensity of the pain it had ended; the special pain, like no other in his life.
    When he entered Wynand’s office, he knew that he had to accept that pain and carry it forever, mat there was to be no cure and no hope. Wynand sat behind his desk and rose when he entered, looking straight at him. Wynand’s face was more than the face of a stranger: a stranger’s face is an unapproached potentiality, to be opened if one makes the choice and effort; this was a face known, closed and never to be reached again. A face that held no pain of renunciation, but the stamp of the next step, when even pain is renounced. A face remote and quiet, with a dignity of its own, not a living attribute, but the dignity of a figure on a medieval tomb that speaks of past greatness and forbids a hand to reach out for the remains.
    “Mr. Roark, this interview is necessary, but very difficult for me. Please act accordingly.”
    Roark knew that the last act of kindness he could offer was to claim no bond. He knew he would break what was left of the man before him if he pronounced one word: Gail. Roark answered: “Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
    Wynand picked up four typewritten sheets of paper and handed them across the desk:
    “Please read this and sign it if it meets with your approval.”
    “What is it?”
    “Your contract to design the Wynand Building.” Roark put the sheets down. He could not hold them. He could not look at them.
    “Please listen carefully, Mr. Roark. This must be explained and understood. I wish to undertake the construction of the Wynand Building at once. I wish it to be the tallest structure of the city. Do not discuss with me the question of whether this is timely or economically advisable. I wish it built. It will be used–which is all that concerns you. It will house the Clarion and all the offices of the Wynand Enterprises now located in various parts of the city. The rest of the space will be rented. I have sufficient standing left to guarantee that. You need have no fear of erecting a useless structure. I shall send you a written statement on all details and requirements. The rest will be up to you. You will design the building as you wish. Your decisions will be final. They will not require my approval. You will have full charge and complete authority. This is stated in the contract. But I wish it understood that I shall not have to see you. There will be an agent to represent me in all technical and financial matters. You will deal with him. You will hold all further conferences with him. Let him know what contractors you prefer chosen for the job. If you find it necessary to communicate with me, you will do it through my agent. You are not to expect or attempt to see me. Should you do so, you will be refused admittance. I do not wish to speak to you. I do not wish ever to see you again. If you are prepared to comply with these conditions, please read the contract and sign it.”
    Roark reached for a pen and signed without looking at the paper. “You have not read it,” said Wynand.
Roark threw the paper across the desk.
”Please sign both copies.”
    Roark obeyed.
”Thank you,” said Wynand, signed the sheets and handed one to Roark. “This is your copy.” Roark slipped the paper into his pocket.
    “I have not mentioned the financial part of the undertaking. It is an open secret that the so- called Wynand empire is dead. It is sound and doing as well as ever throughout the country, with the exception of New York City. It will last my lifetime. But it will end with me. I intend to liquidate a great part of it. You will, therefore, have no reason to limit yourself by any consideration of costs in your design of the building. You are free to make it cost whatever you find necessary. The building will remain long after the newsreels and tabloids are gone.”
    “Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
    “I presume you will want to make the structure efficiently economical in maintenance costs. But you do not have to consider the return of the original investment. There’s no one to whom it must return.”
    “Yes, Mr. Wynand.”
    “If you consider the behavior of the world at present and the disaster toward which it is moving you might find the undertaking preposterous. The age of the skyscraper is gone. This is the age of the housing project. Which is always a prelude to the age of the cave. But you are not afraid of a gesture against the whole world. This will be the last skyscraper ever built in New York. It is proper that it should be so. The last achievement of man on earth before mankind destroys itself.”
    “Mankind will never destroy itself, Mr. Wynand. Nor should it think of itself as destroyed. Not so long as it does things such as this.”
    “As what?”
”As the Wynand Building.”
    “That is up to you. Dead things–such as the Banner–are only the financial fertilizer that will make it possible. It is their proper function.”
    He picked up his copy of the contract, folded it and put it, with a precise gesture, into his inside coat pocket. He said, with no change in the tone of his voice:
    “I told you once that this building was to be a monument to my life. There is nothing to commemorate now. The Wynand Building will have nothing–except what you give it.”
    He rose to his feet, indicating that the interview was ended. Roark got up and inclined his head in parting. He held his head down a moment longer than a formal bow required.
    At the door he stopped and turned. Wynand stood behind his desk without moving. They looked at each other.
    Wynand said:
”Build it as a monument to that spirit which is yours…and could have been mine.”
    20.
    ON A spring day, eighteen months later, Dominique walked to the construction site of the Wynand Building.
    She looked at the skyscrapers of the city. They rose from unexpected spots, out of the low roof lines. They had a kind of startling suddenness, as if they had sprung up the second before she saw them and she had caught the last thrust of the motion; as if, were she to turn away and look again fast enough, she would catch them in the act of springing.
    She turned a corner of Hell’s Kitchen and came to the vast cleared tract.
    Machines were crawling over the torn earth, grading the future park. From its center, the skeleton of the Wynand Building rose, completed, to the sky. The top part of the frame still hung naked, an intercrossed cage of steel. Glass and masonry had followed its rise, covering the rest of the long streak slashed through space.
    She thought: They say the heart of the earth is made of fire. It is held imprisoned and silent. But at times it breaks through the clay, the iron, the granite, and shoots out to freedom. Then it becomes a thing like this.
    She walked to the building. A wooden fence surrounded its lower stories. The fence was bright with large signs advertising the names of the firms who had supplied materials for the tallest structure in the world. “Steel by National Steel, Inc.” “Glass by Ludlow.” “Electrical Equipment by Wells-Clairmont.” “Elevators by Kessler, Inc.” “Nash & Dunning, Contractors.”
    She stopped. She saw an object she had never noticed before. The sight was like the touch of a hand on her forehead, the hand of those figures in legend who had the power to heal. She had not known Henry Cameron and she had not heard him say it, but what she felt now was as if she were hearing it: “And I know that if you carry these words through to the end, it will be a victory, Howard, not just for you, but for something that should win, that moves the world– and never wins acknowledgment. It will vindicate so many who have fallen before you, who have suffered as you will suffer.”
    She saw, on the fence surrounding New York’s greatest building, a small tin plate bearing the words:
#
    “Howard Roark, Architect” #
    She walked to the superintendent’s shed. She had come here often to call for Roark, to watch the progress of construction. But there was a new man in the shed who did not know her. She asked for Roark.
    “Mr. Roark is way up on top by the water tank. Who’s calling, ma’am?” “Mrs. Roark,” she answered.
    The man found the superintendent who let her ride the outside hoist, as she always did–a few planks with a rope for a railing, that rose up the side of the building.
    She stood, her hand lifted and closed about a cable, her high heels poised firmly on the planks. The planks shuddered, a current of air pressed her skirt to her body, and she saw the ground dropping softly away from her.
    She rose above the broad panes of shop windows. The channels of streets grew deeper, sinking. She rose above the marquees of movie theaters, black mats held by spirals of color. Office windows streamed past her, long belts of glass running down. The squat hulks of warehouses vanished, sinking with the treasures they guarded. Hotel towers slanted, like the spokes of an opening fan, and folded over. The fuming matchsticks were factory stacks and the moving gray squares were cars. The sun made lighthouses of peaked summits, they reeled, flashing long white rays over the city. The city spread out, marching in angular rows to the rivers. It stood held between two thin black arms of water. It leaped across and rolled away to a haze of plains and sky.
    Flat roofs descended like pedals pressing the buildings down, out of the way of her flight. She went past the cubes of glass that held dining rooms, bedrooms and nurseries. She saw roof
    gardens float down like handkerchiefs spread on the wind. Skyscrapers raced her and were left behind. The planks under her feet shot past the antennae of radio stations.
    The hoist swung like a pendulum above the city. It sped against the side of the building. It had passed the line where the masonry ended behind her. There was nothing behind her now but steel ligaments and space. She felt the height pressing against her eardrums. The sun filled her eyes. The air beat against her raised chin.
    She saw him standing above her, on the top platform of the Wynand Building. He waved to her.
    The line of the ocean cut the sky. The ocean mounted as the city descended. She passed the pinnacles of bank buildings. She passed the crowns of courthouses. She rose above the spires of churches.
    Then there was only the ocean and the sky and the figure of Howard Roark. #
The End

  • Atlas Shrugged

    http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/atlasshrugged/section10.rhtml

    Atlas Shrugged

    there was nothing he wished or needed to buy

    any goods; made by men to be used by men.

    enjoy the sight of prosperous street.

    tree as symbol of strength

    reach for the best within us.

    discover what is the best within us.

    don’t know what people think; we can just see what they do.

    blood vessel

    blood is supposed to feed; give life.

    how can i create value for society?

    —

    keep creating things of value for society— never stop creating and hustling.

    make risks and chances for the greater good.

    look for sparks of competence

    —

    don’t consult others before acting!

    —

    metal stronger than steel.

    happiness was the greatest agent of purification

    humility vs what is best for humankind?

    fulfill the potential in every human being!

    avoid sense of boredom in life!

    give a living transfusion of my overabundant vitality to those who are anemic!

    feel a sudden spurt of rebellion; a need to recapture and defiantly to reassert his own view of existence

    looking at those: they were bewildered, unhappy children. don’t resent their ineptitude; it came from helplessness; not from malice. i have to make myself learn to understand others; because i have so much to give— and they can never share my sense of joyous, boundless power.

    what is the reason i exist and alive?

    —

    feel excitement of solving problems; delight of taking up challenges, for harder tests!

    keep growing my own ability.

    what are my motives?

    think of myself before others; or think of others before yself?

    What lessons from history; to instruct the future?

    • Memento mori: all mortal is mortal.

    —

    Smartphone camera app; with rule of thirds grid overlay and golden rectangle? smartphone app to teach people composition?

    What to learn from Rick Ross?

    what purpose that drives me?

    —

    —

    wish to see a sign of greatness to inspire me; to create! joy is one’s fuel.

    how can i offer more?

    have a quality of the heroic!

    the music belongs to mankind. it is the product and the expression of the greatness of th epeople.

    enrich the lives of others

    smile of a man who is able to see; to know; and to create the glory of existence!

    The government of the People’s State of Mexico has nationalized the San Sebastian Mines and the San Sebastian Railroad.”

    ‘anti dog eat dog rule’

    Seneca on benefits

    how to have mercy on people?

    stand for the common good

    dont penalize people from ability; dont add weights to people!

    how to be a man of action?

    Why pleasure?

    • please just endorphin in my brain; can simulate that experiecne in easier, cheaper, more accessible ways— like being in a state of flow; creating, learning, experiencing?

    —

    save the country!

    the office suited him; it contained nothing but the few pieces of furniture he needed; all of them harshly simplified down to their essential purpose; all of them exorbinatly expensive in the quality of materials and the skill of design.

    ‘this is great’

    yes.

    feel free to acknowledge my own greatnes!

    standing on a mountain top; seeing a limitless plain below the roads open in all directions.

    reality ; sense of clear outlines, of purpose, of lightness, of hope— this is how i should expect to live! take action in life!

    ‘joy is the aim and core of existence’

    only do what gives me joy.

    all I’m after is material things?

    all im after is to create!

    calm; involitate self-confidence.

    on guilt, no doubt,

    it is me who moves the world; and it is me who will pull it through!

    —

    become me; dont inherit me.

    as a child; live in the future— in the world where i would not have to feel contempt or boredom!

    how to live a life without feeling boredom?

    be selfish for the sake of helping humanity?

    increase fortune more than i received it!

    power of the saints; to PRODUCE!

    only leave pure talent! Entity devoid of the acidental.

    i can do anything i undertake; and do it better than anyone else, without effort. no boasting or cnsciousness; no thought of comparison!

    never compare myself with anyone; do it without effort or boasting.

    dont have attitude: ‘i can do it better than you’ — but I CAN DO IT

    BECOME MY OWN INSTAGRAM PLATFORM (make blog into grid?)

    assume i can do anything.

    —

    i dont need discipline; i just do it.

    whatever i was ordered to study; i master it with effortless amusement.

    achieve the zenith!

    path over the head!

    two things impossible: to stand still or move aimlessly.

    ‘LETS FIND OUT’

    LETS MAKE IT (only form of enjoyment)

    I CAN D O IT

    HAVE pride in myself!

    never enter contests; because i can win any and every game.

    ignore clubs.

    learn how to be more selfish; for greater good.

    —

    set off on fun adventures of my own.

    dismantle carcass of automobile; in pile of junk yard.

    **have a selfish attitude **

    increase wealth and production by 100x // become my own google.

    follow Jesus; increase the inheritance ive been given.

    after more money — to help more people?

    greatest virtue of all; made money

    do great things.

    expect excitement and danger in life

    most depraved man:

    man without a purpose.

    know and think i am good.

    see how far ill rise; no matter how good i am, wring everything ive got; still try to be better. when ive worn myself out to reach a goal; start another goal.

    theres nothing of any importance in life; except how well i do my work.

    my measure of human value: how well i work.

    code of competence is the only system of morality on golden standard.

    people dislike me; because i do things well (not bcaause i do things poorly)

    dislike me; i always do well without trying.

    don’t be a fool; whatever made you think i cared about being popular?

    i dont care to be popular; i care to do my work damn well.

    strip down my life to the bright simplicity of a geometrical drawing; few straight lines // avoid any superfluous movement or activity that prevents me from doing my work!

    my work damn well; blog, video, make information, teach.

    **look of an untouched purity of enjoyment! **

    no hand outs; gotta hustle.

    accept things with inexplicable eagerness like a child.

    have confident; dangerous power!

    in an age of casual, cynical, indifferent routine — it almost looks indecent.

    have meaning; admiration of daring; ackonlowegeedb y high adventure.

    write things which are meat for people; to nourish their souls.

    live a life full of purpose and meaning.

    have a desire to win in the game of life.

    make my own clothes; cars; stuff — don’t just buy into consumerist shit; be a producer.

    design my own clothes, programs, etc.

    what if i can design my own online website platform; to vote, critique, etc?

    ALL KILLER
    NO FILLER

    BY BOOKS,
    NOT GEAR

    JUST SHOOT IT.

    MEMENTO MORI

    —

    easier to buy a t shirt than a tattoo.

    —

    fibonacci or golden spiral shirt; golden rectangle shirt.

    use futura font; don’t follow trends of others.

    DOUBLE
    SHOT

    —

    double shot coffee cup?

    —

    instant’s knowledge of a feeling greater than happiness; the feeling of ones blessing upon the whole of earth; the feeling of being in love with the fact that one exists and in this kind of world; express that feeling via action.

    joy is not sin.

    working ‘too hard’: unnaturally bright look of my face; look of exhileration that comes from driving ones energy beyond its limit.

    defiance is good.

    i like to learn for things myself.

    theres something wrong in the world.

    dont think of skyscraper as limit; we must go beyond them; let it speed— why should there be a limit?

    —

    avoid dumb entertainment.

    tear the lid off hell and let men see it.

    HOW TO HAVE COURAGE?

    —

    be conscious of the purpose; not jst the need of purpose.

    follow my own gut; dont feel any guilt.

    dont spare myself; see what error i make; no fault of others by my own.

    demand perfection of myself.

    grant myself no mercy.

    hours to spend watching the eyes of the guests getting heavy with boredom

    be selfish; but give a damn for others!

    how to build more rationality in life?

    Write each blog post like it were my last!

    what is the purpose of philosophy ? how to be more useful.
    “

    philosophy; help men find the meaning of life!

    follow morality; free will; achivement; happy endings— our life can e heroic!

    make more choices in my life.

    i dont need people to agree; just do my shit. dont cares bout the ‘opinion’ of others

    disregard the opinions of others.

    write useful things for humanity.

    practice what the world preaches;

    evil:
    – to be selifsh
    – evil to pursue a personal interest
    – evil to work for profit
    – purpose of industrial enterprise; not production but livelihood of employees

    • dont burden anyone
    • isnt it generally conded that when you hire a man for a job; its his need that counts, not his ability?
    • i have carried out every moral precept of our age — i don’t understand why I’m being damned?

    don’t get drunk

    do lots of camera reviews; for page reviews— but as a way to spread good moral philosophy?

    i don’t like people who speak or think in terms of gaining anybody confidence. if ones actions are honest; one does not need the confidence of others, only their ‘rational perception.’

    appreciate the meaning of being a man?

    i don’t need the gratitude of others; i do it for the sake of it.

    go ahead; say im evil; selfish; conceited; heartless, cruel— i am. I’m not working for others?

    allow people to call me evil and selfish; admit it.

    Tip: just agree with others assessment of you, and say ‘you’re right’

    work for my own sake; not for the sake of others.

    Have a purpose in life.

    to me; theres only one form of human depravity: a person without a purpose.

    DONT BE PARASITE

    Avoid parasites

    celebrations should be only for things for people to celebrate .

    mans fate; to hpe, and to achieve!

    wise man: ATTEMPTS; hopes, and DOES!

    atlantis

    a plce where hero-spirits live in happiness unkonwn to the rest of the world.
    a place where only the spirits of heroes could enter; and reach it without dying— because we carried the secret of life.

    America is atlantis:

    John Galt” Millionaire (billionaire; trillionaire)

    read

    rearden bracelet; as precious — man-made concept of precious?

    put my name ERIC KIM on everything; like ALEXANDER WANG

    my indifference to others makes me spectacular.

    pleasure of rejecting snobby society.

    THE AGE OF ACHIEVEMENT IS NOT OVER!

    move toward my goal; sweeping aside vertying that did not pertain to it and the world

    burn the impurity out of metal.

    i am incapable of halfway concerns.

    i used to give a fuck; now i give a fuck less.

    love my desire.

    learn to literally ignore everyone; even my loved ones— follow my own spirit, guidance.

    i have the choice to shape matter to my own wishes by the power of my brain; i can control the matter of my own body.

    next time you do anyting dear; do what you want.

    —

    how hungry was i in college?

    write more satire; be mysterious.

    how do you know if something has never been done before? fuck it; ill try.

    dont own anything; everytihing on loan.

    What if I earned $100 million a year?

    Earn $100 million a year, for 7 years — ill have $700 million!

    What if I were worth $700 million like JAY Z?

    —

    strength and lightness.

    if theres no competent person to do it; ill have to mine my own copper myself; and mine my own iron ore! i cannot be held up by failures, shortages, and others.

    100% dependent on myself; not others.

    the sun will never be exhausted; I AM THE SON/ SUN!

    Don’t be humble

    fuck experts and committees ; fuck the universities.

    what if everyone decides against it? let them.

    ignore the authorities and doubters.

    avoid vultures.

    yes i am greedy.

    ERIC KIM as brand; empower others— like people wear yeezy sneaker? eric kim shirt.

    believe in dreams about the human spirit!!!

    go through life looking for beauty; greatness, and sublime beauty.

    sublime achievement.

    story of mans mind; spirit; ideals and sense of **UNLIMITED AMBItiON! **

    i used to be ambitious; that is what attracted cindy to me.

    how to be more ambitious to change the world.

    john galt” explorer; the greatest explorer that ever lived— the man who found the fountain of youth.

    10 years to climb mountain; fountain of youth — broke every bone in my body, tore the skin off my hands; lose my home, name, love.

    is it good or not?

    if good; fucking do it.

    why should i wait? don’t cooperate.

    1.5 million dollars to develop something.

    blank check for the rights of my blog; to censor or delete all the materials? fuck that— not even a billion?

    what if i had a blank check; unlimited account. what else would i want? name my price.

    my legacy: open source; never go back o my word— id rather sacrifice a billion dollars for unlimited legacy of openness, than shortness of money for 100 years (at best).

    —

    why are you doing this?

    because it is good.

    they haven’t said it is bad.

    to the fearless mind; to the inviolate truth.

    be fearless; share the truth!

    demolish the theories of those who came before me.

    —

    have a cheap room.

    scientist: assume nothing; discard emotion; seek to only observe and understand.

    promote the work of my haters?

    what is the practical matter of reality; dealing with science?

    what is true science; pure science— truth?

    i need to sacrifice myself for the truth.

    let myself be crucified for the truth //

    always be young; have the same faith in unlimited power of reason— brilliant vision of man as a rational being. never be disillusioned.

    be illusioned

    physics x philosophy.

    this is not a proposal; it is an ultimatum.

    if i fail; ill go down alone.

    the john galt line.

    I’m “begging; give it to me as alms.

    by any means necessary.

    JOHN GALT: the impossible; unattainable.

    symbolism that i can do the impossible.

    don’t live half of my level.

    go and claim it.

    recognize your own greatness.

    what is my rules of morality?

    if i can do this; i can do anything.

    feel as if this were a world where nothing was impossible.

    thought is a weapon one uses in order to act. any action is possible. thought is the tool by which one makes a choice. unlimited choices.

    i have never known fear; because i have always had the ‘omnipotent cure of being able to act.’

    goo on; let nothing stop me.

    —
    never betray my soul.

    like new place: it saved money; the rooms have no superfluous furniture or people.

    dont notice the room i work; only serve my purpose.

    coal is a natural material we mine; that is valuable, and humans profit off it- like spice?

    who cares if i am unpopular? just laugh :)

    ‘the public be damned!’

    Profit: 20% !!!!

    Earn a profit; don’t worry.
    who is john galt? WE ARE!

    physical sensation of physical movement through space

    noble pursuit

    stand unaware of the crowds; indifferent to admiration.

    stripped for action!

    be immodest; no humility— be GREAT! Granduer; like magnanimity.

    joyous sense of confidence!

    the motors were a moral code cast in steel.

    they are alive; because they are the physical shape of the ACTION of a living power of the mind — to set purpose; to give it form.

    they are alive; but their soul operates them by remote control.

    to be human: have a SOUL — have a soul to have the capacity to equal achievement!

    the power of a living mind; the power of thought andc hoicse and PURPOSE

    cheapest oil; unlimited supply; an untapped supply— wait until you see the new process I’ve developed!

    im sorry; i dont like to be careless; but i was too excited.

    life is about excitement!!!

    —

    no limit on output

    to hell with diesel gas oil, coal, or refueling station! future is electric :)

    cleanest, swiftest, cheaper mens of motion ever devised.

    ten times the power, self-generator; working on little energy.

    invest in the future of smartphone photography?

    —

    —

    how to create a factory; art factory?

    no principle has ever filled anybody’s milk bottle.

    the only thing that counts in life is solid; material assets.

    theres no time for theories.

    i dont want ideas; i just want my 1 meal a day.

    why buy a factory?\

    dry goods.

    ‘preservation of livelihood law’

    ‘fair share law’?

    we have an unlimited market.

    IDEA:

    4-image set (pairing)

    —

    squeeze every last ounce of value out of a penny

    pay for what i want; give value for value; ask of nothing of nature without trading my effort in return — ask nothing of men without trading the product of his effort.

    only give people the truth?

    pride myself on being different from lesser men.

    What ppurpose do you live for?

    What purpose do you live for?

    enlightenment; know what purpose you live for.

    what do you do with your time?

    you are what you spend your time on.

    —

    dont suffer for ideals?

    never stop creating value.

    seek value for myself; and self-interest for the greater good.

    i am perfectly innocent since i lost my money for a good cause. my motives were pure, i wanted nothing for myself. I’ve never sought anything for myself. i can proudly say that in all my life i have never made a profit

    MAKE A PROFIT

    What i need:
    1. peace
    2. concentration
    3. to not get distracted.

    rich: taking risks.

    disregard personal need.

    dont use pity as a weapon.

    pride in my criticism; call myself selfish— call myself midas.

    PROUD OF MY WEALTH

    LOVE BEING ALIVE!!!!!

    BLK BLK BLK

    —

    STREETDOGS

    —

    STREET
    DOGS

    STREET
    TOGS

    $TREETTOG$

    $TREET
    TOG$

    any enlightened person knows that man is made by the material factors of his background; that a mans mind i sshaped by hist ools of production.

    RICOH
    MAFIA

    how to have deep, human significance?

    I would have written my novel a long time ago; if I had the proper tools of production. I can’t write on this damn typewriter— it skips spaces. How can I get any inspiration and write a best seller with a typewriter that skips spaces?

    rewards were based on need; and penalties on ability.

    NEVER penalize those with ability!

    love my work; it is my whole life.

    calm, self-confident, happy.

    I hate to seee ability and talent wasted.

    —

    Hugh Akston

    philosopher; last of the ‘advocate of reason’

    don’t run rap; run the map.

    dont run photography; run the blogging world.

    i want to tap an unlimited source of creativity and think of a ‘second renaissance’

    —

    Blog posts as letters to myself; meditations on mays elf.

    ==

    —

    know i am rational; and see reality.

    know i am able to think!

    believe in achievement of man!

    people don want to think; the more trouble; less they want to think.

    dont allow public to distract me from the work alone on earth; im the only one of capable of doing!

