- 章节名：Chapter One
- 页码：第12页 2015-01-22 21:02:19
"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?""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.""... 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.""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."P.S. The page number doesn't match - I chose it randomly.Bookmark 44/523 "Ch. 5He 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.
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... only that Romanticism is the conceptual school of art. It deals, not with the random t...
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