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.
“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.”
neither of us has ever wanted or been tempted to settle for anything less than the world
He convinced me of why one cannot give up the world to those one despises.
“My dear fellow, who will let you?” “That’s not the point. Th