    Play in your sandbox; playground.

    how to turn 33 cents into a whole dollar?

    new concept of energy; discard all old standard assumptions.

    solve secret of convert static energy into kinetic energy.

    —

    Mail chimp: 1000 free; then pay money?

    dont allow degeneracy of human race.

    —

    ‘fair share law’

    words are just symbols; they dont do anything.

    ”Run along, punk. Go and try to pour a ton of steel without rigid principles, on the expediency of the moment.”

    start new venture; new research; new experiments.

    ‘a sale requires the seller’s consent’

    slender tunic of dusty blue. — unprotected simplicity.

    i like giving things to you; because you dont need them.

    be okay with vicious self-indulgence by myself.

    how can i enjoy my wealth?

    gold— money; should be turned into any shape i want? how can i enjoy it?

    —

    dont just sit; being an amusement seeker and luxury lover.

    they sit there; waiting for this place to give them meaning.

    Rather, we should give the place meaning! ***

    —

    celebration; uncultured vision of gaiety .

    the lights and flowers dont make us brilliant; we make the lights and flower brilliant.

    —

    life is motion; life is hustling.

    mans life is purposeful motion

    ’purposeful hustling’

    what is the state of my life; when my purpose and motion are being denied— being held in chains?

    —

    self confidence; self confidence of my value

    have confidence in my own value!

    —

    others should look up to me; not other way around.

    celebration of myself; and my will to live!

    —

    id rather die than stop working.

    impossible to quit.

    chain myself to my desk; not to leave it.

    dont turn kinetic energy to static; turn static energy to kinetic.

    —

    create more things— make my static potential; into kinetic energy — study physics?

    do research work for my own pleasure.

    dont force myself to be useful to society?

    i refuse: i will never accept something for nothing; and dont allow to give something for nothing?

    —

    if i spend the rest of my life on it and succeed; i will die satisfied.

    i need to have problems to solve.

    —

    never do anything i dont want to do.

    dont let nobody force me against my will.

    what is ‘social responsibility’?

    put my money where my mouth is.

    —

    dont use nothing i wouldn’t front my own money for ***

    what is ‘humanitarian’?

    they’re not human.

    —

    be selfish for the greater good.

    these people hate me because they envy me?

    nobody has achievements similar to mine.

    people were mean and small.

    —

    everyone looks same; same look of static grooming. frozen in static amusement.

    he could not find a single straight statement in the conversation of the men.

    your presence; best gift.

    —

    dont sacrifice my full capacity; my full potential.

    allow my top speed to be shown; dont waste my great power!!!

    —

    why do i care to be noticed or seen? like random eyes staring at me — i can simulate this?

    why crowd-source your self-esteem; to just eyeballs — in organisms?

    what if a bunch of dogs were looking at me in admiration; would I care? ***

    —

    ‘olympian detachment’

    a new adversary; a woman who refused to be hurt ***

    refuse to let others hurt me ***

    dont let nobody have power over me.

    never feel the desire to flatter or offend anybody.

    —

    ‘i understand you; but i will not give it back’

    consider practical reality; not indulge in abstract theory.

    —

    i dont understand; can you be more explicit?

    dont let nobody coerce me into doing anything i dont want to do.

    —

    pay rightfully for stuff!

    i need to put in effort to get something; practice what i preach?

    dont despise and look down on the achievements of others; look up to achievements of others

    —

    brag ok.

    —

    What is money?

    root of money: tool of exchange, which cannot exist unless there are good produced, and men able to produce them.

    ”So you think that money is the root of all evil?” said Francisco d’Anconia. “Have you ever asked what is the root of money? Money is a tool of exchange, which can’t exist unless there are goods produced and men able to produce them. Money is the material shape of the principle that men who wish to deal with one another must deal by trade and give value for value. Money is not the tool of the moochers, who claim your product by tears, or of the looters, who take it from you by force. Money is made possible only by the men who produce.
    Is this what you consider evil?

    money: material shape of the concept and principle that money deal with each other via trade; and give value for value

    money in itself is a piece of paper.

    money is made possible by the men who produce

    production = wealth! ***

    “When you accept money in payment for your effort, you do so only on the conviction that you will exchange it for the product of the effort of others. It is not the moochers or the looters who give value to money. Not an ocean of tears nor all the guns in the world can transform those pieces of paper in your wallet into the bread you will need to survive tomorrow. Those pieces of paper, which should have been gold, are a token of honor-your claim upon the energy of the men who produce. Your wallet is your statement of hope that somewhere in the world around you there are men who will not default on that moral principle which is the root of money. Is this what you consider evil?

    accept money in payment for my effort; exchange it for products of efforts of others.

    dont give value to money; give money to value?

    money in wallet cannot turn into bread to survive. piece of paper; token of trust — claim on energy who produce. money is a statement of hope that somewhere in the world, there will be men who will not default on the moral principle of production.

    —

    ”Have you ever looked for the root of production? Take a look at an electric generator and dare tell yourself that it was created by the muscular effort of unthinking brutes. Try to grow a seed of wheat without the knowledge left to you by men who had to discover it for the first time. Try to obtain your food by means of nothing but physical motions-and you’ll learn that man’s mind is the root of all the goods produced and of all the wealth that has ever existed on earth.

    root of production: through knowledge.

    ”But you say that money is made by the strong at the expense of the weak? What strength do you mean? It is not the strength of guns or muscles. Wealth is the product of man’s capacity to think. Then is money made by the man who invents a motor at the expense of those who did not invent it? Is money made by the intelligent at the expense of the fools? By the able at the expense of the incompetent? By the ambitious at the expense of the lazy? Money is made-before it can be looted or mooched-made by the effort of every honest man, each to the extent of his ability. An honest man is one who knows that he can’t consume more than he has produced.

    money is made not of strength, of guns, or muscle. wealth is the product of mans capacity to think.

    the more i can think; the more wealth i will have?

    honest man: i cannot consume more than i produce

    to be a real man: produce more than I consume ***

    —

    to trade by means of money is the code of the men of good will. money rests on the axiom that every man is the owner of his own mind and effort.

    money allows no power to prescribe the value of your effort except the voluntary choice of the man who is willing to trade you his effort in return.

    money permits you to obtain for your goods and your labor that which they are worth to men who buy them.

    money deals with mutual benefit; by unforced judgement of the traders.

    money demands: recognition that men must work for their own benefit— for their gain; not loss. to recognize that men are not beasts of burden!!!! but exchange of goods.

    Don’t feel an ‘atlas complex’ — of trying to bear the weight of the whole world on my shoulders.

    —

    you sell your talent to the reasons of others; and you buy, the best your money can find ***

    buy the best money can buy!

    men live with trade; with reason, not force — as final arbiter.

    ‘it is the best product that wins’ — the best performance, man of best judgement and the highest ability. the degree of a mans productiveness is the degree of his reward.

    the more productive i am; the more reward i have.

    money is a tool. it will take you wherever i want; but will not replace me as the driver. i need to drive my money like a car.

    money will give you the means of the satisfaction of my desires; but will not provide me with desires.

    —

    money will not purchase happiness for the man who has no concept of what he wants; money will not give him a code of values.

    wha do i value in life?

    what is my purpose in life?

    money will not buy intelligence for the fool, or admiration for the coward, or respect for the incompetent.

    —

    money is my means of survival; to purchase food, coffee, shelter.

    i cannot get more money than my ability deserves.

    dont lower my standards for myself.

    do work that brings me joy.

    having virtue will lead to money. money will not give me virtue.

    —

    money is the creation of the best power within you.

    know that i deserve money.

    earn money respectfully.

    run from men who say money is evil

    money demands highest virtues; either to make it, or to keep it.

    i need to have courage, self esteem, and pride!!!

    have a moral sense of their right to my own money.

    —

    money is the barometer of a society’s virtue

    —

    only fortune from work!

    —

    real maker of wealth; greatest worker!

    highest type of human being- the self-made man; the american industrialist.

    american: to make money; value.

    dont see money or wealth as a static quantity— to be seized; begged, inherited, shared, looted, or obtained as favor.

    CREATE WEALTH! CREATE VALUE

    american were first to realize: wealth has to be created

    ‘to make money’ holds the essence of human morality.

    —

    ‘if you can refute a single sentence i uttered; i shall hear it gratefully’

    ‘i dont feel that you’re right; so i know that you’re wrong’

    ‘i feel it; i dont go by my head, but my heart.’

    how can you waste your life?

    Don’t waste your life

    —

    how can you waste a mind like yours?

    why dont you practice what you preach?

    —

    dont refuse to recognize reality

    only evil: refusal to think.

    —

    EVERGREEN

    —

    dont ignore your own desires ***

    what are my desires in life?

    dont sacrifice my desires; examine their cause— there is a limit to how much i should have to bear.

    —

    are you boasting? you bet i am!

    look of a man of action.

    —

    be proud of my success.

    deliberate destruction?

    —

    dont read books; just do.

    —

    wisdom: knowing what to remember; and when to forget.

    consistency: follow my gut.

    foolishness of consistency — dont compromise.

    —

    what is a principle?

    animals can smell fear.

    be practical ; always put my self-interest above all else!

    —

    Freedom: Just blog on wordpress (open source)

    sit leaning back in chair; feet on desk, posture of nobility.

    pose of a young crusader

    YOUNG CRUSADER

    BE A CRUSADER

    —

    ‘im discovering a new continent’

    what kind of ambition did i have when i was 20 years old?

    deliverance ?

    —

    dont feel like i have a burden of mankind.

    name what i live by.

    dont allow myself to destroy myself.

    —

    what is the reward for my work? happiness.

    right or wrong?

    hold to the purpose of my life!!!

    —

    make things in order to make money?

    why choose the hardest way to make money?

    exchange my best effort for the best effort of others.

    bring out the best in others?

    —

    help others fulfill your personal maximum

    —

    how can i get the fruit of my labor; to make life easier for myself?

    how to use fruit of my labor; use my money, to have less stress and anxiety and frustration in life?

    how can i use my money; to make myself more creative?

    rouse myself to purposeful hustle!

    use my genius for benefit.

    i am a producer; not a consumer.

    —

    ‘the sanction of the victim’?

    submit to the hardships of nature; to conquer it, to place it in the service of my joy and comfort.

    be cheered for my virtues!

    im hated not for my mistakes; but my achievements.

    —

    why others call me selfish; for having the courage to act on my own judgement? bear the sole responsibility for my own life.

    I’ve been called arrogant for having an independent mind?

    im cruel— for following my integrity?

    im anti-social; to pursue the vision that made me venture upon undiscovered roads?

    —

    im ruthless for strength, self-discipline for the drive of my purpose?

    im greedy— for the magnificence of my power to create wealth?

    —

    I’ve expended inconceivable flow of energy!

    I’ve created abundance for others.

    —

    ’the worst guilt is to accept an undeserved guilt’ — i dont deserve any guilt

    dont feel any guilt ***

    —

    i follow the code of life.

    what is my ultimate purpose?

    —

    ”if you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater his effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders-what would you tell him to do?”
    “I . . . don’t know. What . . . could he do? What would you tell him?”
    “To shrug.”

    —

    what is the nature of my burden?

    —

    Upload unlisted videos; to purchase link?

    allow people to follow

    —

    the day of the hero is not past!

    her only sense of honor; weapon of enforcement

    dont let people use bullshit ‘honor’ and ‘family’ as blackmail or weapon against me!

    dont let people use guilt as a weapon against me ***

    —

    feel no guilt; no shame; no regret; no dishonor.

    feel no concern for the verdict of others on me; lose respect for the judgement of others (false)

    no pity.

    the dishonest will escape unhurt.

    dont let others use my virtue as an instrument of torture to myself!

    fuck bringing ‘disgrace’ unto family; etc.

    —

    ‘by what right; what code?’ — what standard?

    create my own moral virtue.

    —

    for a while; stop reading philosophy of others— follow my own gut.

    —

    have no pity for dad.

    no prey on conscience.

    i dont have pity;

    i am selfish ***

    —

    you have freedom of speech; but not in my house ***

    you have a right to your own ideas; at your own expense; not at my own.

    i dont tolerate differences of opinion; when im paying the bills.

    ‘im not your slave’ — am i yours?

    —

    dont let others get food unearned.

    you’re an object of charity whose exhausted his credit long ago.

    i havent the slightest interest in you; your fate, or your future.

    i havent any reason whatever for wishing to feed you.

    be grateful for your existence and life on earth; dont waste it!!!

    —

    Thanksgiving; holiday by productive people, celebrate the success of my work!

    people come to see the inventor!

    gray suit — suit had an expensive simplicity — not flaunted.

    be civilized.

    admiration and curiosity — defiance

    self-confident wealth!

    —

    ‘i do not recognize this court’s right to try me’

    dont recognize the right of anyone to judge me.

    only i can judge me.

    i will not play the part of defending myself; where no defense is possible.

    illusion of tribunal of justice.

    highest principle is public good — should it be?

    —

    who is the public; and what does it hold as good?

    AMERICA IS GREAT

    i hold my own interests above the interests of the public.

    society of cannibal?

    —

    i dont throw myself at the mercy of nobody.

    freedom to make money

    ‘i work for nothing but my own profit; i earn it’

    —

    i work for nothing but my own profit; sell a profit and people are able to buy it.

    sell ebook for $50, $100, $300?

    sell online workshop for $300, $500, $1000?

    —

    month-long online workshop for $1,000 — 4 assignments, week; 1:1 hour talk with me?

    dont need testimonials.

    —

    i am rich and proud of every penny i own.

    i made my own money by my own effort; in free exchange, and through voluntary consent.

    —

    people voluntarily buy my product.

    dont pay my worker more than their services are worth to me.

    dont sell my product for less than my customers are willing to pay me ***

    dont sell things at loss.

    follow my own standards; earn my own living.

    refuse to accept guilt as the fact of my own existence.

    refuse to feel guilty that my work is of greater value than the work of my neighbors.

    dont apologize for my superior ability.

    success; i refuse to apologize for my money.

    —

    i do not seek the good of others as a sanction for my right to exist.

    look of admiration and hope

    How to Hope

    first sign of emotion.

    what is sacrifice?

    “I do not co-operate at the point of a gun.”

    dont see my highest moments as a sin.

    dont betray the best within me.

    ill never be tempted to quit **

    the right always works and always wins.

    know what is right.

    —

    disregard if others resent me ***

    disregard indignation

    dont care if i give ammunition to the enemy.

    —

    seek to EXPRESS my value

    dont feel guilty about making money **

    you’re incapable of self-contempt

    —

    dont need to defend myself, just say it.

    shape matter to the purpose of my mind ***

    what kind of idealist can i be?

    pleasure seeking; why the more i get, the less i feel? dont chase women.

    camouflage — be hidden.

    —

    make my blog more poppy— more click baity for the better good?

    —

    CHAPTER VI
    MIRACLE METAL

    “But can we get away with it?” asked Wesley Mouch. His voice was high with anger and thin with fear.
    Nobody answered him. James Taggart sat on the edge of an armchair, not moving, looking up at him from under his forehead, Orren Boyle gave a vicious tap against an ashtray, shaking the ash off his cigar. Dr.
    Floyd Ferris smiled. Mr. Weatherby folded his lips and hands. Fred Kinnan, head of the Amalgamated Labor of America, stopped pacing the office, sat down on the window sill and crossed his arms. Eugene Lawson, who had sat hunched downward, absent-mindedly rearranging a display of flowers on a low glass table, raised his torso resentfully and glanced up. Mouch sat at his desk, with his fist on a sheet of paper.
    It was Eugene Lawson who answered. “That’s not, it seems to me, the way to put it. We must not let vulgar difficulties obstruct our feeling that it’s a noble plan motivated solely by the public welfare. It’s for the good of the people. The people need it. Need comes first, so we don’t have to consider anything else.”
    Nobody objected or picked it up; they looked as if Lawson had merely made it harder to continue the discussion. But a small man who sat unobtrusively in the best armchair of the room, apart from the others, content to be ignored and fully aware that none of them could be unconscious of his presence, glanced at Lawson, then at Mouch, and said with brisk cheerfulness, “That’s the line, Wesley. Tone it down and dress it up and get your press boys to chant it-and you won’t have to worry.”
    “Yes, Mr. Thompson,” said Mouch glumly.
    Mr. Thompson, the Head of the State, was a man who possessed the quality of never being noticed. In any group of three, his person became indistinguishable, and when seen alone it seemed to evoke a group of its own, composed of the countless persons he resembled.
    The country had no clear image of what he looked like: his photographs had appeared on the covers of magazines as frequently as those of his predecessors in office, but people could never be quite certain which photographs were his and which were pictures of “a mail clerk”
    or “a white-collar worker,” accompanying articles about the daily life of the undifferentiated-except that Mr. Thompson’s collars were usually wilted. He had broad shoulders and a slight body. He had stringy hair, a wide mouth and an elastic age range that made him look like a harassed forty or an unusually vigorous sixty. Holding enormous official powers, he schemed ceaselessly to expand them, because it was expected of him by those who had pushed him into office. He had the cunning of the unintelligent and the frantic energy of the lazy. The sole secret of his rise in life was the fact that he was a product of chance and knew it and aspired to nothing else.
    “It’s obvious that measures have to be taken. Drastic measures,”
    said James Taggart, speaking, not to Mr. Thompson, but to Wesley Mouch. “We can’t let things go the way they’re going much longer.”
    His voice was belligerent and shaky.
    “Take it easy, Jim,” said Orren Boyle.
    “Something’s got to be done and done fast!”
    “Don’t look at me,” snapped Wesley Mouch. “I can’t help it. I can’t help it if people refuse to co-operate. I’m tied. I need wider powers.”
    Mouch had summoned them all to Washington, as his friends and personal advisers, for a private, unofficial conference on the national crisis. But, watching him, they were unable to decide whether his manner was overbearing or whining, whether he was threatening them or pleading for their help.
    “Fact is,” said Mr. Weatherby primly, in a statistical tone of voice, “that in the twelve-month period ending on the first of this year, the rate of business failures has doubled, as compared with the preceding twelve-month period. Since the first of this year, it has trebled.”
    “Be sure they think it’s their own fault,” said Dr. Ferris casually.
    “Huh?” said Wesley Mouch, his eyes darting to Ferris.
    “Whatever you do, don’t apologize,” said Dr, Ferris. “Make them feel guilty.”
    “I’m not apologizing!” snapped Mouch. “I’m not to blame. I need wider powers.”
    “But it is their own fault,” said Eugene Lawson, turning aggressively to Dr. Ferris. “It’s their lack of social spirit. They refuse to recognize that production is not a private choice, but a public duty. They have no right to fail, no matter what conditions happen to come up. They’ve got to go on producing. It’s a social imperative. A man’s work is not a personal matter, it’s a social matter. There’s no such thing as a personal matter-or a personal life. That’s what we’ve got to force them to learn.”
    “Gene Lawson knows what I’m talking about,” said Dr. Ferris, with a slight smile, “even though he hasn’t the faintest idea that he does.”
    “What do you think you mean?” asked Lawson, his voice rising.
    “Skip it,” ordered Wesley Mouch.
    “I don’t care what you decide to do, Wesley,” said Mr. Thompson, “and I don’t care if the businessmen squawk about it. Just be sure you’ve got the press with you. Be damn sure about that.”
    “I’ve got ’em,” said Mouch.
    “One editor who’d open his trap at the wrong time could do us more harm than ten disgruntled millionaires.”
    “That’s true, Mr. Thompson,” said Dr. Ferris. “But can you name one editor who knows it?”
    “Guess not,” said Mr. Thompson; he sounded pleased.
    “Whatever type of men we’re counting on and planning for,” said Dr. Ferris, “there’s a certain old-fashioned quotation which we may safely forget: the one about counting on the wise and the honest. We don’t have to consider them. They’re out of date.”
    James Taggart glanced at the window. There were patches of blue in the sky above the spacious streets of Washington, the faint blue of mid-April, and a few beams breaking through the clouds, A monument stood shining in the distance, hit by a ray of sun: it was a tall, white obelisk, erected to the memory of the man Dr. Ferris was quoting, the man in whose honor this city had been named. James Taggart looked away.
    “I don’t like the professor’s remarks,” said Lawson loudly and sullenly.
    “Keep still,” said Wesley Mouch. “Dr. Ferris is not talking theory, but practice.”
    “Well, if you want to talk practice,” said Fred Kinnan, “then let me tell you that we can’t worry about businessmen at a time like this.
    What we’ve got to think about is jobs. More jobs for the people. In my unions, every man who’s working is feeding five who aren’t, not counting his own pack of starving relatives. If you want my advice-
    oh, I know you won’t go for it, but it’s just a thought-issue a directive making it compulsory to add, say, one-third more men to every payroll in the country.”
    “Good God!” yelled Taggart. “Are you crazy? We can barely meet our payrolls as it is! There’s not enough work for the men we’ve got now! One-third more? We wouldn’t have any use for them whatever!”
    “Who cares whether you’d have any use for them?” said Fred Kinnan. “They need jobs. That’s what comes first-need-doesn’t it?-
    not your profits.”
    “It’s not a question of profits!” yelled Taggart hastily. “I haven’t said anything about profits. I haven’t given you any grounds to insult me.
    It’s just a question of where in hell we’d get the money to pay your men-when half our trains are running empty and there’s not enough freight to fill a trolley car.” His voice slowed down suddenly to a tone of cautious thoughtfulness: “However, we do understand the plight of the working men, and-it’s just a thought -we could, perhaps, take on a certain extra number, if we were permitted to double our freight rates, which-”
    “Have you lost your mind?” yelled Orren Boyle. “I’m going broke on the rates you’re charging now, I shudder every time a damn boxcar pulls in or out of the mills, they’re bleeding me to death, I can’t afford it-and you want to double it?”
    “It is not essential whether you can afford it or not,” said Taggart coldly, “You have to be prepared to make some sacrifices. The public needs railroads. Need conies first-above your profits.”
    “What profits?” yelled Orren Boyle. “When did I ever make any profits? Nobody can accuse me of running a profit-making business!
    Just look at my balance sheet-and then look at the books of a certain competitor of mine, who’s got all the customers, all the raw materials, all the technical advantages and a monopoly on secret formulas-then tell me who’s the profiteer! . . . But, of course, the public does need railroads, and perhaps I could manage to absorb a certain raise in rates, if I were to get-it’s just a thought-if I were to get a subsidy to carry me over the next year or two, until I catch my stride and-”
    “What? Again?” yelled Mr. Weatherby, losing his primness. “How many loans have you got from us and how many extensions, suspensions and moratoriums? You haven’t repaid a penny-and with all of you boys going broke and the tax receipts crashing, where do you expect us to get the money to hand you a subsidy?”
    “There are people who aren’t broke,” said Boyle slowly. “You boys have no excuse for permitting all that need and misery to spread through the country-so long as there are people who aren’t broke.”
    “I can’t help it!” yelled Wesley Mouch. “I can’t do anything about it!
    I need wider powers!”
    They could not tell what had prompted Mr. Thompson to attend this particular conference. He had said little, but had listened with interest. It seemed as if there were something which he had wanted to learn, and now he looked as if he had learned it. He stood up and smiled cheerfully.
    “Go ahead, Wesley,” he said. “Go ahead with Number 10-289. You won’t have any trouble at all,”
    They had all risen to their feet, in gloomily reluctant deference. Wesley Mouch glanced down at his sheet of paper, then said in a petulant tone of voice, “If you want me to go ahead, you’ll have to declare a state of total emergency.”
    “I’ll declare it any time you’re ready.”
    “There are certain difficulties, which-”
    “I’ll leave it up to you. Work it out any way you wish. It’s your job.
    Let me see the rough draft, tomorrow or next day, but don’t bother me about the details. I’ve got a speech to make on the radio in half an hour.”
    “The chief difficulty is that I’m not sure whether the law actually grants us the power to put into effect certain provisions of Directive Number 10-289.1 fear they might be open to challenge.”
    “Oh hell, we’ve passed so many emergency laws that if you hunt through them, you’re sure to dig up something that will cover it.”
    Mr. Thompson turned to the others with a smile of good fellowship.
    “I’ll leave you boys to iron out the wrinkles,” he said. “I appreciate your coming to Washington to help us out. Glad to have seen you.”
    They waited until the door closed after him, then resumed their seats; they did not look at one another.
    They had not heard the text of Directive No. 10-289, but they knew what it would contain. They had known it for a long time, in that special manner which consisted of keeping secrets from oneself and leaving knowledge untranslated into words. And, by the same method, they now wished it were possible for them not to hear the words of the directive. It was to avoid moments such as this that all the complex twistings of their minds had been devised, They wished the directive to go into effect. They wished it could be put into effect without words, so that they would not have to know that what they were doing was what it was. Nobody had ever announced that Directive No. 10-289 was the final goal of his efforts.
    Yet, for generations past, men had worked to make it possible, and for months past, every provision of it had been prepared for by countless speeches, articles, sermons, editorials-by purposeful voices that screamed with anger if anyone named their purpose.
    ‘The picture now is this,” said Wesley Mouch. “The economic condition of the country was better the year before last than it was last year, and last year it was better than it is at present. It’s obvious that we would not be able to survive another year of the same progression.
    Therefore, our sole objective must now be to hold the line. To stand still in order to catch our stride. To achieve total stability. Freedom has been given a chance and has failed. Therefore, more stringent controls are necessary. Since men are unable and unwilling to solve their problems voluntarily, they must be forced to do it.” He paused, picked up the sheet of paper, then added in a less formal tone of voice, “Hell, what it comes down to is that we can manage to exist as and where we are, but we can’t afford to move! So we’ve got to stand still. We’ve got to stand still. We’ve got to make those bastards stand still!”
    His head drawn into his shoulders, he was looking at them with the anger of a man declaring that the country’s troubles were a personal affront to him. So many men seeking favors had been afraid of him that he now acted as if his anger were a solution to everything, as if his anger were omnipotent, as if all he had to do was to get angry.
    Yet, facing him, the men who sat in a silent semicircle before his desk were uncertain whether the presence of fear in the room was their own emotion or whether the hunched figure behind the desk generated the panic of a cornered rat.
    Wesley Mouch had a long, square face and a flat-topped skull, made more so by a brush haircut. His lower lip was a petulant bulb and the pale, brownish pupils of his eyes looked like the yolks of eggs smeared under the not fully translucent whites. His facial muscles moved abruptly, and the movement vanished, having conveyed no expression.
    No one had ever seen him smile.
    Wesley Mouch came from a family that had known neither poverty nor wealth nor distinction for many generations; it had clung, however, to a tradition of its own: that of being college-bred and, therefore, of despising men who were in business. The family’s diplomas had always hung on the wall in the manner of a reproach to the world, because the diplomas had not automatically produced the material equivalents of their attested spiritual value. Among the family’s numerous relatives, there was one rich uncle. He had married his money and, in his widowed old age, he had picked Wesley as his favorite from among his many nephews and nieces, because Wesley was the least distinguished of the lot and therefore, thought Uncle Julius, the safest. Uncle Julius did not care for people who were brilliant. He did not care for the trouble of managing his money, either; so he turned the job over to Wesley. By the time Wesley graduated from college, there was no money left to manage. Uncle Julius blamed it on Wesley’s cunning and cried that Wesley was an unscrupulous schemer.
    But there had been no scheme about it; Wesley could not have said just where the money had gone. In high school, Wesley Mouch had been one of the worst students and had passionately envied those who were the best. College taught him that he did not have to envy them at all. After graduation, he took a job in the advertising department of a company that manufactured a bogus corn-cure. The cure sold well and he rose to be the head of his department. He left it to take charge of the advertising of a hair-restorer, then of a patented brassiere, then of a new soap, then of a soft drink-and then he became advertising vice-president of an automobile concern. He tried to sell automobiles as if they were a bogus corn-cure. They did not sell.
    He blamed it on the insufficiency of his advertising budget. It was the president of the automobile concern who recommended him to Rearden. It was Rearden who introduced him to Washington-Rearden, who knew no standard by which to judge the activities of his Washington man. It was James Taggart who gave him a start in the Bureau of Economic Planning and National Resources-in exchange for double crossing Rearden in order to help Orren Boyle in exchange for destroying Dan Conway. From then on, people helped Wesley Mouch to advance, for the same reason as that which had prompted Uncle Julius: they were people who believed that mediocrity was safe. The men who now sat in front of his desk had been taught that the law of causality was a superstition and that one had to deal with the situation of the moment without considering its cause. By the situation of the moment, they had concluded that Wesley Mouch was a man of superlative skill and cunning, since millions aspired to power, but he was the one who had achieved it. It was not within their method of thinking to know that Wesley Mouch was the zero at the meeting point of forces unleashed in destruction against one another.
    “This is just a rough draft of Directive Number 10-289,” said Wesley Mouch, “which Gene, Clem and I have dashed off just to give you the general idea. We want to hear your opinions, suggestions and so forth-you being the representatives of labor, industry, transportation and the professions.”
    Fred Kinnan got off the window sill and sat down on the arm of a chair. Orren Boyle spit out the butt of his cigar. James Taggart looked down at his own hands. Dr. Ferris was the only one who seemed to be at ease.
    “In the name of the general welfare,” read Wesley Mouch, “to protect the people’s security, to achieve full equality and total stability, it is decreed for the duration of the national emergency that-
    “Point One. All workers, wage earners and employees of any kind whatsoever shall henceforth be attached to their jobs and shall not leave nor be dismissed nor change employment, under penalty of a term in jail. The penalty shall be determined by the Unification Board, such Board to be appointed by the Bureau of Economic Planning and National Resources. All persons reaching the age of twenty-one shall report to the Unification Board, which shall assign them to where, in its opinion, their services will best serve the interests of the nation.
    “Point Two. All industrial, commercial, manufacturing and business establishments of any nature whatsoever shall henceforth remain in operation, and the owners of such establishments shall not quit nor leave nor retire, nor close, sell or transfer their business, under penalty of the nationalization of their establishment and of any and all of their property.
    “Point Three. All patents and copyrights, pertaining to any devices, inventions, formulas, processes and works of any nature whatsoever, shall be turned over to the nation as a patriotic emergency gift by means of Gift Certificates to be signed voluntarily by the owners of all such patents and copyrights. The Unification Board shall then license the use of such patents and copyrights to all applicants, equally and without discrimination, for the purpose of eliminating monopolistic practices, discarding obsolete products and making the best available to the whole nation. No trademarks, brand names or copyrighted titles shall be used. Every formerly patented product shall be known by a new name and sold by all manufacturers under the same name, such name to be selected by the Unification Board. All private trademarks and brand names are hereby abolished.
    “Point Four. No new devices, inventions, products, or goods of any nature whatsoever, not now on the market, shall be produced, invented, manufactured or sold after the date of this directive. The Office of Patents and Copyrights is hereby suspended.
    “Point Five. Every establishment, concern, corporation or person engaged in production of any nature whatsoever shall henceforth produce the same amount of goods per year as it, they or he produced during the Basic Year, no more and no less. The year to be known as the Basic or Yardstick Year is to be the year ending on the date of this directive. Over or under production shall be fined, such fines to be determined by the Unification Board.
    “Point Six. Every person of any age, sex, class or income, shall henceforth spend the same amount of money on the purchase of goods per year as he or she spent during the Basic Year, no more and no less.
    Over or under purchasing shall be fined, such fines to be determined by the Unification Board.
    “Point Seven. All wages, prices, salaries, dividends, profits, interest rates and forms of income of any nature whatsoever, shall be frozen at their present figures, as of the date of this directive.
    “Point Eight. All cases arising from and rules not specifically provided for in this directive, shall be settled and determined by the Unification Board, whose decisions will be final.”
    There was, even within the four men who had listened, a remnant of human dignity, which made them sit still and feel sick for the length of one minute.
    James Taggart spoke first. His voice was low, but it had the trembling intensity of an involuntary scream: “Well, why not? Why should they have it, if we don’t? Why should they stand above us? If we are to perish, let’s make sure that we all perish together. Let’s make sure that we leave them no chance to survive!”
    “That’s a damn funny thing to say about a very practical plan that will benefit everybody,” said Orren Boyle shrilly, looking at Taggart in frightened astonishment.
    Dr. Ferris chuckled.
    Taggart’s eyes seemed to focus, and he said, his voice louder, “Yes, of course. It’s a very practical plan. It’s necessary, practical and just.
    It will solve everybody’s problems. It will give everybody a chance to feel safe. A chance to rest.”
    “It will give security to the people,” said Eugene Lawson, his mouth slithering into a smile. “Security-that’s what the people want. If they want it, why shouldn’t they have it? Just because a handful of rich will object?”
    “It’s not the rich who’ll object,” said Dr. Ferris lazily. “The rich drool for security more than any other sort of animal-haven’t you discovered that yet?”
    “Well, who’ll object?” snapped Lawson.
    Dr. Ferris smiled pointedly, and did not answer.
    Lawson looked away. “To hell with them! Why should we worry about them? We’ve got to run the world for the sake of the little people. It’s intelligence that’s caused all the troubles of humanity. Man’s mind is the root of all evil. This is the day of the heart. It’s the weak, the meek, the sick and the humble that must be the only objects of our concern,” His lower Up was twisting in soft, lecherous motions.
    “Those who’re big are here to serve those who aren’t. If they refuse to do their moral duty, we’ve got to force them. There once was an Age of Reason, but we’ve progressed beyond it. This is the Age of Love.”
    “Shut up!” screamed James Taggart.
    They all stared at him. “For Christ’s sake, Jim, what’s the matter?”
    said Orren Boyle, shaking.
    “Nothing,” said Taggart, “nothing . . . Wesley, keep him still, will you?”
    Mouch said uncomfortably, “But I fail to see-”
    “Just keep him still. We don’t have to listen to him, do we?”
    “Why, no, but-”
    “Then let’s go on.”
    “What is this?” demanded Lawson, “I resent it. I most emphatically-” But he saw no support in the faces around him and stopped, his mouth sagging into an expression of pouting hatred.
    “Let’s go on,” said Taggart feverishly.
    “What’s the matter with you?” asked Orren Boyle, trying not to know what was the matter with himself and why he felt frightened.
    “Genius is a superstition, Jim,” said Dr. Ferris slowly, with an odd kind of emphasis, as if knowing that he was naming the unnamed in all their minds. “There’s no such thing as the intellect. A man’s brain is a social product. A sum of influences that he’s picked up from those around him. Nobody invents anything, he merely reflects what’s floating in the social atmosphere. A genius is an intellectual scavenger and a greedy hoarder of the ideas which rightfully belong to society, from which he stole them. All thought is theft. If we do away with private fortunes, we’ll have a fairer distribution of wealth. If we do away with the genius, we’ll have a faker distribution of ideas.”
    “Are we here to talk business or are we here to kid one another?”
    asked Fred Kinnan.
    They turned to him. He was a muscular man with large features, but his face had the astonishing property of finely drawn lines that raised the corners of his mouth into the permanent hint of a wise, sardonic grin. He sat on the arm of the chair, hands in pockets, looking at Mouch with the smiling glance of a hardened policeman at a shoplifter.
    “All I’ve got to say is that you’d better staff that Unification Board with my men,” he said. “Better make sure of it, brother-or I’ll blast your Point One to hell.”
    “I intend, of course, to have a representative of labor on that Board,” said Mouch dryly, “as well as a representative of industry, of the professions and of every cross-section of-”
    “No cross-sections,” said Fred Kinnan evenly. “Just representatives of labor. Period.”
    “What the hell!” yelled Orren Boyle. “That’s stacking the cards, isn’t it?”
    “Sure,” said Fred Kinnan.
    “But that will give you a stranglehold on every business in the country!”
    “What do you think I’m after?”
    “That’s unfair!” yelled Boyle. “I won’t stand for it! You have no right! You-”
    “Right?” said Kinnan innocently. “Are we talking about rights?”
    “But, I mean, after all, there are certain fundamental property rights which-”
    “Listen, pal, you want Point Three, don’t you?”
    “Well, I-”
    “Then you’d better keep your trap shut about property rights from now on. Keep it shut tight.”
    “Mr. Kinnan,” said Dr. Ferris, “you must not make the old fashioned mistake of drawing wide generalizations. Our policy has to be flexible. There are no absolute principles which-”
    “Save it for Jim Taggart, Doc,” said Fred Kinnan. “I know what I’m talking about. That’s because I never went to college.”
    “I object,” said Boyle, “to your dictatorial method of-”
    Kinnan turned his back on him and said, “Listen, Wesley, my boys won’t like Point One. If I get to run things, I’ll make them swallow it. If not, not. Just make up your mind,”
    “Well-” said Mouch, and stopped.
    “For Christ’s sake, Wesley, what about us?” yelled Taggart.
    “You’ll come to me,” said Kinnan, “when you’ll need a deal to fix the Board. But I’ll run that Board. Me and Wesley.”
    “Do you think the country will stand for it?” yelled Taggart.
    “Stop kidding yourself,” said Kinnan. “The country? If there aren’t any principles any more-and I guess the doc is right, because there sure aren’t-if there aren’t any rules to this game and it’s only a question of who robs whom-then I’ve got more votes than the bunch of you, there are more workers than employers, and don’t you forget it, boys!”
    “That’s a funny attitude to take,” said Taggart haughtily, “about a measure which, after all, is not designed for the selfish benefit of workers or employers, but for the general welfare of the public.”
    “Okay,” said Kinnan amiably, “let’s talk your lingo. Who is the public? If you go by quality-then it ain’t you, Jim, and it ain’t Orrie Boyle. If you go by quantity-then it sure is me, because quantity is what I’ve got behind me.” His smile disappeared, and with a sudden, bitter look of weariness he added, “Only I’m not going to say that I’m working for the welfare of my public, because I know I’m not. I know that I’m delivering the poor bastards into slavery, and that’s all there is to it. And they know it, too. But they know that I’ll have to throw them a crumb once in a while, if I want to keep my racket, while with the rest of you they wouldn’t have a chance in hell. So that’s why, if they’ve got to be under a whip, they’d rather I held it, not you-you drooling, tear-jerking, mealy-mouthed bastards of the public welfare!
    Do you think that outside of your college-bred pansies there’s one village idiot whom you’re fooling? I’m a racketeer-but I know it and my boys know it, and they know that I’ll pay off. Not out of the kindness of my heart, either, and not a cent more than I can get away with, but at least they can count on that much. Sure, it makes me sick sometimes, it makes me sick right now, but it’s not me who’s built this kind of world-you did-so I’m playing the game as you’ve set it up and I’m going to play it for as long as it lasts-which isn’t going to be long for any of us!”
    He stood up. No one answered him. He let his eyes move slowly from face to face and stop on Wesley Mouch.
    “Do I get the Board, Wesley?” he asked casually.
    “The selection of the specific personnel is only a technical detail,”
    said Mouch pleasantly. “Suppose we discuss it later, you and I?”
    Everybody in the room knew that this meant the answer Yes.
    “Okay, pal,” said Kinnan. He went back to the window, sat down on the sill and lighted a cigarette.
    For some unadmitted reason, the others were looking at Dr. Ferris, as if seeking guidance.
    “Don’t be disturbed by oratory,” said Dr. Ferris smoothly. “Mr.
    Kinnan is a fine speaker, but he has no sense of practical reality. He is unable to think dialectically.”
    There was another silence, then James Taggart spoke up suddenly.
    “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. He’ll have to hold things still. Everything will have to remain as it is. Just as it is. Nobody will be permitted to change anything. Except-” He turned sharply to Wesley Mouch.
    “Wesley, under Point Four, we’ll have to close all research departments, experimental laboratories, scientific foundations and all the rest of the institutions of that kind. They’ll have to be forbidden.”
    “Yes, that’s right,” said Mouch. “I hadn’t thought of that. We’ll have to stick in a couple of lines about that.” He hunted around for a pencil and made a few scrawls on the margin of his paper.
    “It will end wasteful competition,” said James Taggart. “We’ll stop scrambling to beat one another to the untried and the unknown. We won’t have to worry about new inventions upsetting the market. We won’t have to pour money down the drain in useless experiments just to keep up with over ambitious competitors.”
    “Yes,” said Orren Boyle. “Nobody should be allowed to waste money on the new until everybody has plenty of the old. Close all those damn research laboratories-and the sooner, the better.”
    “Yes,” said Wesley Mouch. “We’ll close them. All of them.”
    “The State Science Institute, too?” asked Fred Kinnan.
    “Oh, no!” said Mouch. “That’s different. That’s government. Besides, it’s a non-profit institution. And it will be sufficient to take care of all scientific progress.”
    “Quite sufficient,” said Dr. Ferris.
    “And what will become of all the engineers, professors and such, when you close all those laboratories?” asked Fred Kinnan. “What are they going to do for a living, with all the other jobs and businesses frozen?”
    “Oh,” said Wesley Mouch. He scratched his head. He turned to Mr.
    Weatherby. “Do we put them on relief, Clem?”
    “No,” said Mr. Weatherby. “What for? There’s not enough of them to raise a squawk. Not enough to matter.”
    “I suppose,” said Mouch, turning to Dr. Ferris, “that you’ll be able to absorb some of them, Floyd?”
    “Some,” said Dr. Ferris slowly, as if relishing every syllable of his answer. “Those who prove co-operative.”
    “What about the rest?” asked Fred Kinnan.
    “They’ll have to wait till the Unification Board finds some use for them,” said Wesley Mouch.
    “What will they eat while they’re waiting?”
    Mouch shrugged. “There’s got to be some victims in times of national emergency. It can’t be helped.”
    “We have the right to do it!” cried Taggart suddenly, in defiance to the stillness of the room. “We need it. We need it, don’t we?” There was no answer. “We have the right to protect our livelihood!” Nobody opposed him, but he went on with a shrill, pleading insistence. “We’ll be safe for the first time in centuries. Everybody will know his place and job, and everybody else’s place and job-and we won’t be at the mercy of every stray crank with a new idea. Nobody will push us out of business or steal our markets or undersell us or make us obsolete.
    Nobody will come to us offering some damn new gadget and putting us on the spot to decide whether we’ll lose our shirt if we buy it, or whether we’ll lose our shirt if we don’t but somebody else does! We won’t have to decide. Nobody will be permitted to decide anything.
    It will be decided once and for all.” His glance moved pleadingly from face to face. “There’s been enough invented already-enough for everybody’s comfort-why should they be allowed to go on inventing?
    Why should we permit them to blast the ground from under our feet every few steps? Why should we be kept on the go in eternal uncertainty? Just because of a few restless, ambitious adventurers? Should we sacrifice the contentment of the whole of mankind to the greed of a few non-conformists? We don’t need them. We don’t need them at all.
    I wish we’d get rid of that hero worship! Heroes? They’ve done nothing but harm, all through history. They’ve kept mankind running a wild race, with no breathing spell, no rest, no ease, no security. Running to catch up with them . . . always, without end . . . Just as -we catch up, they’re years ahead. . . . They leave us no chance . . . They’ve never left us a chance. . . .” His eyes were moving restlessly; he glanced at the window, but looked hastily away: he did not want to see the white obelisk in the distance. “We’re through with them. We’ve won. This is our age. Our world. We’re going to have security-for the first time in centuries-for the first time since the beginning of the industrial revolution!”
    “Well, this, I guess,” said Fred Kinnan, “is the anti-industrial revolution.”
    “That’s a damn funny thing for you to say!” snapped Wesley Mouch. “We can’t be permitted to say that to the public.”
    “Don’t worry, brother. I won’t say it to the public.”
    “It’s a total fallacy,” said Dr. Ferris. “It’s a statement prompted by ignorance. Every expert has conceded long ago that a planned economy achieves the maximum of productive efficiency and that centralization leads to super-industrialization.”
    “Centralization destroys the blight of monopoly,” said Boyle.
    “How’s that again?” drawled Kinnan.
    Boyle did not catch the tone of mockery, and answered earnestly, “It destroys the blight of monopoly. It leads to the democratization of industry. It makes everything available to everybody. Now, for instance, at a time like this, when there’s such a desperate shortage of iron ore, is there any sense in my wasting money, labor and national resources on making old-fashioned steel, when there exists a much better metal that I could be making? A metal that everybody wants, but nobody can get. Now is that good economics or sound social efficiency or democratic justice? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to manufacture that metal and why shouldn’t the people get it when they need it?
    Just because of the private monopoly of one selfish individual? Should we sacrifice our rights to his personal interests?”
    “Skip it, brother,” said Fred Kinnan. “I’ve read it all in the same newspapers you did.”
    “I don’t like your attitude,” said Boyle, in a sudden tone of righteousness, with a look which, in a barroom, would have signified a prelude to a fist fight. He sat up straight, buttressed by the columns of paragraphs on yellow-tinged paper, which he was seeing in his mind: “At a time of crucial public need, are we to waste social effort on the manufacture of obsolete products? Are we to let the many remain in want while the few withhold from us the better products and methods available? Are we to be stopped by the superstition of patent rights?”
    “Is it not obvious that private industry is unable to cope with the present economic crisis? How long, for instance, are we going to put up with the disgraceful shortage of Rearden Metal? There is a crying public demand for it, which Rearden has failed to supply.”
    “When are we going to put an end to economic injustice and special privileges? Why should Rearden be the only one permitted to manufacture Rearden Metal?”
    “I don’t like your attitude,” said Orren Boyle. “So long as we respect the rights of the workers, we’ll want you to respect the rights of the industrialists.”
    “Which rights of which industrialists?” drawled Kinnan.
    “I’m inclined to think,” said Dr. Ferris hastily, “that Point Two, perhaps, is the most essential one of all at present. We must put an end to that peculiar business of industrialists retiring and vanishing. We must stop them. It’s playing havoc with our entire economy.”
    “Why are they doing it?” asked Taggart nervously. “Where are they all going?”
    “Nobody knows,” said Dr. Ferris. “We’ve been unable to find any information or explanation. But it must be stopped. In times of crisis, economic service to the nation is just as much of a duty as military service. Anyone who abandons it should be regarded as a deserter. I have recommended that we introduce the death penalty for those men, but Wesley wouldn’t agree to it.”
    “Take it easy, boy,” said Fred Kinnan in an odd, slow voice. He sat suddenly and perfectly still, his arms crossed, looking at Ferris in a manner that made it suddenly real to the room that Ferris had proposed murder. “Don’t let me hear you talk about any death penalties in industry.”
    Dr. Ferris shrugged.
    “We don’t have to go to extremes,” said Mouch hastily. “We don’t want to frighten people. We want to have them on our side. Our top problem is, will they . . . will they accept it at all?”
    “They will,” said Dr. Ferris.
    “I’m a little worried,” said Eugene Lawson, “about Points Three and Four. Taking over the patents is fine. Nobody’s going to defend industrialists. But I’m worried about taking over the copyrights. That’s going to antagonize the intellectuals. It’s dangerous. It’s a spiritual issue. Doesn’t Point Four mean that no new books are to be written or published from now on?”
    “Yes,” said Mouch, “it does. But we can’t make an exception for the book-publishing business. It’s an industry like any other. When we say ‘no new products,’ it’s got to mean ‘no new products.’ ”
    “But this is a matter of the spirit,” said Lawson; his voice had a tone, not of rational respect, but of superstitious awe.
    “We’re not interfering with anybody’s spirit. But when you print a book on paper, it becomes a material commodity-and if we grant an exception to one commodity, we won’t be able to hold the others in line and we won’t be able to make anything stick.”
    “Yes, that’s true. But-”
    “Don’t be a chump, Gene,” said Dr. Ferris. “You don’t want some recalcitrant hacks to come out with treatises that will wreck our entire program, do you? If you breathe the word ‘censorship’ now, they’ll all scream bloody murder. They’re not ready for it-as yet. But if you leave the spirit alone and make it a simple material issue-not a matter of ideas, but just a matter of paper, ink and printing presses-
    you accomplish your purpose much more smoothly. You’ll make sure that nothing dangerous gets printed or heard-and nobody is going to fight over a material issue.”
    “Yes, but . . . but I don’t think the writers will like it.”
    “Are you sure?” asked Wesley Mouch, with a glance that was almost a smile, “Don’t forget that under Point Five, the publishers will have to publish as many books as they did in the Basic Year. Since there will be no new ones, they will have to reprint-and the public will have to buy-some of the old ones. There are many very worthy books that have never had a fair chance.”
    “Oh,” said Lawson; he remembered that he had seen Mouch lunching with Balph Eubank two weeks ago. Then he shook his head and frowned. “Still, I’m worried. The intellectuals are our friends. We don’t want to lose them. They can make an awful lot of trouble.”
    “They won’t,” said Fred Kinnan. “Your kind of intellectuals are the first to scream when it’s safe-and the first to shut their traps at the first sign of danger. They spend years spitting at the man who feeds them-and they lick the hand of the man who slaps their drooling faces. Didn’t they deliver every country of Europe, one after another, to committees of goons, just like this one here? Didn’t they scream their heads off to shut out every burglar alarm and to break every padlock open for the goons? Have you heard a peep out of them since? Didn’t they scream that they were the friends of labor? Do you hear them raising their voices about the chain gangs, the slave camps, the fourteen-hour workday and the mortality from scurvy in the People’s States of Europe? No, but you do hear them telling the whip-beaten wretches that starvation is prosperity, that slavery is freedom, that torture chambers arc brother-love and that if the wretches don’t understand it, then it’s their own fault that they suffer, and it’s the mangled corpses in the jail cellars who’re to blame for all their troubles, not the benevolent leaders! Intellectuals? You might have to worry about any other breed of men, but not about the modern intellectuals: they’ll swallow anything. I don’t feel so safe about the lousiest wharf rat in the longshoremen’s union: he’s liable to remember suddenly that he is a man-and then I won’t be able to keep him in line. But the intellectuals? That’s the one thing they’ve forgotten long ago. I guess it’s the one thing that all their education was aimed to make them forget. Do anything you please to the intellectuals. They’ll take it.”
    “For once,” said Dr. Ferns, “I agree with Mr. Kinnan. I agree with his facts, if not with his feelings. You don’t have to worry about the intellectuals, Wesley. Just put a-few of them on the government payroll and send them out to preach precisely the sort of thing Mr.
    Kinnan mentioned: that the blame rests on the victims. Give them moderately comfortable salaries and extremely loud titles-and they’ll forget their copyrights and do a better job for you than whole squads of enforcement officers.”
    “Yes,” said Mouch. “I know.”
    “The danger that I’m worried about will come from a different quarter,” said Dr. Ferris thoughtfully. “You might run into quite a bit of trouble on that ‘voluntary Gift Certificate1 business, Wesley.”
    “I know,” said Mouch glumly. “That’s the point I wanted Thompson to help us out on. But I guess he can’t. We don’t actually have the legal power to seize the patents. Oh, there’s plenty of clauses in dozens of laws that can be stretched to cover it-almost, but not quite. Any tycoon who’d want to make a test case would have a very good chance to beat us. And we have to preserve a semblance of legality-or the populace won’t take it.”
    “Precisely,” said Dr. Ferris. “It’s extremely important to get those patents turned over to us voluntarily. Even if we had a law permitting outright nationalization, it would be much better to get them as a gift, We want to leave to people the illusion that they’re still preserving their private property rights. And most of them will play along. They’ll sign the Gift Certificates. Just raise a lot of noise about its being a patriotic duty and that anyone who refuses is a prince of greed, and they’ll sign. But-” He stopped.
    “I know,” said Mouch; he was growing visibly more nervous. “There will be, I think, a few old-fashioned bastards here and there who’ll refuse to sign-but they won’t be prominent enough to make a noise, nobody will hear about it, their own communities and friends will turn against them for their being selfish, so it won’t give us any trouble.
    We’ll just take the patents over, anyway-and those guys won’t have the nerve or the money to start a test case. But-” He stopped.
    James Taggart leaned back in his chair, watching them; he was beginning to enjoy the conversation.
    “Yes,” said Dr. Ferris, “I’m thinking of it, too. I’m thinking of a certain’ tycoon who is in a position to blast us to pieces. Whether we’ll recover the pieces or not, is hard to tell. God knows what is liable to happen at a hysterical time like the present and in a situation as delicate as this. Anything can throw everything off balance. Blow up the whole works. And if there’s anyone who wants to do it, he does. He does and can. He knows the real issue, he knows the things which must not be said-and he is not afraid to say them. He knows the one dangerous, fatally dangerous weapon. He is our deadliest adversary.”
    “Who?” asked Lawson.
    Dr. Ferris hesitated, shrugged and answered, “The guiltless man.”
    Lawson stared blankly. “What do you mean and whom are you talking about?”
    James Taggart smiled.
    “I mean that there is no way to disarm any man,” said Dr. Ferris, “except through guilt. Through that which he himself has accepted as guilt. If a man has ever stolen a dime, you can impose on him the punishment intended for a bank robber and he will take it. He’ll bear any form of misery, he’ll feel that he deserves no better. If there’s not enough guilt in the world, we must create it. If we teach a man that it’s evil to look at spring flowers and he believes us and then does it -we’ll be able to do whatever we please with him. He won’t defend himself. He won’t feel he’s worth it. He won’t fight. But save us from the man who lives up to his own- standards. Save us from the man of clean conscience. He’s the man who’ll beat us.”
    “Are you talking about Henry Rearden?” asked Taggart, his voice peculiarly clear.
    The one name they had not wanted to pronounce struck them into an instant’s silence.
    “What if I were?” asked Dr. Ferris cautiously.
    “Oh, nothing,” said Taggart. “Only, if you were, I would tell you that I can deliver Henry Rearden. He’ll sign.”
    By the rules of their unspoken language, they all knew-from the tone of his voice-that he was not bluffing.
    “God, Jim! No!” gasped Wesley Mouch.
    “Yes,” said Taggart. “I was stunned, too, when I learned-what I learned. I didn’t expect that. Anything but that.”
    “I am glad to hear it,” said Mouch cautiously. “It’s a constructive piece of information. It might be very valuable indeed.”
    “Valuable-yes,” said Taggart pleasantly. “When do you plan to put the directive into effect?”
    “Oh, we have to move fast. We don’t want any news of it to leak out. I expect you all to keep this most strictly confidential. I’d say that we’ll be ready to spring it on them in a couple of weeks.”
    “Don’t you think that it would be advisable-before all prices are frozen-to adjust the matter of the railroad rates? I was thinking of a raise. A small but most essentially needed raise.”
    “We’ll discuss it, you and I,” said Mouch amiably. “It might be arranged.” He turned to the others; Boyle’s face was sagging. “There are many details still to be worked out, but I’m sure that our program won’t encounter any major difficulties.” He was assuming the tone and manner of a public address; he sounded brisk and almost cheerful. “Rough spots are to be expected. If one thing doesn’t work, we’ll try another.
    Trial-and-error is the only pragmatic rule of action. We’ll just keep on trying. If any hardships come up, remember that it’s only temporary.
    Only for the duration of the national emergency.”
    “Say,” asked Kinnan, “how is the emergency to end if everything is to stand still?”
    “Don’t be theoretical,” said Mouch impatiently. “We’ve got to deal with the situation of the moment. Don’t bother about minor details, so long as the broad outlines of our policy are clear. We’ll have the power. We’ll be able to solve any problem and answer any question.”
    Fred Kinnan chuckled. “Who is John Galt?”
    “Don’t say that!” cried Taggart.
    “I have a question to ask about Point Seven,” said Kinnan. “It says that al! wages, prices, salaries, dividends, profits and so forth will be frozen on the date of the directive. Taxes, too?”
    “Oh no!” cried Mouch. “How can we tell what funds we’ll need in the future?” Kinnan seemed to be smiling. “Well?” snapped Mouch.
    “What about it?”
    “Nothing,” said Kinnan. “I just asked.”
    Mouch leaned back in his chair. “I must say to all of you that I appreciate your coming here and giving us the benefit of your opinions. It has been very helpful.” He leaned forward to look at his desk calendar and sat over it for a moment, toying with his pencil, Then the pencil came down, struck a date and drew a circle around it. “Directive 10-289 will go into effect on the morning of May first.”
    All nodded approval. None looked at his neighbor.
    James Taggart rose, walked to the window and pulled the blind down over the white obelisk.
    In the first moment of awakening, Dagny was astonished to find herself looking at the spires of unfamiliar buildings against a glowing, pale blue sky. Then she saw the twisted seam of the thin stocking on her own leg, she felt a wrench of discomfort in the muscles of her waistline, and she realized that she was lying on the couch in her office, with the clock on her desk saying 6:15 and the first rays of the sun giving silver edges to the silhouettes of the skyscrapers beyond the window. The last thing she remembered was that she had dropped down on the couch, intending to rest for ten minutes, when the window was black and the clock stood at 3:30.
    She twisted herself to her feet, feeling an enormous exhaustion. The lighted lamp on the desk looked futile in the glow of the morning, over the piles of paper which were her cheerless, unfinished task. She tried not to think of the work for a few minutes longer, while she dragged herself past the desk to her washroom and let handfuls of cold water run over her face.
    The exhaustion was gone by the time she stepped back into the office. No matter what night preceded it, she had never known a morning when she did not feel the rise of a quiet excitement that became a tightening energy in her body and a hunger for action in her mind-
    because this was the beginning of day and it was a day of her life.
    She looked down at the city. The streets were still empty, it made them look wider, and in the luminous cleanliness of the spring air they seemed to be waiting for the promise of all the greatness that would take form in the activity about to pour through them. The calendar in the distance said: May 1.
    She sat down at her desk, smiling in defiance at the distastefulness of her job. She hated the reports that she had to finish reading, but it was her job, it was her railroad, it was morning. She lighted a cigarette, thinking that she would finish this task before breakfast; she turned off the lamp and pulled the papers forward.
    There were reports from the general managers of the four Regions of the Taggart system, their pages a typewritten cry of despair over the breakdowns of equipment. There was a report about a wreck on the main line near Winston, Colorado. There was the new budget of the Operating Department, the revised budget based on the raise in rates which Jim had obtained last week. She tried to choke the exasperation of hopelessness as she went slowly over the budget’s figures: all those calculations had been made on the assumption that the volume of freight would remain unchanged and that the raise would bring them added revenue by the end of the year; she knew that the freight tonnage would go on shrinking, that the raise would make little difference, that by the end of this year their losses would be greater than ever.
    When she looked up from the pages, she saw with a small jolt of astonishment that the clock said 9:25. She had been dimly aware of the usual sound of movement and voices in the anteroom of her office, as her staff had arrived to begin their day; she wondered why nobody had entered her office and why her telephone had remained silent; as a daily rule, there should have been a rush of business by this hour. She glanced at her calendar; there was a note that the McNeil Car Foundry of Chicago was to phone her at nine A.M. in regard to the new freight cars which Taggart Transcontinental had been expecting for six months.
    She flicked the switch of the interoffice communicator to call her secretary. The girl’s voice answered with a startled little gasp: “Miss Taggart! Are you here, in your office?”
    “I slept here last night, again. Didn’t intend to, but did. Was there a call for me from the McNeil Car Foundry?”
    “No, Miss Taggart.”
    “Put them through to me immediately, when they call,”
    “Yes, Miss Taggart.”
    Switching the communicator off, she wondered whether she imagined it or whether there had been something strange in the girl’s voice: it had sounded unnaturally tense.
    She felt the faint light-headedness of hunger and thought that she should go down to get a cup of coffee, but there was still the report of the chief engineer to finish, so she lighted one more cigarette.
    The chief engineer was out on the road, supervising the reconstruction of the main track with the Rearden Metal rail taken from the corpse of the John Galt Line; she had chosen the sections most urgently in need of repair. Opening his report, she read-with a shock of incredulous anger-that he had stopped work in the mountain section of Winston, Colorado. He recommended a change of plans: he suggested that the rail intended for Winston be used, instead, to repair the track of their Washington-to-Miami branch. He gave his reasons: a derailment had occurred on that branch last week, and Mr. Tinky Holloway of Washington, traveling with a party of friends, had been delayed for three hours; it had been reported to the chief engineer that Mr. Holloway had expressed extreme displeasure. Although, from a purely technological viewpoint-said the chief engineer’s report-the rail of the Miami branch was in better condition than that of the Winston section, one had to remember, from a sociological viewpoint, that the Miami branch carried a much more important class of passenger traffic; therefore, the chief engineer suggested that Winston could be kept waiting a little longer, and recommended the sacrifice of an obscure section of mountain trackage for the sake of a branch where “Taggart Transcontinental could not afford to create an unfavorable impression.”
    She read, slashing furious pencil marks on the margins of the pages, thinking that her first duty of the day, ahead of any other, was to stop this particular piece of insanity.
    The telephone rang.
    “Yes?” she asked, snatching the receiver. “McNeil Car Foundry?”
    “No,” said the voice of her secretary. “Senor Francisco d’Anconia.”
    She looked at the phone’s mouthpiece for the instant of a brief shock. “All right. Put him on.”
    The next voice she heard was Francisco’s. “I see that you’re in your office just the same,” he said; his voice was mocking, harsh and tense.
    “Where did you expect me to be?”
    “How do you like the new suspension?”
    “What suspension?”
    “The moratorium on brains.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Haven’t you seen today’s newspapers?”
    “No.”
    There was a pause; then his voice came slowly, changed and grave: “Better take a look at them, Dagny.”
    “All right.”
    “I’ll call you later.”
    She hung up and pressed the switch of the communicator on her desk. “Get me a newspaper,” she said to her secretary.
    “Yes, Miss Taggart,” the secretary’s voice answered grimly.
    It was Eddie Willers who came in and put the newspaper down on her desk. The meaning of the look on his face’ was the same as the tone she had caught in Francisco’s voice: the advance notice of some inconceivable disaster.
    “None of us wanted to be first to tell you,” he said very quietly and walked out.
    When she rose from her desk, a few moments later, she felt that she had full control of her body and that she was not aware of her body’s existence. She felt lifted to her feet and it seemed to her that she stood straight, not touching the ground. There was an abnormal clarity about every object in the room, yet she was seeing nothing around her, but she knew that she would be able to see the thread of a cobweb if her purpose required it, just as she would be able to walk with a somnambulist’s assurance along the edge of a roof. She could not know that she was looking at the room with the eyes of a person who had lost the capacity and the concept of doubt, and what remained to her was the simplicity of a single perception and of a single goal. She did not know that the thing which seemed so violent, yet felt like such a still, unfamiliar calm within her, was the power of full certainty-and that the anger shaking her body, the anger which made her ready, with the same passionate indifference, either to kill or to die, was her love of rectitude, the only love to which all the years of her life had been given.
    Holding the newspaper in her hand, she walked out of her office and on toward the hall. She knew, crossing the anteroom, that the faces of her staff were turned to her, but they seemed to be many years away.
    She walked down the hall, moving swiftly but without effort, with the same sensation of knowing that her feet were probably touching the ground but that she did not feel it. She did not know how many rooms she crossed to reach Jim’s office, or whether there had been any people in her way, she knew the direction to take and the door to pull open to enter unannounced and walk toward his desk.
    The newspaper was twisted into a roll by the time she stood before him. She threw it at his face, it struck his cheek and fell down to the carpet.
    “There’s my resignation, Jim,” she said. “I won’t work as a slave or as a slave-driver.”
    She did not hear the sound of his gasp; it came with the sound of the door closing after her.
    She went back to her office and, crossing the anteroom, signaled Eddie to follow her inside.
    She said, her voice calm and clear, “I have resigned.”
    He nodded silently.
    “I don’t know as yet what I’ll do in the future. I’m going away, to think it over and to decide. If you want to follow me, I’ll be at the lodge in Woodstock.” It was an old hunting cabin in a forest of the Berkshire Mountains, which she had inherited from her father and had not visited for years.
    “I want to follow,” he whispered, “I want to quit, and . . . and I can’t. I can’t make myself do it.”
    “Then will you do me a favor?”
    “Of course.”
    “Don’t communicate with me about the railroad. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t tell anyone where I am, except Hank Rearden. If he asks, tell him about the cabin and how to get there. But no one else. I don’t want to see anybody.”
    “AU right.”
    “Promise?”
    “Of course.”
    “When I decide what’s to become of me, I’ll let you know.”
    “Ill wait.”
    “That’s all, Eddie.”
    He knew that every word was measured and that nothing else could be said between them at this moment. He inclined his head, letting it say the rest, then walked out of the office.
    She saw the chief engineer’s report still lying open on her desk, and thought that she had to order him at once to resume the work on the Winston section, then remembered that it was not her problem any longer. She felt no pain. She knew that the pain would come later and that it would be a tearing agony of pain, and that the numbness of this moment was a rest granted to her, not after, but before, to make her ready to bear it. But it did not matter. If that is required of me, then I’ll bear it-she thought.
    She sat down at her desk and telephoned Rearden at his mills in Pennsylvania.
    “Hello, dearest,” he said. He said it simply and clearly, as if he wanted to say it because it was real and right, and he needed to hold on to the concepts of reality and Tightness.
    “Hank, I’ve quit.”
    “I see.” He sounded as if he had expected it.
    “Nobody came to get me, no destroyer, perhaps there never was any destroyer, after all. I don’t know what I’ll do next, but I have to get away, so that I won’t have to see any of them for a while. Then I’ll decide. I know that you can’t go with me right now.”
    “No. I have two weeks in which they expect me to sign their Gift Certificate. I want to be right here when the two weeks expire.”
    “Do you need me-for the two weeks?”
    “No. It’s worse for you than for me. You have no way to fight them. I have. I think I’m glad they did it. It’s clear and final. Don’t worry about me. Rest. Rest from all of it, first.”
    “Yes.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “To the country. To a cabin I own in the Berkshires. If you want to see me, Eddie Willers will tell you the way to get there. I’ll be back in two weeks.”
    “Will you do me a favor?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t come back until I come for you.”
    “But I want to be here, when it happens.”
    “Leave that up to me.”
    “Whatever they do to you, I want it done to me also.”
    “Leave it up to me. Dearest, don’t you understand? I think that what I want most right now is what you want: not to see any of them. But I have to stay here for a while. So it will help me if I know that you, at least, are out of their reach. I want to keep one clean point in my mind, to lean against. It will be only a short while-and then I’ll come for you. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, my darling. So long.”
    It was weightlessly easy to walk out of her office and down the stretching halls of Taggart Transcontinental. She walked, looking ahead, her steps advancing with the unbroken, unhurried rhythm of finality.
    Her face was held level and it had a look of astonishment, of acceptance, of repose.
    She walked across the concourse of the Terminal. She saw the statue of Nathaniel Taggart. But she felt no pain from it and no reproach, only the rising fullness of her love, only the feeling that she was going to join him, not in death, but in that which had been his life.
    The first man to quit at Rearden Steel was Tom Colby, rolling mill foreman, head of the Rearden Steel Workers Union. For ten years, he had heard himself denounced throughout the country, because his was a “company union” and because he had never engaged in a violent conflict with the management. This was true: no conflict had ever been necessary; Rearden paid a higher wage scale than any union scale in the country, for which he demanded-and got-the best labor force to be found anywhere.
    When Tom Colby told him that he was quitting, Rearden nodded, without comment or questions.
    “I won’t work under these conditions, myself,” Colby added quietly, “and I won’t help, to keep the men working. They trust me. I won’t be the Judas goat leading them to the stockyards.”
    “What are you going to do for a living?” asked Rearden.
    “I’ve saved enough to last me for about a year.”
    “And after that?”
    Colby shrugged.
    Rearden thought of the boy with the angry eyes, who mined coal at night as a criminal. He thought of all the dark roads, the alleys, the back yards of the country, where the best of the country’s men would now exchange their services in jungle barter, in chance jobs, in unrecorded transactions. He thought of the end of that road.
    Tom Colby seemed to know what he was thinking. “You’re on your way to end up right alongside of me, Mr. Rearden,” he said. “Are you going to sign your brains over to them?”
    “No.”
    “And after that?”
    Rearden shrugged.
    Colby’s eyes watched him for a moment, pale, shrewd eyes in a furnace-tanned face with soot-engraved wrinkles. “They’ve been telling us for years that it’s you against me, Mr. Rearden. But it isn’t. It’s Orren Boyle and Fred Kinnan against you and me.”
    “I know it.”
    The Wet Nurse had never entered Rearden’s office, as if sensing that that was a place he had no right to enter. He always waited to catch a glimpse of Rearden outside. The directive had attached him to his job, as the mills’ official watchdog of over-or-under-production. He stopped Rearden, a few days later, in an alley between the rows of open-hearth furnaces. There was an odd look of fierceness on the boy’s face.
    “Mr. Rearden,” he said, “I wanted to tell you that if you want to pour ten times the quota of Rearden Metal or steel or pig iron or anything, and bootleg it all over the place to anybody at any price-I wanted to tell you to go ahead. Ill fix it up. I’ll juggle the books, I’ll fake the reports, I’ll get phony witnesses, I’ll forge affidavits, I’ll commit perjury-so you don’t have to worry, there won’t be any trouble!”
    “Now why do you want to do that?” asked Rearden, smiling, but his smile vanished when he heard the boy answer earnestly: “Because I want, for once, to do something moral.”
    “That’s not the way to be moral-” Rearden started, and stopped abruptly, realizing that- it was the way, the only way left, realizing through how many twists of intellectual corruption upon corruption this boy had to struggle toward his momentous discovery.
    “I guess that’s not the word,” the boy said sheepishly. “I know it’s a stuffy, old-fashioned word. That’s not what I meant. I meant-” It was a sudden, desperate cry of incredulous anger: “Mr. Rearden, they have no right to do it!”
    “What?”
    “Take Rearden Metal away from you.”
    Rearden smiled and, prompted by a desperate pity, said, “Forget it, Non-Absolute. There are no rights.”
    “I know there aren’t. But I mean . . . what I mean is that they can’t do it.”
    “Why not?” He could not help smiling.
    “Mr. Rearden, don’t sign the Gift Certificate! Don’t sign it, on principle.”
    “I won’t sign it. But there aren’t any principles.”
    “I know there aren’t.” He was reciting it in full earnestness, with the honesty of a conscientious student: “I know that everything is relative and that nobody can know anything and that reason is an illusion and that there isn’t any reality. But I’m just talking about Rearden Metal.
    Don’t sign, Mr. Rearden. Morals or no morals, principles or no principles, just don’t sign it-because it isn’t right!”
    No one else mentioned the directive in Rearden’s presence. Silence was the new aspect about the mills. The men did not speak to him when he appeared in the workshops, and he noticed that they did not speak to one another. The personnel office received no formal resignations. But every other morning, one or two men failed to appear and never appeared again. Inquiries at their homes found the homes abandoned and the men gone. The personnel office did not report these desertions, as the directive required; instead, Rearden began to see unfamiliar faces among the workers, the drawn, beaten faces of the long unemployed, and heard them addressed by the names of the men who had quit. He asked no questions.
    There was silence throughout the country. He did not know how many industrialists had retired and vanished on May I and 2, leaving their plants to be seized. He counted ten among his own customers, including McNeil of the McNeil Car Foundry in Chicago. He had no way of learning about the others; no reports appeared in the newspapers.
    The front pages of the newspapers were suddenly full of stories about spring floods, traffic accidents, school picnics and golden-wedding anniversaries.
    There was silence in his own home. Lillian had departed on a vacation trip to Florida, in mid-April; it had astonished him, as an inexplicable whim; it was the first trip she had taken alone since their marriage. Philip avoided him, with a look of panic. His mother stared at Rearden in reproachful bewilderment; she said nothing, but she kept bursting into tears in his presence, her manner suggesting that her tears were the most important aspect to consider in whatever disaster it was that she sensed approaching.
    On the morning of May 15, he sat at the desk in his office, above the spread of the mills, and watched the colors of the smoke rising to the clear, blue sky. There were spurts of transparent smoke, like waves of heat, invisible but for the structures that shivered behind them; there were streaks of red smoke, and sluggish columns of yellow, and light, floating spirals of blue-and the thick, tight, swiftly pouring coils that looked like twisted bolts of satin tinged a mother-of-pearl pink by the summer sun.
    The buzzer rang on his desk, and Miss Ives voice said, “Dr. Floyd Ferris to see you, without appointment, Mr. Rearden.” In spite of its rigid formality, her tone conveyed the question: Shall I throw him out?
    There was a faint movement of astonishment in Rearden’s face, barely above the line of indifference: he had not expected that particular emissary. He answered evenly, “Ask him to come in.”
    Dr. Ferris did not smile as he walked toward Rearden’s desk; he merely wore a look suggesting that Rearden knew full well that he had good reason to smile and so he would abstain from the obvious.
    He sat down in front of the desk, not waiting for an invitation; he carried a briefcase, which he placed across his knees; he acted as if words were superfluous, since his reappearance in this office had made everything clear.
    Rearden sat watching him in patient silence.
    “Since the deadline for the signing of the national Gift Certificates expires tonight at midnight,” said Dr. Ferris, in the tone of a salesman extending a special courtesy to a customer, “I have come to obtain your signature, Mr. Rearden.”
    He paused, with an air of suggesting that the formula now called for an answer.
    “Go on,” said Rearden. “I am listening.”
    “Yes, I suppose I should explain,” said Dr. Ferris, “that we wish to get your signature early in the day in order to announce the fact on a national news broadcast. Although the gift program has gone through quite smoothly, there are still a few stubborn individualists left, who have failed to sign-small fry, really, whose patents are of no crucial value, but we cannot let them remain unbound, as a matter of principle, you understand. They are, we believe, waiting to follow your lead. You have a great popular following, Mr. Rearden, much greater than you suspected or knew how to use. Therefore, the announcement that you have signed will remove the last hopes of resistance and, by midnight, will bring in the last signatures, thus completing the program on schedule.”
    Rearden knew that of all possible speeches, this was the last Dr.
    Ferris would make if any doubt of his surrender remained in the man’s mind.
    “Go on,” said Rearden evenly. “You haven’t finished.”
    “You know-as you have demonstrated at your trial-how important it is, and why, that we obtain all that property with the voluntary consent of the victims.” Dr. Ferris opened his briefcase. “Here is the Gift Certificate, Mr. Rearden. We have filled it out and all you have to do is to sign your name at the bottom.”
    The piece of paper, which he placed in front of Rearden, looked like a small college diploma, with the text printed in old-fashioned script and the particulars inserted by typewriter. The thing stated that he, Henry Rearden, hereby transferred to the nation all rights to the metal alloy now known as “Rearden Metal,” which would henceforth be manufactured by all who so desired, and which would bear the name of “Miracle Metal,” chosen by the representatives of the people.
    Glancing at the paper, Rearden wondered whether it was a deliberate mockery of decency, or so low an estimate of their victims’ intelligence, that had made the designers of this paper print the text across a faint drawing of the Statue of Liberty.
    His eyes moved slowly to Dr. Ferris’ face. “You would not have come here,” he said, “unless you had some extraordinary kind of blackjack to use on me. What is it?”
    “Of course,” said Dr. Ferris. “I would expect you to understand that. That is why no lengthy explanations are necessary.” He opened his briefcase. “Do you wish to see my blackjack? I have brought a few samples.”
    In the manner of a cardsharp whisking out a long fan of cards with one snap of the hand, he spread before Rearden a line of glossy photographic prints. They were photostats of hotel and auto court registers, bearing in Rearden’s handwriting the names of Mr. and Mrs. J.
    Smith.
    “You know, of course,” said Dr. Ferris softly, “but you might wish to see whether we know it, that Mrs. J. Smith is Miss Dagny Taggart.”
    He found nothing to observe in Rearden’s face. Rearden had not moved to bend over the prints, but sat looking down at them with grave attentiveness, as if, from the perspective of distance, he were discovering something about them which he had not known.
    “We have a great deal of additional evidence,” said Dr. Ferris, and tossed down on the desk a photostat of the jeweler’s bill for the ruby pendant. “You wouldn’t care to see the sworn statements of apartment house doormen and night clerks-they contain nothing that would be new to you, except the number of witnesses who know where you spent your nights in New York, for about the last two years. You mustn’t blame those people too much. It’s an interesting characteristic of epochs such as ours that people begin to be afraid of saying the things they want to say-and afraid, when questioned, to remain silent about things they’d prefer never to utter. That is to be expected. But you would be astonished if you knew who gave us the original tip.”
    “I know it,” said Rearden; his voice conveyed no reaction. The trip to Florida was not inexplicable to him any longer.
    “There is nothing in this blackjack of mine that can harm you personally,” said Dr. Ferris, “We knew that no form of personal injury would ever make you give in. Therefore, I am telling you frankly that this will not hurt you at all. It will only hurt Miss Taggart”
    Rearden was looking straight at him now, but Dr. Ferris wondered why it seemed to him that the calm, closed face was moving away into a greater and greater distance.
    “If this affair of yours is spread from one end of the country to the other,” said Dr, Ferris, “by such experts in the art of smearing as Bertram Scudder, it will do no actual damage to your reputation.
    Beyond a few glances of curiosity and a few raised eyebrows in a few of the stuffier drawing rooms, you will get off quite easily. Affairs of this sort are expected of a man. In fact, it will enhance your reputation.
    It will give you an aura of romantic glamour among the women and, among the men, it will give you a certain kind of prestige, in the nature of envy for an unusual conquest. But what it will do to Miss Taggart-with her spotless name, her reputation for being above scandal, her peculiar position of a woman in a strictly masculine business-
    what it will do to her, what she will see in the eyes of everyone she meets, what she will hear from every man she deals with-I will leave that up to your own mind to imagine. And to consider.”
    Rearden felt nothing but a great stillness and a great clarity. It was as if some voice were telling him sternly: This is the time-the scene is lighted-now look. And standing naked in the great light, he was looking quietly, solemnly, stripped of fear, of pain, of hope, with nothing left to him but the desire to know.
    Dr. Ferris was astonished to hear him say slowly, in the dispassionate tone of an abstract statement that did not seem to be addressed to his listener, “But all your calculations rest on the fact that Miss Taggart is a virtuous woman, not the slut you’re going to call her.”
    “Yes, of course,” said Dr. Ferris.
    “And that this means much more to me than a casual affair.”
    “Of course.”
    “If she and I were the kind of scum you’re going to make us appear, your blackjack wouldn’t work.”
    “No, it wouldn’t.”
    “If our relationship were the depravity you’re going to proclaim it to be, you’d have no way to harm us.”
    “No.”
    “We’d be outside your power.”
    “Actually-yes.”
    It was not to Dr. Ferris that Rearden was speaking. He was seeing a long line of men stretched through the centuries from Plato onward, whose heir and final product was an incompetent little professor with the appearance of a gigolo and the soul of a thug.
    “I offered you, once, a chance to join us,” said Dr. Ferris. “You refused. Now you can see the consequences. How a man of your intelligence thought that he could win by playing it straight, I can’t imagine.”
    “But if I had joined you,” said Rearden with the same detachment, as if he were not speaking about himself, “what would I have found worth looting from Orren Boyle?”
    “Oh hell, there’s always enough suckers to expropriate in the world!”
    “Such as Miss Taggart? As Ken Danagger? As Ellis Wyatt? As I?”
    “Such as any man who wants to be impractical.”
    “You mean that it is not practical to live on earth, is it?”
    He did not know whether Dr. Ferris answered him. He was not listening any longer. He was seeing the pendulous face of Orren Boyle with the small slits of pig’s eyes, the doughy face of Mr. Mowen with the eyes that scurried away from any speaker and any fact-he was seeing them go through the jerky motions of an ape performing a routine it had learned to copy by muscular habit, performing it in order to manufacture Rearden Metal, with no knowledge and no capacity to know what had taken place in the experimental laboratory of Rearden Steel through ten years of passionate devotion to an excruciating effort. It was proper that they should now call it “Miracle Metal”.-a miracle was the only name they could give to those ten years and to that faculty from which Rearden Metal was born-a miracle was all that the Metal could be in their eyes, the product of an unknown, unknowable cause, an object in nature, not to be explained, but to be seized, like a stone or a weed, theirs for the seizing-“are we to let the many remain in want while the few withhold from us the better products and methods available?”
    If I had not known that my life depends on my mind and my effort-he was saying soundlessly to the line of men stretched through the centuries-if I had not made it my highest moral purpose to exercise the best of my effort and the fullest capacity of my mind in order to support and expand my life, you would have found nothing to loot from me, nothing to support your own existence. It is not my sins that you’re using to injure me, but my virtues-my virtues by your own acknowledgment, since your own life depends on them, since you need them, since you do not seek to destroy my achievement but to seize it.
    He remembered the voice of the gigolo of science saying to him: “We’re after power and we mean it. You fellows were pikers, but we know the real trick.” We were not after power-he said to the gigolo’s ancestors-in-spirit-and we did not live by means of that which we condemned. We regarded productive ability as virtue-and we let the degree of his virtue be the measure of a man’s reward. We drew no advantage from the things we regarded as evil-we did not require the existence of bank robbers in order to operate our banks, or of burglars in order to provide for our homes, or of murderers in order to protect our lives. But you need the products of a man’s ability-yet you proclaim that productive ability is a selfish evil and you turn the degree of a man’s productiveness into the measure of his loss. We lived by that which we held to be good and punished that which we held to be evil. You live by that which you denounce as evil and punish that which you know to be good.
    He remembered the formula of the punishment that Lillian had sought to impose on him, the formula he had considered too monstrous to believe-and he saw it now in its full application, as a system of thought, as a way of life and on a world scale. There it was: the punishment that required the victim’s own virtue as the fuel to make it work-his invention of Rearden Metal being used as the cause of his expropriation-Dagny’s honor and the depth of their feeling for each other being used as a tool of blackmail, a blackmail from which the depraved would be immune-and, in the People’s States of Europe, millions of men being held in bondage by means of their desire to live, by means of their energy drained in forced labor, by means of their ability to feed their masters, by means of the hostage system, of their love for their children or wives or friends-by means of love, ability and pleasure as the fodder for threats and the bait for extortion, with love tied to fear, ability to punishment, ambition to confiscation, with blackmail as law, with escape from pain, not quest for pleasure, as the only incentive to effort and the only reward of achievement-men held enslaved by means of whatever living power they possessed and of whatever joy they found in life. Such was the code that the world had accepted and such was the key to the code: that it hooked man’s love of existence to a circuit of torture, so that only the man who had nothing to offer would have nothing to fear, so that the virtues which made life possible and the values which gave it meaning became the agents of its destruction, so that one’s best became the tool of one’s agony, and man’s life on earth became impractical.
    “Yours was the code of life,” said the voice of a man whom he could not forget. “What, then, is theirs?”
    Why had the world accepted it?-he thought. How had the victims come to sanction a code that pronounced them guilty of the fact of existing? . . . And then the violence of an inner blow became the total stillness of his body as he sat looking at a sudden vision: Hadn’t he done it also? Hadn’t he given his sanction to the code of self damnation? Dagny-he thought-and the depth of their feeling for each other . . . the blackmail from which the depraved would be immune . . . hadn’t he, too, once called it depravity? Hadn’t he been first to throw at her all the insults which the human scum was now threatening to throw at her in public? Hadn’t he accepted as guilt the highest happiness he had ever found?
    “You who won’t allow one per cent of impurity into an alloy of metal,” the unforgotten voice was saying to him, “what have you allowed into your moral code?”
    “Well, Mr. Rearden?” said the voice of Dr, Ferris. “Do you understand me now? Do we get the Metal or do we make a public showplace out of Miss Taggart’s bedroom?”
    He was not seeing Dr. Ferris. He was seeing-in the violent clarity that was like a spotlight tearing every riddle open to him-the day he met Dagny for the first time.
    It was a few months after she had become Vice-President of Taggart Transcontinental. He had been hearing skeptically, for some time, the rumors that the railroad was run by Jim Taggart’s sister. That summer, when he grew exasperated at Taggart’s delays and contradictions over an order of rail for a new cutoff, an order which Taggart kept placing, altering and withdrawing, somebody told him that if he wished to get any sense or action out of Taggart Transcontinental, he’d better speak to Jim’s sister. He telephoned her office to make an appointment and insisted on having it that same afternoon. Her secretary told him that Miss Taggart would be at the construction site of the new cutoff, that afternoon, at Milford Station between New York and Philadelphia, but would be glad to see him there if he wished. He went to the appointment resentfully; he did not like such businesswomen as he had met, and he felt that railroads were no business for a woman to play with; he expected a spoiled heiress who used her name and sex as substitute for ability, some eyebrow-plucked, over groomed female, like the lady executives of department stores.
    He got off the last car of a long train, far beyond the platform of Milford Station. There was a clutter of sidings, freight cars, cranes and steam shovels around him, descending from the main track down the slope of a ravine where men were grading the roadbed of the new cutoff. He started walking between the sidings toward the station building. Then he stopped.
    He saw a girl standing on top of a pile of machinery on a flatcar.
    She was looking off at the ravine, her head lifted, strands of disordered hair stirring in the wind. Her plain gray suit was like a thin coating of metal over a slender body against the spread of sun-flooded space and sky. Her posture had the lightness and unself-conscious precision of an arrogantly pure self-confidence. She was watching the work, her glance intent and purposeful, the glance of competence enjoying its own function. She looked as if this were her place, her moment and her world, she looked as if enjoyment were her natural state, her face was the living form of an active, living intelligence., a young girl’s face with a woman’s mouth, she seemed unaware of her body except as of a taut instrument ready to serve her purpose in any manner she wished.
    Had he asked himself a moment earlier whether he carried in his mind an image of what he wanted a woman to look like, he would have answered that he did not; yet, seeing her, he knew that this was the image and that it had been for years. But he was not looking at her as at a woman. He had forgotten where he was and on what errand, he was held by a child’s sensation of joy in the immediate moment, by the delight of the unexpected and undiscovered, he was held by the astonishment of realizing how seldom he came upon a sight he truly liked, liked in complete acceptance and for its own sake, he was looking up at her with a faint smile, as he would have looked at a statue or a landscape, and what he felt was the sheer pleasure of the sight, the purest esthetic pleasure he had ever experienced.
    He saw a switchman going by and he asked, pointing, “Who is that?”
    “Dagny Taggart,” said the man, walking on.
    Rearden felt as if the words struck him inside his throat. He felt the start of a current that cut his breath for a moment, then went slowly down his body, carrying in its wake a sense of weight, a drained heaviness that left him no capacity but one. He was aware-with an abnormal clarity-of the place, the woman’s name, and everything it implied, but all of it had receded into some outer ring and had become a pressure that left him alone in the center, as the ring’s meaning and essence-and his only reality was the desire to have this woman, now, here, on top of the flatcar in the open sun-to have her before a word was spoken between them, as the first act of their meeting, because it would say everything and because they had earned it long ago.
    She turned her head. In the slow curve of the movement, her eyes came to his and stopped. He felt certain that she saw the nature of his glance, that she was held by it, yet did not name it to herself.
    Her eyes moved on and he saw her speak to some man who stood beside the flatcar, taking notes.
    Two things struck him together: his return to his normal reality, and the shattering impact of guilt. He felt a moment’s approach to that which no man may feel fully and survive: a sense of self-hatred-the more terrible because some part of him refused to accept it and made him feel guiltier. It was not a progression of words, but the instantaneous verdict of an emotion, a verdict that told him: This, then, was his nature, this was his depravity-that the shameful desire he had never been able to conquer, came to him in response to the only sight of beauty he had found, that it came with a violence he had not known to be possible, and that the only freedom now left to him was to hide it and to despise himself, but never to be rid of it so long as he and this woman were alive.
    He did not know how long he stood there or what devastation that span of time left within him. All that he could preserve was the will to decide that she must never know it.
    He waited until she had descended to the ground and the man with the notes had departed; then he approached her and said coldly: “Miss Taggart? I am Henry Rearden.”
    “Oh!” It was just a small break, then he heard the quietly natural “How do you do, Mr. Rearden.”
    He knew, not admitting it to himself, that the break came from some faint equivalent of his own feeling: she was glad that a face she had liked belonged to a man she could admire. When he proceeded to speak to her about business, his manner was more harshly abrupt than it had ever been with any of his masculine customers.
    Now, looking from the memory of the girl on the flatcar to the Gift Certificate lying on his desk, he felt as if the two met in a single shock, fusing all the days and doubts he had lived between them, and, by the glare of the explosion, in a moment’s vision of a final sum, he saw the answer to all his questions.
    He thought: Guilty?-guiltier than I had known, far guiltier than I had thought, that day-guilty of the evil of damning as guilt that which was my best. I damned the fact that my mind and body were a unit, and that my body responded to the values of my mind. I damned the fact that joy is the core of existence, the motive power of every living being, that it is the need of one’s body as it is the goal of one’s spirit, that my body was not a weight of inanimate muscles, but an instrument able to give me an experience of superlative joy to unite my flesh and my spirit. That capacity, which I damned as shameful, had left me indifferent to sluts, but gave me my one desire in answer to a woman’s greatness. That desire, which I damned as obscene, did not come from the sight of her body, but from the knowledge that the lovely form I saw, did express the spirit I was seeing-
    it was not her body that I wanted, but her person-it was not the girl in gray that I had to possess, but the woman who ran a railroad.
    But I damned my body’s capacity to express what I felt, I damned, as an affront to her, the highest tribute I could give her-just as they damn my ability to translate the work of my mind into Rearden Metal, just as they damn me for the power to transform matter to serve my needs. I accepted their code and believed, as they taught me, that the values of one’s spirit must remain as an impotent longing, unexpressed in action, untranslated into reality, while the life of one’s body must be lived in misery, as a senseless, degrading performance, and those who attempt to enjoy it must be branded as inferior animals.
    I broke their code, but I fell into the trap they intended, the trap of a code devised to be broken. I took no pride in my rebellion, I took it as guilt, I did not damn them, I damned myself, I did not damn their code, I damned existence-and I hid my happiness as a shameful secret. I should have lived it openly, as of our right-or made her my wife, as in truth she was. But I branded my happiness as evil and made her bear it as a disgrace. What they want to do to her now, I did it first. I made it possible.
    I did it-in the name of pity for the most contemptible woman I know. That, too, was their code, and I accepted it. I believed that one person owes a duty to another with no payment for it in return. I believed that it was my duty to love a woman who gave me nothing, who betrayed everything I lived for, who demanded her happiness at the price of mine. I believed that love is some static gift which, once granted, need no longer be deserved-just as they believe that wealth is a static possession which can be seized and held without further effort. I believed that love is a gratuity, not a reward to be earned-
    just as they believe it is their right to demand an unearned wealth.
    And just as they believe that their need is a claim on my energy, so I believed that her unhappiness was a claim on my life. For the sake of pity, not justice, T endured ten years of self-torture. I placed pity above my own conscience, and this is the core of my guilt. My crime was committed when I said to her, “By every standard of mine, to maintain our marriage will be a vicious fraud. But my standards are not yours.
    I do not understand yours, I never have, but I will accept them.”
    Here they are, lying on my desk, those standards I accepted without understanding, here is the manner of her love for me, that love which I never believed, but tried to spare. Here is the final product of the unearned. I thought that it was proper to commit injustice, so long as I would be the only one to suffer. But nothing can justify injustice.
    And this is the punishment for accepting as proper that hideous evil which is self-immolation. I thought that I would be the only victim.
    Instead, I’ve sacrificed the noblest woman to the vilest. When one acts on pity against justice, it is the good whom one punishes for the sake of the evil; when one saves the guilty from suffering, it is the innocent whom one forces to suffer. There is no escape from justice, nothing can be unearned and unpaid for in the universe, neither in matter nor in spirit-and if the guilty do not pay, then the innocent have to pay it.
    It was not the cheap little looters of wealth who have beaten me-
    it was I. They did not disarm me-I threw away my weapon. This is a battle that cannot be fought except with clean hands-because the enemy’s sole power is in the sores of one’s conscience-and I accepted a code that made me regard the strength of my hands as a sin and a stain.
    “Do we get the Metal, Mr. Rearden?”
    He looked from the Gift Certificate on his desk to the memory of the girl on the flatcar. He asked himself whether he could deliver the radiant being he had seen in that moment, to the looters of the mind and the thugs of the press. Could he continue to let the innocent bear punishment? Could he let her take the stand he should have taken?
    Could he now defy the enemy’s code, when the disgrace would be hers, not his-when the muck would be thrown at her, not at him-
    when she would have to fight, while he’d be spared? Could he let her existence be turned into a hell he would have no way of sharing?
    He sat still, looking up at her, I love you, he said to the girl on the flatcar, silently pronouncing the words that had been the meaning of that moment four years ago, feeling the solemn happiness that belonged with the words, even though this was how he had to say it to her for the first time.
    He looked down at the. Gift Certificate. Dagny, he thought, you would not let me do it if you knew, you will hate me for it if you learn-but I cannot let you pay my debts. The fault was mine and I will not shift to you the punishment which is mine to take. Even if I have nothing else now left to me, I have this much: that I see the truth, that I am free of their guilt, that I can now stand guiltless in my own eyes, that I know I am right, right fully and for the first time-and that I will remain faithful to the one commandment of my code which I have never broken: to be a man who pays his own way.
    I love you, he said to the girl on the flatcar, feeling as if the light of that summer’s sun were touching his forehead, as if he, too, were standing under an open sky over an unobstructed earth, with nothing left to him except himself.
    “Well, Mr. Rearden? Are you going to sign?’1 asked Dr. Ferris.
    Rearden’s eyes moved to him. He had forgotten that Ferris was there, he did not know whether Ferris had been speaking, arguing or waiting in silence.
    “Oh, that?” said Rearden.
    He picked up a pen and with no second glance, with the easy gesture of a millionaire signing a check, he signed his name at the foot of the Statue of Liberty and pushed the Gift Certificate across the desk.

    CHAPTER VII
    THE MORATORIUM ON BRAINS

    “Where have you been all this time?” Eddie Willers asked the worker in the underground cafeteria, and added, with a smile that was an appeal, an apology and a confession of despair, “Oh, I know it’s I who’ve stayed away from here for weeks.” The smile looked like the effort of a crippled child groping for a gesture that he could not perform any longer. “I did come here once, about two weeks ago, but you weren’t here that night. I was afraid you’d gone . . . so many people are vanishing without notice. I hear there’s hundreds of them roving around the country. The police have been arresting them for leaving their jobs-they’re called deserters-but there’s too many of them and no food to feed them in jail, so nobody gives a damn any more, one way or another. I hear the deserters are just wandering about, doing odd jobs or worse-who’s got any odd jobs to offer these days? . . . It’s our best men that we’re losing, the kind who’ve been with the company for twenty years or more. Why did they have to chain them to their jobs? Those men never intended to quit-but now they’re quitting at the slightest disagreement, just dropping their tools and walking off, any hour of the day or night, leaving us in all sorts of jams-the men who used to leap out of bed and come running if the railroad needed them. . . . You should see the kind of human driftwood we’re getting to fill the vacancies. Some of them mean well, but they’re scared of their own shadows. Others are the kind of scum I didn’t think existed-they get the jobs and they know that we can’t throw them out once they’re in, so they make it clear that they don’t intend to work for their pay and never did intend. They’re the kind of men who like it-who like the way things are now. Can you imagine that there are human beings who like it? Well, there are. . . . You know, I don’t think that I really believe it-all that’s happening to us these days. It’s happening all right, but I don’t believe it. I keep thinking that insanity is a state where a person can’t tell what’s real.
    Well, what’s real now is insane-and if I accepted it as real, I’d have to lose my mind, wouldn’t I? . . . I go on working and I keep telling myself that this is Taggart Transcontinental. I keep waiting for her to come back-for die door to open at any moment and-oh God, I’m not supposed to say that! . . . What? You knew it? You knew that she’s gone? . . . They’re keeping it secret. But I guess everybody knows it, only nobody is supposed to say it. They’re telling people that she’s away on a leave of absence. She’s still listed as our Vice-President in Charge of Operation. I think Jim and I are the only ones who know that she has resigned for good. Jim is scared to death that his friends in Washington will take it out on him, if it becomes known that she’s quit. It’s supposed to be disastrous for public morale, if any prominent person quits, and Jim doesn’t want them to know that he’s got a deserter right in his own family. . . . But that’s not all. Jim is scared that the stockholders, the employees and whoever we do business with, will lose the last of their confidence in Taggart Transcontinental if they learn that she’s gone. Confidence! You’d think that it wouldn’t matter now, since there’s nothing any of them can do about it. And yet, Jim knows that we have to preserve some semblance of the greatness that Taggart Transcontinental once stood for. And he knows that the last of it went with her. . . . No, they don’t know where she is. . . . Yes, I do, but I won’t tell them. I’m the only one who knows. . . . Oh yes, they’ve been trying to find out. They’ve tried to pump me in every way they could think of, but it’s no use.
    I won’t tell anyone. . . . You should see the trained seal that we now have in her place-our new Operating Vice-President. Oh sure, we have one-that is, we have and we haven’t. It’s like everything they do today-it is and it ain’t, at the same tune. His name is Clifton Locey-
    he’s from Jim’s personal staff-a bright, progressive young man of fortyseven and a friend of Jim’s. He’s only supposed to be pinch-hitting for her, but he sits in her office and we all know that that’s the new Operating Vice-President. He gives the orders-that is, he sees to it that he’s never caught actually giving an order. He works very hard at making sure that no decision can ever be pinned down on him, so that he won’t be blamed for anything. You see, his purpose is not to operate a railroad, but to hold a job. He doesn’t want to run trains-
    he wants to please Jim. He doesn’t give a damn whether there’s a single train moving or not, so long as he can make a good impression on Jim and on the boys in Washington. So far, Mr. Clifton Locey has managed to frame up two men: a young third assistant, for not relaying an order which Mr. Locey had never given-and the freight manager, for issuing an order which Mr. Locey did give, only the freight manager couldn’t prove it. Both men were fired, officially, by ruling of the Unification Board. . . . When things go well-which is never longer than half an hour-Mr. Locey makes it a point to remind us that ‘these are not the days of Miss Taggart.’ At the first sign of trouble, he calls me into his office and asks me-casually, in the midst of the most irrelevant drivel-what Miss Taggart used to do in such an emergency. I tell him, whenever I can. I tell myself that it’s Taggart Transcontinental, and . . . and there’s thousands of lives on dozens of trains that hang on our decisions. Between emergencies, Mr. Locey goes out of his way to be rude to me-that’s so I wouldn’t think that he needs me. He’s made it a point to change everything she used to do, in every respect that doesn’t matter, but he’s damn cautious not to change anything that matters. The only trouble is that he can’t always tell which is which. . . . On his first day in her office, he told me that it wasn’t a good idea to have a picture of Nat Taggart on the wall-
    ‘Nat Taggart,’ he said, ‘belongs to a dark past, to the age of selfish greed, he is not exactly a symbol of our modern, progressive policies, so it could make a bad impression, people could identify me with him.’ ‘No, they couldn’t,’ I said-but I took the picture off his wall. . . . What?
    . . . No, she doesn’t know any of it. I haven’t communicated with her.
    Not once. She told me not to. . . . Last week, I almost quit. It was over Chick’s Special. Mr. Chick Morrison of Washington, whoever the hell he is, has gone on a speaking tour of the whole country-to speak about the directive and build up the people’s morale, as things are getting to be pretty wild everywhere. He demanded a special train, for himself and party-a sleeper, a parlor car and a diner with barroom and lounge. The Unification Board gave him permission to travel at a hundred miles an hour-by reason, the ruling said, of this being a non-profit journey. Well, so it is. It’s just a journey to talk people into continuing to break their backs at making profits in order to support men who are superior by reason of not making any. Well, our trouble came when Mr. Chick Morrison demanded a Diesel engine for his train. We had none to give him. Every Diesel we own is out on the road, pulling the Comet and the transcontinental freights, and there wasn’t a spare one anywhere on the system, except-well, that was an exception I wasn’t going to mention to Mr. Clifton Locey.
    Mr. Locey raised the roof, screaming that come hell or high water we couldn’t refuse a demand of Mr. Chick Morrison. I don’t know what damn fool finally told him about the extra Diesel that was kept at Winston, Colorado, at the mouth of the tunnel. You know the way our Diesels break down nowadays, they’re all breathing their last-so you can understand why that extra Diesel had to be kept at the tunnel. I explained it to Mr. Locey, I threatened him, I pleaded, I told him that she had made it our strictest rule that Winston Station was never to be left without an extra Diesel. He told me to remember that he was not Miss Taggart-as if I could ever forget it!-and that the rule was nonsense, because nothing had happened all these years, so Winston could do without a Diesel for a couple of months, and he wasn’t going to worry about some theoretical disaster in the future when we were up against the very real, practical, immediate disaster of getting Mr.
    Chick Morrison angry at us. Well, Chick’s Special got the Diesel. The superintendent of the Colorado Division quit. Mr. Locey gave that job to a friend of his own. I wanted to quit. I had never wanted to so badly. But I didn’t. . . . No, I haven’t heard from her. I haven’t heard a word since she left. Why do you keep questioning me about her? Forget it. She won’t be back, . . . I don’t know what it is that I’m hoping for. Nothing, I guess. I just go day by day, and I try not to look ahead. At first, I hoped that somebody would save us. I thought maybe it would be Hank Rearden. But he gave in. I don’t know what they did to him to make him sign, but I know that it must have been something terrible. Everybody thinks so. Everybody’s whispering about it, wondering what sort of pressure was used on him. . . . No, nobody knows. He’s made no public statements and he’s refused to see anyone, . . . But, listen, I’ll tell you something else that everybody’s whispering about. Lean closer, will you?-I don’t want to speak too loudly. They say that Orren Boyle seems to have known about that directive long ago, weeks or months in advance, because he had started, quietly and secretly, to reconstruct his furnaces for the production of Rearden Metal, in one of his lesser steel plants, an obscure little place way out on the coast of Maine, He was ready to start pouring the Metal the moment Rearden’s extortion paper-I mean, Gift Certificate-was signed. But-listen-the night before they were to start, Boyle’s men were heating the furnaces in that place on the coast, when they heard a voice, they didn’t know whether it came from a plane or a radio or some sort of loud-speaker, but it was a man’s voice and it said that he would give them ten minutes to get out of the place.
    They got out. They started going and they kept on going-because the man’s voice had said that he was Ragnar Danneskjold. In the next half-hour, Boyle’s mills were razed to the ground. Razed, wiped out, not a brick of them left standing. They say it was done by long-range naval guns, from somewhere way out on the Atlantic. Nobody saw Danneskjold’s ship. . . . That’s what people are whispering. The newspapers haven’t printed a word about it. The boys in Washington say that it’s only a rumor spread by panic-mongers. . . . I don’t know whether the story is true. I think it is. I hope it is. . . . You know, when I was fifteen years old, I used to wonder how any man could become a criminal, I couldn’t understand what would make it possible.
    Now-now I’m glad that Ragnar Danneskjold has blown up those mills. May God bless him and never let them find him, whatever and wherever he is! . . . Yes, that’s what I’ve come to feel. Well, how much do they think people can take? . . . It’s not so bad for me in the daytime, because I can keep busy and not think, but it gets me at night. I can’t sleep any more, I lie awake for hours. . . . Yes!-if you want to know it-yes, it’s because I’m worried about her! I’m scared to death for her. Woodstock is just a miserable little hole of a place, miles away from everything, and the Taggart lodge is twenty miles farther, twenty miles of a twisting trail in a godforsaken forest. How do I know what might happen to her there, alone, and with the kind of gangs that are roving all through the country these nights-just through such desolate parts of the country as the Berkshires? . . . I know I shouldn’t think about it. I know that she can take care of herself. Only I wish she’d drop me a line. I wish I could go there. But she told me not to.
    I told her I’d wait. . . . You know, I’m glad you’re here tonight. It helps me-talking to you and . . . just seeing you here. You won’t vanish, like all the others, will you? . . . What? Next week? . . . Oh, on your vacation. For how long? . . . How do you rate a whole month’s vacation? . . . I wish I could do that, too-take a month off at my own expense. But they wouldn’t let me. . . . Really? I envy you. . . . I wouldn’t have envied you a few years ago. But now-now I’d like to get away. Now I envy you-if you’ve been able to take a month off every summer for twelve years.”
    It was a dark road, but it led in a new direction. Rearden walked from his mills, not toward his house, but toward the city of Philadelphia.
    It was a great distance to walk, but he had wanted to do it tonight, as he had done it every evening of the past week. He felt at peace in the empty darkness of the countryside, with nothing but the black shapes of trees around him, with no motion but that of his own body and of branches stirring in the wind, with no lights but the slow sparks of the fireflies flickering through the hedges. The two hours between mills and city were his span of rest.
    He had moved out of his home to an apartment in Philadelphia. He had given no explanation to his mother and Philip, he had said nothing except that they could remain in the house if they wished and that Miss Ives would take care of their bills. He had asked them to tell Lillian, when she returned, that she was not to attempt to see him.
    They had stared at him in terrified silence.
    He had handed to his attorney a signed blank check and said, “Get me a divorce. On any grounds and at any cost. I don’t care what means you use, how many of their judges you purchase or whether you find it necessary to stage a frame-up of my wife. Do whatever you wish.
    But there is to be no alimony and no property settlement.” The attorney had looked at him with the hint of a wise, sad smile, as if this were an event he had expected to happen long ago. He had answered, “Okay, Hank. It can be done. But it will take some time.” “Make it as fast as you can.”
    No one had questioned him about his signature on the Gift Certificate. But he had noticed that the men at the mills looked at him with a kind of searching curiosity, almost as if they expected to find the scars of some physical torture on his body.
    He felt nothing-nothing but the sense of an even, restful twilight, like a spread of slag over a molten metal, when it crusts and swallows the last brilliant spurt of the white glow within. He felt nothing at the thought of the looters who were now going to manufacture Rearden Metal. His desire to hold his right to it and proudly to be the only one to sell it, had been his form of respect for his fellow men, his belief that to trade with them was an act of honor. The belief, the respect and the desire were gone. He did not care what men made, what they sold, where they bought his Metal or whether any of them would know that it had been his. The human shapes moving past him in the streets of the city were physical objects without any meaning. The countryside -with the darkness washing away all traces of human activity, leaving only an untouched earth which he had once been able to handle-was real.
    He carried a gun in his pocket, as advised by the policemen of the radio car that patrolled the roads; they had warned him that no road was safe after dark, these days. He felt, with a touch of mirthless amusement, that the gun had been needed at the mills, not in the peaceful safety of loneliness and night; what could some starving vagrant take from him, compared to what had been taken by men who claimed to be his protectors?
    He walked with an effortless speed, feeling relaxed by a form of activity that was natural to him. This was his period of training for solitude, he thought; he had to learn to live without any awareness of people, the awareness that now paralyzed him with revulsion. He had once built his fortune, starting out with empty hands; now he had to rebuild his life, starting out with an empty spirit.
    He would give himself a short span of time for the training, he thought, and then he would claim the one incomparable value still left to him, the one desire that had remained pure and whole: he would go to Dagny. Two commandments had grown in his mind; one was a duty, the other a passionate wish. The first was never to let her learn the reason of his surrender to the looters; the second was to say to her the words which he should have known at their first meeting and should have said on the gallery of Ellis Wyatt’s house.
    There was nothing but the strong summer starlight to guide him, as he walked, but he could distinguish the highway and the remnant of a stone fence ahead, at the corner of a country crossroad. The fence had nothing to protect any longer, only a spread of weeds, a willow tree bending over the road and, farther in the distance, the ruin of a farmhouse with the starlight showing through its roof.
    He walked, thinking that even this sight still retained the power to be of value: it gave him the promise of a long stretch of space undisturbed by human intrusion.
    The man who stepped suddenly out into the road must have come from behind the willow tree, but so swiftly that it seemed as if he had sprung up from the middle of the highway. Rearden’s hand went to the gun in his pocket, but stopped: he knew-by the proud posture of the body standing in the open, by the straight line of the shoulders against the starlit sky-that the man was not a bandit. When he heard the voice, he knew that the man was not a beggar.
    “I should like to speak to you, Mr. Rearden.”
    The voice had the firmness, the clarity and the special courtesy peculiar to men who are accustomed to giving orders.
    “Go ahead,” said Rearden, “provided you don’t intend to ask me for help or money.”
    The man’s garments were rough, but efficiently trim. He wore dark trousers and a dark blue windbreaker closed tight at his throat, prolonging the lines of his long, slender figure. He wore a dark blue cap, and all that could be seen of him in the night were his hands, his face and a patch of gold-blond hair on his temple. The hands held no weapon, only a package wrapped in burlap, the size of a carton of cigarettes.
    “No, Mr. Rearden,” he said, “I don’t intend to ask you for money, but to return it to you.”
    “To return money?”
    “Yes.”
    “What money?”
    “A small refund on a very large debt.”
    “Owed by you?”
    “No, not by me. It is only a token payment, but I want you to accept it as proof that if we live long enough, you and I, every dollar of that debt will be returned to you.”
    “What debt?”
    “The money that was taken from you by force.”
    He extended the package to Rearden, flipping the burlap open.
    Rearden saw the starlight run like fire along a mirror-smooth surface.
    He knew, by its weight and texture, that what he held was a bar of solid gold.
    He looked from the bar to the man’s face, but the face seemed harder and less revealing than the surface of the metal.
    “Who are you?” asked Rearden.
    “The friend of the friendless.”
    “Did you come here to give this to me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you mean that you had to stalk me at night, on a lonely road, in order, not to rob me, but to hand me a bar of gold?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “When robbery is done in open daylight by sanction of the law, as it is done today, then any act of honor or restitution has to be hidden underground.”
    “What made you think that I’d accept a gift of this kind?”
    “It is not a gift, Mr. Rearden. It is your own money. But I have one favor to ask of you. It is a request, not a condition, because there can be no such thing as conditional property. The gold is yours, so you are free to use it as you please. But I risked my life to bring it to you tonight, so I am asking, as a favor, that you save it for the future or spend it on yourself. On nothing but your own comfort and pleasure. Do not give it away and, above all, do not put it into your business.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I don’t want it to be of any benefit to anybody but you.
    Otherwise, I will have broken an oath taken long ago-as I am breaking every rule I had set for myself by speaking to you tonight.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I have been collecting this money for you for a long time. But I did not intend to see you or tell you about it or give it to you until much later.”
    “Then why did you?”
    “Because I couldn’t stand it any longer.”
    “Stand what?”
    “I thought that I had seen everything one could see and that there was nothing I could not stand seeing. But when they took Rearden Metal away from you, it was too much, even for me. I know that you don’t need this gold at present. What you need is the justice which it represents, and the knowledge that there are men who care for justice.”
    Struggling not to give in to an emotion which he felt rising through his bewilderment, past all his doubts, Rearden tried to study the man’s face, searching for some clue to help him understand. But the face had no expression; it had not changed once while speaking; it looked as if the man had lost the capacity to feel long ago, and what remained of him were only features that seemed implacable and dead. With a shudder of astonishment, Rearden found himself thinking that it was not the face of a man, but of an avenging angel.
    “Why did you care?” asked Rearden. “What do I mean to you?”
    “Much more than you have reason to suspect. And I have a friend to whom you mean much more than you will ever learn. He would have given anything to stand by you today. But he can’t come to you. So I came in his place.”
    “What friend?”
    “I prefer not to name him.”
    “Did you say that you’ve spent a long time collecting this money for me?”
    “I have collected much more than this.” He pointed at the gold. “I am holding it in your name and I will turn it over to you when the time comes. This is only a sample, as proof that it does exist. And if you reach the day when you find yourself robbed of the last of your fortune, I want you to remember that you have a large bank account waiting for you.”
    “What account?”
    “If you try to think of all the money that has been taken from you by force, you will know that your account represents a considerable sum.”
    “How did you collect it? Where did this gold come from?”
    “It was taken from those who robbed you.”
    “Taken by whom?”
    “By me.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Ragnar Danneskjold.”
    Rearden looked at him for a long, still moment, then let the gold fall out of his hands.
    Danneskjold’s eyes did not follow it to the ground, but remained fixed on Rearden with no change of expression. “Would you rather I were a law-abiding citizen, Mr. Rearden? If so, which law should I abide by? Directive 10-289?”
    “Ragnar Danneskjold . . .” said Rearden, as if he were seeing the whole of the past decade, as if he were looking at the enormity of a crime spread through ten years and held within two words.
    “Look more carefully, Mr. Rearden. There are only two modes of living left to us today: to be a looter who robs disarmed victims or to be a victim who works for the benefit of his own despoilers. I did not choose to be either.”
    “You chose to live by means of force, like the rest of them,”
    “Yes-openly. Honestly, if you will. I do not rob men who are tied and gagged, I do not demand that my victims help me, I do not tell them that I am acting for their own good. I stake my life in every encounter with men, and they have a chance to match their guns and their brains against mine in fair battle. Fair? It’s I against the organized strength, the guns, the planes, the battleships of five continents. If it’s a moral judgment that you wish to pronounce, Mr. Rearden, then who is the man of higher morality: I or Wesley Mouch?”
    “I have no answer to give you,” said Rearden, his voice low.
    “Why should you be shocked, Mr. Rearden? I am merely complying with the system which my fellow men have established. If they believe that force is the proper means to deal with one another, I am giving them what they ask for. If they believe that the purpose of my life is to serve them, let them try to enforce their creed. If they believe that my mind is their property-let them come and get it.”
    “But what sort of life have you chosen? To what purpose are you giving your mind?”
    “To the cause of my love.”
    “Which is what?”
    “Justice.”
    “Served by being a pirate?”
    “By working for the day when I won’t have to be a pirate any longer.”
    “Which day is that?”
    “The day when you’ll be free to make a profit on Rearden Metal.”
    “Oh God!” said Rearden, laughing, his voice desperate. “Is that your ambition?”
    Danneskjold’s face did not change. “It is.”
    “Do you expect to live to see that day?”
    “Yes. Don’t you?”
    “No.”
    “Then what are you looking forward to, Mr. Rearden?”
    “Nothing.”
    “What are you working for?”
    Rearden glanced at him. “Why do you ask that?”
    “To make you understand why I’m not.”
    “Don’t expect me ever to approve of a criminal.”
    “I don’t expect it. But there are a few things I want to help you to see.”
    “Even if they’re true, the things you said, why did you choose to be a bandit? Why didn’t you simply step out, like-” He stopped.
    “Like Ellis Wyatt, Mr. Rearden? Like Andrew Stockton? Like your friend Ken Danagger?”
    “Yes!”
    “Would you approve of that?”
    “I-” He stopped, shocked by his own words.
    The shock that came next was to see Danneskjold smile: it was like seeing the first green of spring on the sculptured planes of an iceberg. Rearden realized suddenly, for the first time, that Danneskjold’s face was more than handsome, that it had the startling beauty of physical perfection-the hard, proud features, the scornful mouth of a Viking’s statue-yet he had not been aware of it, almost as if the dead sternness of the face had forbidden the impertinence of an appraisal.
    But the smile was brilliantly alive.
    “I do approve of it, Mr. Rearden. But I’ve chosen a special mission of my own. I’m after a man whom I want to destroy. He died many centuries ago, but until the last trace of him is wiped out of men’s minds, we will not have a decent world to live in.”
    “What man?”
    “Robin Hood.”
    Rearden looked at him blankly, not understanding.
    “He was the man who robbed the rich and gave to the poor. Well, I’m the man who robs the poor and gives to the rich-or, to be exact, the man who robs the thieving poor and gives back to the productive rich.”
    “What in blazes do you mean?”
    “If you remember the stories you’ve read about me in the newspapers, before they stopped printing them, you know that I have never robbed a private ship and never taken any private property. Nor have I ever robbed a military vessel-because the purpose of a military fleet is to protect from violence the citizens who paid for it, which is the proper function of a government. But I have seized every loot carrier that came within range of my guns, every government relief ship, subsidy ship, loan ship, gift ship, every vessel with a cargo of goods taken by force from some men for the unpaid, unearned benefit of others. I seized the boats that sailed under the flag of the idea which I am fighting: the idea that need is a sacred idol requiring human sacrifices-that the need of some men is the knife of a guillotine hanging over others-that all of us must live with our work, our hopes, our plans, our efforts at the mercy of the moment when that knife will descend upon us-and that the extent of our ability is the extent of our danger, so that success will bring our heads down on the block, while failure will give us the right to pull the cord. This is the horror which Robin Hood immortalized as an ideal of righteousness. It is said that he fought against the looting rulers and returned the loot to those who had been robbed, but that is not the meaning of the legend which has survived. He is remembered, not as a champion of property, but as a champion of need, not as a defender of the robbed, but as a provider of the poor. He is held to be the first man who assumed a halo of virtue by practicing charity with wealth which he did not own, by giving away goods which he had not produced, by making others pay for the luxury of his pity. He is the man who became the symbol of the idea that need, not achievement, is the source of rights, that we don’t have to produce, only to want, that the earned does not belong to us, but the unearned does. He became a justification for every mediocrity who, unable to make his own living, has demanded the power to dispose of the property of his betters, by proclaiming his willingness to devote his life to his inferiors at the price of robbing his superiors. It is this foulest of creatures-the double-parasite who lives on the sores, of the poor and the blood of the rich-whom men have come to regard as a moral ideal. And this has brought us to a world where the more a man produces, the closer he comes to the loss of all his rights, until, if his ability is great enough, he becomes a rightless creature delivered as prey to any claimant-while in order to be placed above rights, above principles, above morality, placed where anything is permitted to him, even plunder and murder, all a man has to do is to be in need. Do you wonder why the world is collapsing around us? That is what I am fighting, Mr.
    Rearden. Until men learn that of all human symbols, Robin Hood is the most immoral and the most contemptible, there will be no justice on earth and no way for mankind to survive.”
    Rearden listened, feeling numb. But under the numbness, like the first thrust of a seed breaking through, he felt an emotion he could not identify except that it seemed familiar and very distant, like something experienced and renounced long ago.
    “What I actually am, Mr. Rearden, is a policeman. It is a policeman’s duty to protect men from criminals-criminals being those who seize wealth by force. It is a policeman’s duty to retrieve stolen property and return it to its owners. But when robbery becomes the purpose of the law, and the policeman’s duty becomes, not the protection, but the plunder of property-then it is an outlaw who has to become a policeman. I have been selling the cargoes I retrieved to some special customers of mine in this country, who pay me in gold. Also, I have been selling my cargoes to the smugglers and the black-market traders of the People’s States of Europe. Do you know the conditions of existence in those People’s States? Since production and trade-not violence-were decreed to be crimes, the best men of Europe had no choice but to become criminals. The slave-drivers of those States are kept in power by the handouts from their fellow looters in countries not yet fully drained, such as this country. I do not let the handouts reach them. I sell the goods to Europe’s law-breakers, at the highest prices I can get, and I make them pay me in gold. Gold is the objective value, the means of preserving one’s wealth and one’s future. Nobody is permitted to have gold in Europe, except the whip-wielding friends of humanity, who claim that they spend it for the welfare of their victims. That is the gold which my smuggler-customers obtain to pay me.
    How? By the same method I use to obtain the goods. And then I return the gold to those from whom the goods were stolen-to you, Mr.
    Rearden, and to other men like you.”
    Rearden grasped the nature of the emotion he had forgotten. It was the emotion he had felt when, at the age of fourteen, he had looked at his first pay check-when, at the age of twenty-four, he had been made superintendent of the ore mines-when, as the owner of the mines, he had placed, in his own name, his first order for new equipment from the best concern of the time, Twentieth Century Motors-
    an emotion of solemn, joyous excitement, the sense of winning his place in a world he respected and earning the recognition of men he admired. For almost two decades, that emotion had been buried under a mount of wreckage, as the years had added layer upon gray layer of contempt, of indignation, of his struggle not to look around him, not to see those he dealt with, not to expect anything from men and to keep, as a private vision within the four walls of his office, the sense of that world into which he had hoped to rise. Yet there it was again, breaking through from under the wreckage, that feeling of quickened interest, of listening to the luminous voice of reason, with which one could communicate and deal and live. But it was the voice of a pirate speaking about acts of violence, offering him this substitute for his world of reason and justice. He could not accept it; he could not lose whatever remnant of his vision he still retained. He listened, wishing he could escape, yet knowing that he would not miss a word of it.
    “I deposit the gold in a bank-in a gold-standard bank, Mr. Rearden -to the account of men who are its rightful owners. They are the men of superlative ability who made their fortunes by personal effort, in free trade, using no compulsion, no help from the government. They are the great victims who have contributed the most and suffered the worst injustice in return. Their names are written in my book of restitution. Every load of gold which I bring back is divided among them and deposited to their accounts.”
    “Who are they?”
    “You’re one of them, Mr. Rearden. I cannot compute all the money that has been extorted from you-in hidden taxes, in regulations, in wasted time, in lost effort, in energy spent to overcome artificial obstacles. I cannot compute the sum, but if you wish to see its magnitude -look around you. The extent of the misery now spreading through this once prosperous country is the extent of the injustice which you have suffered. If men refuse to pay the debt they owe you, this is the manner in which they will pay for it. But there is one part of the debt which is computed and on record. That is the part which I have made it my purpose to collect and return to you.”
    “What is that?”
    “Your income tax, Mr. Rearden.”
    “What?”
    “Your income tax for the last twelve years.”
    “You intend to refund that?”
    “In full and in gold, Mr. Rearden.”
    Rearden burst out laughing; he laughed like a young boy, in simple amusement, in enjoyment of the incredible. “Good God! You’re a policeman and a collector of Internal Revenue, too?”
    “Yes,” said Danneskjold gravely.
    “You’re not serious about this, are you?”
    “Do I look as if I’m joking?”
    “But this is preposterous!”
    “Any more preposterous than Directive 10-289?”
    “It’s not real or possible!”
    “Is only evil real and possible?”
    “But-”
    “Are you thinking that death and taxes are our only certainty, Mr.
    Rearden? Well, there’s nothing I can do about the first, but if I lift the burden of the second, men might learn to see the connection between the two and what a longer, happier life they have the power to achieve. They might learn to hold, not death and taxes, but life and production as their two absolutes and as the base of their moral code.”
    Rearden looked at him, not smiling. The tall, slim figure, with the windbreaker stressing its trained muscular agility, was that of a highwayman; the stern marble face was that of a judge; the dry, clear voice was that of an efficient bookkeeper.
    “The looters are not the only ones who have kept records on you, Mr. Rearden. So have I. I have, in my files, copies of all your income tax returns for the last twelve years, as well as the returns of all my other clients. I have friends in some astonishing places, who obtain the copies I need. I divide the money among my clients in proportion to the sums extorted from them. Most of my accounts have now been paid to their owners. Yours is the largest one left to settle. On the day when you will be ready to claim it-the day when I’ll know that no penny of it will go back to support the looters-I will turn your account over to you. Until then-” He glanced down at the gold on the ground. “Pick it up, Mr. Rearden. It’s not stolen. It’s yours.”
    Rearden would not move or answer or look down.
    “Much more than that lies in the bank, in your name.”
    “What bank?”
    “Do you remember Midas Mulligan of Chicago?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “All my accounts are deposited at the Mulligan Bank.”
    “There is no Mulligan Bank in Chicago.”
    “It is not in Chicago.”
    Rearden let a moment pass. “Where is it?”
    “I think that you will know it before long, Mr. Rearden. But I cannot tell you now.” He added, “I must tell you, however, that I am the only one responsible for this undertaking. It is my own personal mission. No one is involved in it but me and the men of my ship’s crew.
    Even my banker has no part in it, except for keeping the money I deposit. Many of my friends do not approve of the course I’ve chosen.
    But we all choose different ways to fight the same battle-and this is mine.”
    Rearden smiled contemptuously, “Aren’t you one of those damn altruists who spends his time on a non-profit venture and risks his life merely to serve others?”
    “No, Mr. Rearden. I am investing my time in my own future.
    When we are free and have to start rebuilding from out of the ruins, I want to see the world reborn as fast as possible. If there is, then, some working capital in the right hands-in the hands of our best, our most productive men-it will save years for the rest of us and, incidentally, centuries for the history of the country. Did you ask what you meant to me? Everything I admire, everything I want to be on the day when the earth will have a place for such state of being, everything I want to deal with-even if this is the only way I can deal with you and be of use to you at present.”
    “Why?” whispered Rearden.
    “Because my only love, the only value I care to live for, is that which has never been loved by the world, has never won recognition or friends or defenders: human ability. That is the love I am serving-and if I should lose my life, to what better purpose could I give it?”
    The man who had lost the capacity to feel?-thought Rearden, and knew that the austerity of the marble face was the form of a disciplined capacity to feel too deeply. The even voice was continuing dispassionately: “I wanted you to know this. I wanted you to know it now, when it most seem to you that you’re abandoned at the bottom of a pit among subhuman creatures who are all that’s left of mankind. I wanted you to know, in your most hopeless hour, that the day of deliverance is much closer than you think. And there was one special reason why I had to speak to you and tell you my secret ahead of the proper time.
    Have you heard of what happened to Orren Boyle’s steel mills on the coast of Maine?”
    “Yes,” said Rearden-and was shocked to hear that the word came as a gasp out of the sudden jolt of eagerness within him. “I didn’t know whether it was true.”
    “It’s true. I did it. Mr. Boyle is not going to manufacture Rearden Metal on the coast of Maine. He is not going to manufacture it anywhere. Neither is any other looting louse who thinks that a directive can give him a right to your brain. Whoever attempts to produce that Metal, will find his furnaces blown up, his machinery blasted, his shipments wrecked, his plant set on fire-so many things will happen to any man who tries it, that people will say there’s a curse on it, and there will soon be no worker in the country willing to enter the plant of any new producer of Rearden Metal. If men like Boyle think that force is all they need to rob their betters-let them see what happens when one of their betters chooses to resort to force. I wanted you to know, Mr. Rearden, that none of them will produce your Metal nor make a penny on it.”
    Because he felt an exultant desire to laugh-as he had laughed at the news of Wyatt’s fire, as he had laughed at the crash of d’Anconia Copper-and knew that if he did, the thing he feared would hold him, would not release him this time, and he would never see his mills again-Rearden drew back and, for a moment, kept his lips closed tight to utter no sound. When the moment was over, he said quietly, his voice firm and dead, “Take that gold of yours and get away from here. I won’t accept the help of a criminal.”
    Danneskjold’s face showed no reaction. “I cannot force you to accept the gold, Mr. Rearden. But I will not take it back. You may leave it lying where it is, if you wish.”
    “I don’t want your help and I don’t intend to protect you. If I were within reach of a phone, I would call the police. I would and I will, if you ever attempt to approach me again. I’ll do it-in self-protection.”
    “I understand exactly what you mean.”
    “You know-because I’ve listened to you, because you’ve seen me eager to hear it-that I haven’t damned you as I should. I can’t damn you or anyone else. There are no standards left for men to live by, so I don’t care to judge anything they do today or in what manner they attempt to endure the unendurable. If this is your manner, I will let you go to hell in your own way, but I want no part of it. Neither as your inspiration nor as your accomplice. Don’t expect me ever to accept your bank account, if it does exist. Spend it on some extra armor plate for yourself-because I’m going to report this to the police and give them every clue I can to set them on your trail.”
    Danneskjold did not move or answer. A freight train was rolling by, somewhere in the distance and darkness; they could not see it, but they heard the pounding beat of wheels filling the silence, and it seemed close, as if a disembodied train, reduced to a long string of sound, were going past them in the night.
    “You wanted to help me in my most hopeless hour?” said Rearden.
    “If I am brought to where my only defender is a pirate, then I don’t care to be defended any longer. You speak some remnant of a human language, so in the name of that, I’ll tell you that I have no hope left, but I have the knowledge that when the end comes, I will have lived by my own standards, even while I was the only one to whom they remained valid. I will have lived in the world in which I started and J will go down with the last of it. I don’t think you’ll want to understand me, but-”
    A beam of light hit them with the violence of a physical blow. The clangor of the train had swallowed the noise of the motor and they had not heard the approach of the car that swept out of the side road, from behind the farmhouse. They were not in the car’s path, yet they heard the screech of brakes behind the two headlights, pulling an invisible shape to a stop. It was Rearden who jumped back involuntarily and had time to marvel at his companion: the swiftness of Danneskjold’s self-control was that he did not move.
    It was a police car and it stopped beside them.
    The driver leaned out. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Rearden!” he said, touching his fingers to his cap. “Good evening, sir.”
    “Hello,” said Rearden, fighting to control the unnatural abruptness of his voice.
    There were two patrolmen in the front seat of the car and their faces had a tight look of purpose, not the look of their usual friendly intention to stop for a chat.
    “Mr. Rearden, did you walk from the mills by way of Edgewood Road, past Blacksmith Cove?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Did you happen to see a man anywhere around these parts, a stranger moving along in a hurry?”
    “Where?”
    “He’d be either on foot or in a battered wreck of a car that’s got a million-dollar motor.”
    “What man?”
    “A tall man with blond hair.”
    “Who is he?”
    “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, Mr. Rearden. Did you see him?”
    Rearden was not aware of his own questions, only of the astonishing fact that he was able to force sounds past some beating barrier inside his throat. He was looking straight at the policeman, but he felt as if the focus of his eyes had switched to his side vision, and what he saw most clearly was Danneskjold’s face watching him with no expression, with no line’s, no muscle’s worth of feeling. He saw Danneskjold’s arms hanging idly by his sides, the hands relaxed, with no sign of intention to reach for a weapon, leaving the tall, straight body defenseless and open-open as to a firing squad. He saw, in the light, that the face looked younger than he had thought and that the eyes were sky-blue.
    He felt that his one danger would be to glance directly at Danneskjold-and he kept his eyes on the policeman, on the brass buttons of a blue uniform, but the object filling his consciousness, more forcefully than a visual perception, was Danneskjold’s body, the naked body under the clothes, the body that would be wiped out of existence. He did not hear his own words, because he kept hearing a single sentence in his mind, without context except the feeling that it was the only thing that mattered to him in the world: “If I should lose my life, to what better purpose could I give it?”
    “Did you see him, Mr. Rearden?”
    “No,” said Rearden. “I didn’t.”
    The policeman shrugged regretfully and closed his hands about the steering wheel. “You didn’t see any man that looked suspicious?”
    “No.”
    “Nor any strange car passing you on the road?”
    “No.”
    The policeman reached for the starter. “They got word that he was seen ashore in these parts tonight, and they’ve thrown a dragnet over five counties. We’re not supposed to mention his name, not to scare the folks, but he’s a man whose head is worth three million dollars in rewards from all over the world.”
    He had pressed the starter and the motor was churning the air with bright cracks of sound, when the second policeman leaned forward.
    He had been looking at the blond hair under Danneskjold’s cap.
    “Who is that, Mr. Rearden?” he asked.
    “My new bodyguard,” said Rearden.
    “Oh . . . ! A sensible precaution, Mr. Rearden, in times like these.
    Good night, sir.”
    The motor jerked forward. The red taillights of the car went shrinking down the road. Danneskjold watched it go, then glanced pointedly at Rearden’s right hand. Rearden realized that he had stood facing the policemen with his hand clutching the gun in his pocket and that he had been prepared to use it.
    He opened his fingers and drew his hand out hastily. Danneskjold smiled. It was a smile of radiant amusement, the silent laughter of a clear, young spirit greeting a moment it was glad to have lived.
    And although the two did not resemble each other, the smile made Rearden think of Francisco d’Anconia.
    “You haven’t told a lie,” said Ragnar Danneskjold. “Your bodyguard-that’s what I am and what I’ll deserve to be, in many more ways than you can know at present. Thanks, Mr. Rearden, and so long-we’ll meet again much sooner than I had hoped.”
    He was gone before Rearden could answer. He vanished beyond the stone fence, as abruptly and soundlessly as he had come. When Rearden turned to look through the farm field, there was no trace of him and no sign of movement anywhere in the darkness.
    Rearden stood on the edge of an empty road in a spread of loneliness vaster than it had seemed before. Then he saw, lying at his feet, an object wrapped in burlap, with one corner exposed and glistening in the moonlight, the color of the pirate’s hair. He bent, picked it up and walked on.
    Kip Chalmers swore as the train lurched and spilled his cocktail over the table top. He slumped forward, his elbow in the puddle, and said: “God damn these railroads! What’s the matter with their track?
    You’d think with all the money they’ve got they’d disgorge a little, so we wouldn’t have to bump like farmers on a hay cart!”
    His three companions did not take the trouble to answer. It was late, and they remained in the lounge merely because an effort was needed to retire to their compartments. The lights of the lounge looked like feeble portholes in a fog of cigarette smoke dank with the odor of alcohol. It was a private car, which Chalmers had demanded and obtained for his journey; it was attached to the end of the Comet and it swung like the tail of a nervous animal as the Comet coiled through the curves of the mountains.
    “I’m going to campaign for the nationalization of the railroads,”
    said Kip Chalmers, glaring defiantly at a small, gray man who looked at him without interest. ‘That’s going to be my platform plank. I’ve got to have a platform plank. I don’t like Jim Taggart. He looks like a soft-boiled clam. To hell with the railroads! It’s time we took them over.”
    “Go to bed,” said the man, “if you expect to look like anything human at the big rally tomorrow.”
    “Do you think we’ll make it?”
    “You’ve got to make it.”
    “I know I’ve got to. But I don’t think we’ll get there on time. This goddamn snail of a super-special is hours late.”
    “You’ve got to get there, Kip,” said the man ominously, in that stubborn monotone of the unthinking which asserts an end without concern for the means.
    “God damn you, don’t you suppose I know it?”
    Kip Chalmers had curly blond hair and a shapeless mouth. He came from a semi-wealthy, semi-distinguished family, but he sneered at wealth and distinction in a manner which implied that only a top rank aristocrat could permit himself such a degree of cynical indifference. He had graduated from a college which specialized in breeding that kind of aristocracy. The college had taught him that the purpose of ideas is to fool those who are stupid enough to think. He had made his way in Washington with the grace of a cat-burglar, climbing from bureau to bureau as from ledge to ledge of a crumbling structure. He was ranked as semi-powerful, but his manner made laymen mistake him for nothing less than Wesley Mouch.
    For reasons of his own particular strategy, Kip Chalmers had decided to enter popular politics and to run for election as Legislator from California, though he knew nothing about that state except the movie industry and the beach clubs. His campaign manager had done the preliminary work, and Chalmers was now on his way to face his future constituents for the first time at an over publicized rally in San Francisco tomorrow night. The manager had wanted him to start a day earlier, but Charmers had stayed in Washington to attend a cocktail party and had taken the last train possible. He had shown no concern about the rally until this evening, when he noticed that the Comet was running six hours late.
    His three companions did not mind his mood: they liked his liquor, tester Tuck, his campaign manager, was a small, aging man with a face that looked as if it had once been punched in and had never rebounded. He was an attorney who, some generations earlier, would have represented shoplifters and people who stage accidents on the premises of rich corporations; now he found that he could do better by representing men like Kip Chalmers.
    Laura Bradford was Chalmers’ current mistress; he liked her because his predecessor had been Wesley Mouch. She was a movie actress who had forced her way from competent featured player to incompetent star, not by means of sleeping with studio executives, but by taking the long-distance short cut of sleeping with bureaucrats. She talked economics, instead of glamor, for press interviews, in the belligerently righteous style of a third-rate tabloid; her economics consisted of the assertion that “we’ve got to help the poor.”
    Gilbert Keith-Worthing was Chalmers’ guest, for no reason that either of them could discover. He was a British novelist of world fame, who had been popular thirty years ago; since then, nobody bothered to read what he wrote, but everybody accepted him as a walking classic.
    He had been considered profound for uttering such things as: “Freedom? Do let’s stop talking about freedom. Freedom is impossible. Man can never be free of hunger, of cold, of disease, of physical accidents.
    He can never be free of the tyranny of nature. So why should he object to the tyranny of a political dictatorship?” When all of Europe put into practice the ideas which he bad preached, he came to live in America. Through the years, his style of writing and his body had grown flabby. At seventy, he was an obese old man with retouched hair and a manner of scornful cynicism retouched by quotations from the yogis about the futility of all human endeavor. Kip Chalmers had invited him, because it seemed to look distinguished. Gilbert Keith Worthing had come along, because he had no particular place to go.
    “God damn these railroad people!” said Kip Chalmers. “They’re doing it on purpose. They want to ruin my campaign. I can’t miss that rally! For Christ’s sake, Lester, do something!”
    “I’ve tried,” said Lester Tuck. At the train’s last stop, he had tried, by long-distance telephone, to find air transportation to complete their journey; but there were no commercial flights scheduled for the next two days.
    “If they don’t get me there on time, I’ll have their scalps and their railroad! Can’t we tell that damn conductor to hurry?”
    “You’ve told him three times,”
    “I’ll get him fired. He’s given me nothing but a lot of alibis about all their messy technical troubles. I expect transportation, not alibis. They can’t treat me like one of their day-coach passengers. I expect them to get me where I want to go when I want it. Don’t they know that I’m on this train?”
    “They know it by now,” said Laura Bradford. “Shut up, Kip. You bore me.”
    Chalmers refilled his glass. The car was rocking and the glassware tinkled faintly on the shelves of the bar. The patches of starlit sky in the windows kept swaying jerkily, and it seemed as if the stars were tinkling against one another. They could see nothing beyond the glass bay of the observation window at the end of the car, except the small halos of red and green lanterns marking the rear of the train, and a brief stretch of rail running away from them into the darkness. A wall of rock was racing the train, and the stars dipped occasionally into a sudden break that outlined, high above them, the peaks of the mountains of Colorado.
    “Mountains . . .” said Gilbert Keith-Worthing, with satisfaction.
    “It is a spectacle of this kind that makes one feel the insignificance of man.’ What is this presumptuous little bit of rail, which crude materialists are so proud of building-compared to that eternal grandeur? No more than the basting thread of a seamstress on the hem of the garment of nature. If a single one of those granite giants chose to crumble, it would annihilate this train.”
    “Why should it choose to crumble?” asked Laura Bradford, without any particular interest.
    “I think this damn train is going slower,” said Kip Chalmers. “Those bastards are slowing down,, in spite of what I told them!”
    “Well . . . it’s the mountains, you know . . .” said Lester Tuck.
    “Mountains be damned! Lester, what day is this? With all those damn changes of time, I can’t tell which-”
    “It’s May twenty-seventh,” sighed Lester Tuck.
    “It’s May twenty-eighth,” said Gilbert Keith-Worthing, glancing at his watch. “It is now twelve minutes past midnight.”
    “Jesus!” cried Chalmers. “Then the rally is today?”
    “Yep,” said Lester Tuck.
    “We won’t make it! We-”
    The train gave a sharper lurch, knocking the glass out of his hand.
    The thin sound of its crash against the floor mixed with the screech of the wheel-flanges tearing against the rail of a sharp curve.
    “I say,” asked Gilbert Keith-Worthing nervously, “are your railroads safe?”
    “Hell, yes!” said Kip Chalmers. “We’ve got so many rules, regulations and controls that those bastards wouldn’t dare not to be safe!
    . . . Lester, how far are we now? What’s the next stop?’1
    “There won’t be any stop till Salt Lake City.”
    “I mean, what’s the next station?”
    Lester Tuck produced a soiled map, which he had been consulting every few minutes since nightfall. “Winston,” he said. “Winston, Colorado.”
    Kip Chalmers reached for another glass.
    “Tinky Holloway said that Wesley said that if you don’t win this election, you’re through,” said Laura Bradford. She sat sprawled in her chair, looking past Chalmers, studying her own face in a mirror on the wall of the lounge; she was bored and it amused her to needle his impotent anger.
    “Oh, he did, did he?”
    “Uh-huh. Wesley doesn’t want what’s-his-name-whoever’s running against you-to get into the Legislature. If you don’t win, Wesley will be sore as hell. Tinky said-”
    “Damn that bastard! He’d better watch his own neck!”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Wesley likes him very much.” She added, “Tinky Holloway wouldn’t allow some miserable train to make him miss an important meeting. They wouldn’t dare to hold him up.”
    Kip Chalmers sat staring at his glass. “I’m going to have the government seize all the railroads,” he said, his voice low.
    “Really,” said Gilbert Keith-Worthing, “I don’t see why you haven’t done it long ago. This is the only country on earth backward enough to permit private ownership of railroads.”
    “Well, we’re catching up with you,” said Kip Chalmers.
    “Your country is so incredibly naive. It’s such an anachronism. All that talk about liberty and human rights-I haven’t heard it since the days of my great-grandfather. It’s nothing but a verbal luxury of the rich. After all, it doesn’t make any difference to the poor whether their livelihood is at the mercy of an industrialist or of a bureaucrat.”
    5S8
    “The day of the industrialists is over. This is the day of-”
    The jolt felt as if the air within the car smashed them forward while the floor stopped under their feet. Kip Chalmers was flung down to the carpet, Gilbert Keith-Worthing was thrown across the table top, the lights were blasted out. Glasses crashed off the shelves, the steel of the walls screamed as if about to rip open, while a long, distant thud went like a convulsion through the wheels of the train.
    When he raised his head, Chalmers saw that the car stood intact and still; he heard the moans of his companions and the first shriek of Laura Bradford’s hysterics. He crawled along the floor to the doorway, wrenched it open, and tumbled down the steps. Far ahead, on the side of a curve, he saw moving flashlights and a red glow at a spot where the engine had no place to be. He stumbled through the darkness, bumping into half-clothed figures that waved the futile little flares of matches.
    Somewhere along the line, he saw a man with a flashlight and seized his arm. It was the conductor.
    “What happened?” gasped Chalmers.
    “Split rail,” the conductor answered impassively. “The engine went off the track.”
    “Off . . . ?M
    “On its side.”
    “Anybody . . . killed?”
    “No. The engineer’s all right. The fireman is hurt.”
    “Split rail? What do you mean, split rail?”
    The conductor’s face had an odd look: it was grim, accusing and closed. “Rail wears out, Mr. Chalmers,” he answered with a strange kind of emphasis. “Particularly on curves.”
    “Didn’t you know that it was worn out?”
    “We knew.”
    “Well, why didn’t you have it replaced?”
    “It was going to be replaced. But Mr. Locey cancelled that.”
    “Who is Mr. Locey?”
    “The man who is not our Operating Vice-President.”
    Chalmers wondered why the conductor seemed to look at him as if something about the catastrophe were his fault. “Well . . . well, aren’t you going to put the engine back on the track?”
    “That engine’s never going to be put back on any track, from the looks of it.”
    “But . . . but it’s got to move us!”
    “It can’t.”
    Beyond the few moving flares and the dulled sounds of screams, Chalmers sensed suddenly, not wanting to look at it, the black immensity of the mountains, the silence of hundreds of uninhabited miles, and the precarious strip of a ledge hanging between a wall of rock and an abyss. He gripped the conductor’s arm tighter.
    “But . . . but what are we going to do?”
    “The engineer’s gone to call Winston.”
    “Call? How?”
    “There’s a phone couple of miles down the track.”
    “Will they get us out of here?”
    “They will.”
    “But . . .” Then his mind made a connection with the past and the future, and his voice rose to a scream for the first time: “How long will we have to wait?”
    “I don’t know,” said the conductor. He threw Chalmers’ hand off his arm, and walked away.
    The night operator of Winston Station listened to the phone message, dropped the receiver and raced up the stairs to shake the station agent out of bed. The station agent was a husky, surly drifter who had been assigned to the job ten days ago, by order of the new division superintendent. He stumbled dazedly to his feet, but he was knocked awake when the operator’s words reached his brain.
    “What?” he gasped. “Jesus! The Comet? . . . Well, don’t stand there shaking! Call Silver Springs!”
    The night dispatcher of the Division Headquarters at Silver Springs listened to the message, then telephoned Dave Mitchum, the new superintendent of the Colorado Division.
    “The Comet?” gasped Mitchum, his hand pressing the telephone receiver to his ear, his feet hitting the floor and throwing him upright, out of bed. “The engine done for? The Diesel?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Oh God! Oh, God Almighty! What are we going to do?” Then, remembering his position, he added, “Well, send out the wrecking train.”
    “I have.”
    “Call the operator at Sherwood to hold all traffic.”
    “I have.”
    “What have you got on the sheet?”
    “The Army Freight Special, westbound. But it’s not due for about four hours. It’s running late.”
    “I’ll be right down. . . . Wait, listen, get Bill, Sandy and Clarence down by the time I get there. There’s going to be hell to pay!”
    Dave Mitchum had always complained about injustice, because, he said, he had always had bad luck. He explained it by speaking darkly about the conspiracy of the big fellows, who would never give him a chance, though he did not explain just whom he meant by “the big fellows.” Seniority of service was his favorite topic of complaint and sole standard of value; he had been in the railroad business longer than many men who had advanced beyond him; this, he said, was proof of the social system’s injustice-though he never explained just what he meant by “the social system.” He had worked for many railroads, but had not stayed long with any one of them. His employers had had no specific misdeeds to charge against him, but had simply eased him out, because he said, “Nobody told me to!” too often. He did not know that he owed his present job to a deal between James Taggart and Wesley Mouch: when Taggart traded to Mouch the secret of his sister’s private life, in exchange for a raise in rates, Mouch made him throw in an extra favor, by their customary rules of bargaining, which consisted of squeezing all one could out of any given trade. The extra was a job for Dave Mitchum, who was the brother-in-law of Claude Slagenhop, who was the president of the Friends of Global Progress, who were regarded by Mouch as a valuable influence on public opinion. James Taggart pushed the responsibility of finding a job for Mitchum onto Clifton Locey. Locey pushed Mitchum into the first job that came up-superintendent of the Colorado Division-when the man holding it quit without notice. The man quit when the extra Diesel engine of Winston Station was given to Chick Morrison’s Special.
    “What are we going to do?” cried Dave Mitchum, rushing, half-dressed and groggy with sleep, into his office, where the chief dispatcher, the trainmaster and the road foreman of engines were waiting for him.
    The three men did not answer. They were middle-aged men with years of railroad service behind them. A month ago, they would have volunteered their advice in any emergency; but they were beginning to learn that things had changed and that it was dangerous to speak.
    “What in hell are we going to do?”
    “One thing is certain,” said Bill Brent, the chief dispatcher. “We can’t send a train into the tunnel with a coal-burning engine.”
    Dave Mitchum’s eyes grew sullen: he knew that this was the one thought on all their minds; he wished Brent had not named it.
    “Well, where do we get a Diesel?” he asked angrily.
    “We don’t,” said the road foreman.
    “But we can’t keep the Comet waiting on a siding all night!”
    “Looks like we’ll have to,” said the trainmaster. “What’s the use of talking about it, Dave? You know that there is no Diesel anywhere on the division.”
    “But Christ Almighty, how do they expect us to move trains without engines?”
    “Miss Taggart didn’t,” said the road foreman. “Mr. Locey does.”
    “Bill,” asked Mitchum, in the tone of pleading for a favor, “isn’t there anything transcontinental that’s due tonight, with any sort of a Diesel?”
    “The first one to come,” said Bill Brent implacably, “will be Number 236, the fast freight from San Francisco, which is due at Winston at seven-eighteen A.M.” He added, “That’s the Diesel closest to us at this moment. I’ve checked,”
    “What about the Army Special?”
    “Better not think about it, Dave. That one has superiority over everything on the line, including the Comet, by order of the Army.
    They’re running late as it is-journal boxes caught fire twice. They’re carrying munitions for the West Coast arsenals. Better pray that nothing stops them on your division. If you think we’ll catch hell for holding the Comet, it’s nothing to what we’ll catch if we try to stop that Special.”
    They remained silent. The windows were open to the summer night and they could hear the ringing of the telephone in the dispatcher’s office downstairs. The signal lights winked over the deserted yards that had once been a busy division point.
    Mitchum looked toward the roundhouse, where the black silhouettes of a few steam engines stood outlined in a dim light.
    “The tunnel-” he said and stopped.
    “-is eight miles long,” said the trainmaster, with a harsh emphasis.
    “I was only thinking,” snapped Mitchum.
    “Better not think of it,” said Brent softly.
    “I haven’t said anything!”
    “What was that talk you had with Dick Horton before he quit?” the road foreman asked too innocently, as if the subject were irrelevant.
    “Wasn’t it something about the ventilation system of the tunnel being on the bum? Didn’t he say that that tunnel was hardly safe nowadays even for Diesel engines?”
    “Why do you bring that up?” snapped Mitchum. “I haven’t said anything!” Dick Horton, the division chief engineer, had quit three days after Mitchum’s arrival.
    “I thought I’d just mention it,” the road foreman answered innocently.
    “Look, Dave,” said Bill Brent, knowing that Mitchum would stall for another hour rather than formulate a decision, “you know that there’s only one thing to do: hold the Comet at Winston till morning, wait for Number 236, have her Diesel take the Comet through the tunnel, then let the Comet finish her run with the best coal-burner we can give her on the other side,”
    “But how late will that make her?”
    Brent shrugged. “Twelve hours-eighteen hours-who knows?”
    “Eighteen hours-for the Comet? Christ, that’s never happened before!”
    “None of what’s been happening to us has ever happened before,”
    said Brent, with an astonishing sound of weariness in his brisk, competent voice.
    “But they’ll blame us for it in New York! They’ll put all the blame on us!”
    Brent shrugged. A month ago, he would have considered such an injustice inconceivable; today, he knew better.
    “I guess . . .” said Mitchum miserably, “I guess there’s nothing else that we can do.”
    “There isn’t, Dave,”
    “Oh God! Why did this have to happen to us?”
    “Who is John Galt?”
    It was half-past two when the Comet, pulled by an old switch engine, jerked to a stop on a siding of Winston Station. Kip Chalmers glanced out with incredulous anger at the few shanties on a desolate mountainside and at the ancient hovel of a station.
    “Now what? What in hell are they stopping here for?” he cried, and rang for the conductor.
    With the return of motion and safety, his terror had turned into rage. He felt almost as if he had been cheated by having been made to experience an unnecessary fear. His companions were still clinging to the tables of the lounge; they felt too shaken to sleep.
    “How long?” the conductor said impassively, in answer to his question. “Till morning, Mr. Chalmers.”
    Chalmers stared at him, stupefied. “We’re going to stand here till morning?”
    “Yes, Mr. Chalmers.”
    “Here?”
    “Yes.”
    “But I have a rally in San Francisco in the evening!”
    The conductor did not answer.
    “Why? Why do we have to stand? Why in hell? What happened?”
    Slowly, patiently, with contemptuous politeness, the conductor gave him an exact account of the situation. But years ago, in grammar school, in high school, in college, Kip Chalmers had been taught that man does not and need not live by reason.
    “Damn your tunnel!” he screamed. “Do you think I’m going to let you hold me up because of some miserable tunnel? Do you want to wreck vital national plans on account of a tunnel? Tell your engineer that I must be in San Francisco by evening and that he’s got to get me there!”
    “How?”
    “That’s your job, not mine!”
    “There is no way to do it.”
    “Then find a way, God damn you!”
    The conductor did not answer.
    “Do you think I’ll let your miserable technological problems interfere with crucial social issues? Do you know who I am? Tell that engineer to start moving, if he values his job!”
    “The engineer has his orders.”
    “Orders be damned! I give the orders these days! Tell him to start at once!”
    “Perhaps you’d better speak to the station agent, Mr. Chalmers. I have no authority to answer you as I’d like to,” said the conductor, and walked out.
    Chalmers leaped to his feet. “Say, Kip . . .” said Lester Tuck uneasily, “maybe it’s true . . . maybe they can’t do it.”
    “They can if they have to!” snapped Chalmers, marching resolutely to the door.
    Years ago, in college, he had been taught that the only effective means to impel men to action was fear.
    In the dilapidated office of Winston Station, he confronted a sleepy man with slack, worn features, and a frightened young boy who sat at the operator’s desk. They listened, in silent stupor, to a stream of profanity such as they had never heard from any section gang.
    “-and it’s not my problem how you get the train through the tunnel, that’s for you to figure out!” Chalmers concluded. “But if you don’t get me an engine and don’t start that train, you can kiss good-bye to your jobs, your work permits and this whole goddamn railroad!”
    The station agent had never heard of Kip Chalmers and did not know the nature of his position. But he knew that this was the day when unknown men in undefined positions held unlimited power-the power of life or death.
    “It’s not up to us, Mr. Chalmers,” he said pleadingly. “We don’t issue the orders out here. The order came from Silver Springs. Suppose you telephone Mr. Mitchum and-”
    “Who’s Mr. Mitchum?”
    “He’s the division superintendent at Silver Springs. Suppose you send him a message to-”
    “I should bother with a division superintendent! I’ll send a message to Jim Taggart-that’s what I’m going to do!”
    Before the station agent had time to recover, Chalmers whirled to the boy, ordering, “You-take this down and send it at once!”
    It was a message which, a month ago, the station agent would not have accepted from any passenger; the rules forbade it; but he was not certain about any rules any longer: Mr. James Taggart, New York City. Am held up on the Comet at Winston, Colorado, by the incompetence of your men, who refuse to give me an engine. Have meeting in San Francisco in the evening of top-level national importance. If you don’t move my train at once, I’ll let you guess the consequences. Kip Chalmers.
    After the boy had transmitted the words onto the wires that stretched from pole to pole across a continent as guardians of the Taggart track-after Kip Chalmers had returned to Ms car to wait for an answer-the station agent telephoned Dave Mitchum, who was his friend, and read to him the text of the message. He heard Mitchum groan in answer.
    “I thought I’d tell you, Dave. I never heard of the guy before, but maybe he’s somebody important.”
    “I don’t know!” moaned Mitchum. “Kip Chalmers? You see his name in the newspapers all the time, right in with all the top-level boys, I don’t know what he is, but if he’s from Washington, we can’t take any chances. Oh Christ, what are we going to do?”
    We can’t take any chances-thought the Taggart operator in New York, and transmitted the message by telephone to James Taggart’s home. It was close to six A.M. in New York, and James Taggart was awakened out of the fitful sleep of a restless night. He listened to the telephone, his face sagging. He felt the same fear as the station agent of Winston, and for the same reason.
    He called the home of Clifton Locey. All the rage which he could not pour upon Kip Chalmers, was poured over the telephone wire upon Clifton Locey. “Do something!” screamed Taggart. “I don’t care what you do, it’s your job, not mine, but see to it that that train gets through! What in hell is going on? I never heard of the Comet being held up! Is that how you run your department? It’s a fine thing when important passengers have to start sending messages to me! At least, when my sister ran the place, I wasn’t awakened in the middle of the night over every spike that broke in Iowa-Colorado, I mean!”
    “I’m so sorry, Jim,” said Clifton Locey smoothly, in a tone that balanced apology, reassurance and the right degree of patronizing confidence. “It’s just a misunderstanding. It’s somebody’s stupid mistake.
    Don’t worry, 111 take care of it. I was, as a matter of fact, in bed, but I’ll attend to it at once.”
    Clifton Locey was not in bed; he had just returned from a round of night clubs, in the company of a young lady. He asked her to wait and hurried to the offices of Taggart Transcontinental. None of the night staff who saw him there could say why he chose to appear in person, but neither could they say that it had been unnecessary. He rushed in and out of several offices, was seen by many people and gave an impression of great activity. The only physical result of it was an order that went over the wires to Dave Mitchum, superintendent of the Colorado Division: “Give an engine to Mr. Chalmers at once. Send the Comet through safely and without unnecessary delay. If you are unable to perform your duties, I shall hold you responsible before the Unification Board, Clifton Locey,”
    Then, calling his girl friend to join him, Clifton Locey drove to a country roadhouse-to make certain that no one would be able to find him in the next few hours.
    The dispatcher at Silver Springs was baffled by the order that he handed to Dave Mitchum, but Dave Mitchum understood. He knew that no railroad order would ever speak in such terms as giving an engine to a passenger; he knew that the thing was a show piece, he guessed what sort of show was being staged, and he felt a cold sweat at the realization of who was being framed as the goat of the show.
    “What’s the matter, Dave?” asked the trainmaster.
    Mitchum did not answer. He seized the telephone, his hands shaking as he begged for a connection to the Taggart operator in New York, He looked like an animal in a trap.
    He begged the New York operator to get him Mr. Clifton Locey’s home. The operator tried. There was no answer. He begged the operator to keep on trying and to try every number he could think of, where Mr. Locey might be found. The operator promised and Mitchum hung up, but knew that it was useless to wait or to speak to anyone in Mr. Locey’s department.
    “What’s the matter, Dave?”
    Mitchum handed him the order-and saw by the look on the trainmaster’s face that the trap was as bad as he had suspected.
    He called the Region Headquarters of Taggart Transcontinental at Omaha, Nebraska, and begged to speak to the general manager of the region. There was a brief silence on the wire, then the voice of the Omaha operator told him that the general manager had resigned and vanished three days ago-“over a little trouble with Mr. Locey,” the voice added.
    He asked to speak to the assistant general manager in charge of his particular district; but the assistant was out of town for the week end and could not be reached.
    “Get me somebody else!” Mitchum screamed. “Anybody, of any district! For Christ’s sake, get me somebody who’ll tell me what to do!”
    The man who came on the wire was the assistant general manager of the Iowa-Minnesota District.
    “What?” he interrupted at Mitchum’s first words. “At Winston, Colorado? Why in hell are you calling me? . . . No, don’t tell me what happened, I don’t want to know it! . . . No, I said! No! You’re not going to frame me into having to explain afterwards why I did or didn’t do anything about whatever it is. It’s not my problem! . . . Speak to some region executive, don’t pick on me, what do I have to do with Colorado? . . . Oh hell, I don’t know, get the chief engineer, speak to him!”
    The chief engineer of the Central Region answered impatiently, “Yes? What? What is it?”-and Mitchum rushed desperately to explain. When the chief engineer heard that there was no Diesel, he snapped, “Then hold the train, of course!” When he heard about Mr.
    Chalmers, he said, his voice suddenly subdued, “Hm . . . Kip Chalmers? Of Washington? . . . Well, I don’t know. That would be a matter for Mr. Locey to decide.” When Mitchum said, “Mr. Locey ordered me to arrange it, but-” the chief engineer snapped in great relief, “Then do exactly as Mr. Locey says!” and hung up.
    Dave Mitchum replaced the telephone receiver cautiously. He did not scream any longer. Instead, he-tiptoed to a chair, almost as if he were sneaking. He sat looking at Mr. Locey’s order for a long time.
    Then he snatched a glance about the room. The dispatcher was busy at his telephone. The trainmaster and the road foreman were there, but they pretended that they were not waiting. He wished Bill Brent, the chief dispatcher, would go home; Bill Brent stood in a corner, watching him.
    Brent was a short, thin man with broad shoulders; he was forty, but looked younger; he had the pale face of an office worker and the hard, lean features of a cowboy. He was the best dispatcher on the system.
    Mitchum rose abruptly and walked upstairs to his office, clutching Locey’s order in his hand.
    Dave Mitchum was not good at understanding problems of engineering and transportation, but he understood men like Clifton Locey. He understood the kind of game the New York executives were playing and what they were now doing to him. The order did not tell him to give Mr. Chalmers a coal-burning engine-just “an engine.” If the time came to answer questions, wouldn’t Mr. Locey gasp in shocked indignation that he had expected a division superintendent to know that only a Diesel engine could be meant in that order? The order stated that he was to send the Comet through “safely”-wasn’t a division superintendent expected to know what was safe?-“and without unnecessary delay.” What was an unnecessary delay? If the possibility of a major disaster was involved, wouldn’t a delay of a week or a month be considered necessary?
    The New York executives did not care, thought Mitchum; they did not care whether Mr. Chalmers reached his meeting on time, or whether an unprecedented catastrophe struck their rails; they cared only about making sure that they would not be blamed for either. If he held the train, they would make him the scapegoat to appease the anger of Mr. Chalmers; if he sent the train through and it did not reach the western portal of the tunnel, they would put the blame on his incompetence; they would claim that he had acted against their orders, in either case. What would he be able to prove? To whom? One could prove nothing to a tribunal that had no stated policy, no defined procedure, no rules of evidence, no binding principles-a tribunal, such as the Unification Board, that pronounced men guilty or innocent as it saw fit, with no standard of guilt or innocence.
    Dave Mitchum knew nothing about the philosophy of law; but he knew that when a court is not bound by any rules, it is not bound by any facts, and then a hearing is not an issue of justice, but an issue of men, and your fate depends not on what you have or have not done, but on whom you do or do not know. He asked himself what chance he would have at such a hearing against Mr. James Taggart, Mr. Clifton Locey, Mr. Kip Chalmers and their powerful friends.
    Dave Mitchum had spent his life slipping around the necessity of ever making a decision; he had done it by waiting to be told and never being certain of anything. All that he now allowed into his brain was a long, indignant whine against injustice. Fate, he thought, had singled him out for an unfair amount of bad luck: he was being framed by his superiors on the only good job he had ever held. He had never been taught to understand that the manner in which he obtained this job, and the frame-up, were inextricable parts of a single whole.
    As he looked at Locey’s order, he thought that he could hold the Comet, attach Mr. Chalmers1 car to an engine and send it into the tunnel, alone. But he shook his head before the thought was fully formed: he knew that this would force Mr. Chalmers to recognize the nature of the risk; Mr. Chalmers would refuse; he would continue to demand a safe and non-existent engine. And more: this would mean that he, Mitchum, would have to assume responsibility, admit full knowledge of the danger, stand in the open and identify the exact nature of the situation-the one act which the policy of his superiors was based on evading, the one key to their game.
    Dave Mitchum was not the man to rebel against his background or to question the moral code of those in charge. The choice he made was not to challenge, but to follow the policy of his superiors. Bill Brent could have- beaten him in any contest of technology, but here was an endeavor at which he could beat Bill Brent without effort. There had once been a society where men needed the particular talents of Bill Brent, if they wished to survive; what they needed now was the talent of Dave Mitchum.
    Dave Mitchum sat down at his secretary’s typewriter and, by means of two fingers, carefully typed out an order to the trainmaster and another to the road foreman. The first instructed the trainmaster to summon a locomotive crew at once, for a purpose described only as “an emergency”; the second instructed the road foreman to “send the best engine available to Winston, to stand by for emergency assistance.”
    He put carbon copies of the orders into his own pocket, then opened the door, yelled for the night dispatcher to come up and handed him the two orders for the two men downstairs. The night dispatcher was a conscientious young boy who trusted his superiors and knew that discipline was the first rule of the railroad business. He was astonished that Mitchum should wish to send written orders down one flight of stairs, but he asked no questions, Mitchum waited nervously. After a while, he saw the figure of the road foreman walking across the yards toward the roundhouse. He felt relieved: the two men had not come up to confront him in person; they had understood and they would play the game as he was playing it.
    The road foreman walked across the yards, looking down at the ground. He was thinking of his wife, his two children and the house which he had spent a lifetime to own. He knew what his superiors were doing and he wondered whether he should refuse to obey them. He had never been afraid of losing his job; with the confidence of a competent man, he had known that if he quarreled with one employer, he would always be able to find another. Now, he was afraid; he had no right to quit or to seek a job; if he defied an employer, he would be delivered into the unanswerable power of a single Board, and if the Board ruled against him, it would mean being sentenced to the slow death of starvation: it would mean being barred from any employment. He knew that the Board would rule against him; he knew that the key to the dark, capricious mystery of the Board’s contradictory decisions was the secret power of pull. What chance would he have against Mr. Chalmers? There had been a time when the self-interest of his employers had demanded that he exercise his utmost ability.
    Now, ability was not wanted any longer. There had been a time when he had been required to do his best and rewarded accordingly. Now, he could expect nothing but punishment, if he tried to follow his conscience. There had been a time when he had been expected to think.
    Now, they did not want him to think, only to obey. They did not want him to have a conscience any longer. Then why should he raise his voice? For whose sake? He thought of the passengers-the three hundred passengers aboard the Comet. He thought of his children. He had a son in high school and a daughter, nineteen, of whom he was fiercely, painfully proud, because she was recognized as the most beautiful girl in town. He asked himself whether he could deliver his children to the fate of the children of the unemployed, as he had seen them in the blighted areas, in the settlements around closed factories and along the tracks of discontinued railroads. He saw, in astonished horror, that the choice which he now had to make was between the lives of his children and the lives of the passengers on the Comet. A conflict of this kind had never been possible before. It was by protecting the safety of the passengers that he had earned the security of his children; he had served one by serving the other; there had been no clash of interests, no call for victims. Now, if he wanted to save the passengers, he had to do it at the price of his children.
    He remembered dimly the sermons he had heard about the beauty of self-immolation, about the virtue of sacrificing to others that which was one’s dearest. He knew nothing about the philosophy of ethics; but he knew suddenly-not in words, but in the form of a dark, angry, savage pain-that if this was virtue, then he wanted no part of it.
    He walked into the roundhouse and ordered a large, ancient coal burning locomotive to be made ready for the run to Winston.
    The trainmaster reached for the telephone in the dispatcher’s office, to summon an engine crew, as ordered. But his hand stopped, holding the receiver. It struck him suddenly that he was summoning men to their death, and that of the twenty lives listed on the sheet before him, two would be ended by his choice. He felt a physical sensation of cold, nothing more; he felt no concern, only a puzzled, indifferent astonishment. It had never been his job to call men out to die; his job had been to call them out to earn their living. It was strange, he thought; and it was strange that his hand had stopped; what made it stop was like something he would have felt twenty years ago-no, he thought, strange, only one month ago, not longer.
    He was forty-eight years old. He had no family, no friends, no ties to any living being in the world. Whatever capacity for devotion he had possessed, the capacity which others scatter among many random concerns, he had given it whole to the person of his young brother -the brother, his junior by twenty-five years, whom he had brought up. He had sent him through a technological college, and he had known, as had all the teachers, that the boy had the mark of genius on the forehead of his grim, young face. With the same single-tracked devotion as his brother’s, the boy had cared for nothing but his studies, not for sports or parties or girls, only for the vision of the things he was going to create as an inventor. He had graduated from college and had gone, on a salary unusual for his age, into the research laboratory of a great electrical concern in Massachusetts.
    This was now May 28, thought the trainmaster. It was on May 1
    that Directive 10-289 had been issued. It was on the evening of May I that he had been informed that his brother had committed suicide.
    The trainmaster had heard it said that the directive was necessary to save the country. He could not know whether this was true or not; he had no way of knowing what was necessary to save a country. But driven by some feeling which he could not express, he had walked into the office of the editor of the local newspaper and demanded that they publish the story of his brother’s death. “People have to know it,” had been all he could give as his reason. He had been unable to explain that the bruised connections of his mind had formed the wordless conclusion that if this was done by the will of the people, then the people had to know it; he could not believe that they would do it, if they knew. The editor had refused; he had stated that it would be bad for the country’s morale.
    The trainmaster knew nothing about political philosophy; but he knew that that had been the moment when he lost all concern for the life or death of any human being or of the country.
    He thought, holding the telephone receiver, that maybe he should warn the men whom he was about to call. They trusted him; it would never occur to them that he could knowingly send them to their death.
    But he shook his head: this was only an old thought, last year’s thought, a remnant of the time when he had trusted them, too. It did not matter now. His brain worked slowly, as if he were dragging his thoughts through a vacuum where no emotion responded to spur them on; he thought that there would be trouble if he warned anyone, there would be some sort of fight and it was he who had to make some great effort to start it. He had forgotten what it was that one started this sort of fight for. Truth? Justice? Brother-love? He did not want to make an effort. He was very tired. If he warned all the men on his list, he thought, there would be no one to run that engine, so he would save two lives and also three hundred lives aboard the Comet.
    But nothing responded to the figures in his mind; “lives” was just a word, it had no meaning.
    He raised the telephone receiver to his ear, he called two numbers, he summoned an engineer and a fireman to report for duty at once.
    Engine Number 306 had left for Winston, when Dave Mitchum came downstairs. “Get a track motor car ready for me,” he ordered, “I’m going to run up to Fairmount.” Fairmount was a small station, twenty miles east on the line. The men nodded, asking no questions. Bill Brent was not among them. Mitchum walked into Brent’s office. Brent was there, sitting silently at his desk; he seemed to be waiting.
    “I’m going to Fairmount,” said Mitchum; his voice was aggressively too casual, as if implying that no answer was necessary. “They had a Diesel there couple of weeks ago . . . you know, emergency repairs or something. . . . I’m going down to see if we could use it.”
    He paused, but Brent said nothing.
    “The way things stack up,” said Mitchum, not looking at him, “we can’t hold that train till morning. We’ve got to take a chance, one way or another. Now I think maybe this Diesel will do it, but that’s the last one we can try for. So if you don’t hear from me in half an hour, sign the order and send the Comet through with Number 306 to pull her.”
    Whatever Brent had thought, he could not believe it when he heard it. He did not answer at once; then he said, very quietly, “No.”
    “What do you mean, no?”
    “I won’t do it.”
    “What do you mean, you won’t? It’s an order!”
    “I won’t do it.” Brent’s voice had the firmness of certainty unclouded by any emotion.
    “Are you refusing to obey an order?”
    “I am.”
    “But you have no right to refuse! And I’m not going to argue about it, either. It’s what I’ve decided, it’s my responsibility and I’m not asking for your opinion. Your job is to take my orders.”
    “Will you give me that order in writing?”
    “Why, God damn you, are you hinting that you don’t trust me? Are you . . . ?”
    “Why do you have to go to Fairmount, Dave? Why can’t you telephone them about that Diesel, if you think that they have one?”
    “You’re not going to tell me how to do my job! You’re not going to sit there and question me! You’re going to keep your trap shut and do as you’re told or I’ll give you a chance to talk-to the Unification Board!”
    It was hard to decipher emotions on Brent’s cowboy face, but Mitchum saw something that resembled a look of incredulous horror; only it was horror at some sight of his own, not at the words, and it had no quality of fear, not the kind of fear Mitchum had hoped for.
    Brent knew that tomorrow morning the issue would be his word against Mitchum’s; Mitchum would deny having given the order; Mitchum would show written proof that Engine Number 306 had been sent to Winston only “to stand by,” and would produce witnesses that he had gone to Fairmount in search of a Diesel; Mitchum would claim that the fatal order had been issued by and on the sole responsibility of Bill Brent, the chief dispatcher, it would not be much of a case, not a case that could bear close study, but it would be enough for the Unification Board, whose policy was consistent only in not permitting anything to be studied closely. Brent knew that he could play the same game and pass the frame-up on to another victim, he knew that he had the brains to work it out-except that he would rather be dead than do it.
    It was not the sight of Mitchum that made him sit still in horror.
    It was the realization that there was no one whom he could call to expose this thing and stop it-no superior anywhere on the line, from Colorado to Omaha to New York. They were in on it, all of them, they were doing the same, they had given Mitchum the lead and the method. It was Dave Mitchum who now belonged on this railroad and he, Bill Brent, who did not.
    As Bill Brent had learned to see, by a single glance at a few numbers on a sheet of paper, the entire trackage of a division-so he was now able to see the whole of his own life and the full price of the decision he was making. He had not fallen in love until he was past his youth; he had been thirty-six when he had found the woman he wanted. He had been engaged to her for the last four years; he had had to wait, because he had a mother to support and a widowed sister with three children. He had never been afraid of burdens, because he had known his ability to carry them, and he had never assumed an obligation unless he was certain that he could fulfill it. He had waited, he had saved his money, and now he had reached the time when he felt himself free to be happy. He was to be married in a few weeks, this coming June. He thought of it, as he sat at his desk, looking at Dave Mitchum, but the thought aroused no hesitation, only regret and a distant sadness-distant, because he knew that he could not let it be part of this moment.
    Bill Brent knew nothing about epistemology; but he knew that man must live by his own rational perception of reality, that he cannot act against it or escape it or find a substitute for it-and that there is no other way for him to live.
    He rose to his feet. “It’s true that so long as I hold this job, I cannot refuse to obey you,” he said. “But I can, if I quit. So I’m quitting.”
    “You’re what?”
    “I’m quitting, as of this moment.”
    “But you have no right to quit, you goddamn bastard! Don’t you know that? Don’t you know that I’ll have you thrown in jail for it?”
    “If you want to send the