I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm going to a place that has already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down
I'm so tired of America
I'm gonna make it up for all of the Sunday times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you, America
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I got a life to lead, America
I got a life to lead
Tell me,
Do you really think you go to hell for having love?
Tell me,
And laugh at thinking everything that you've done is good?
I really need to know
After soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood
I'm so tired of America
I really need to know
I may just never see you again
Or might as well
You took advantage of a world that loved you well
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm so tired of you, America
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I got a life to lead, America
I got a life to lead
I got a soul to feed
I got a dream to need
And that's all I need
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I've been unable to put down the first literary work I've ever read written by Ayn Rand for more than a couple days at most. Each day that passes without its pages brushing through my ink-stained fingers fuels me to get my work done quicker and eat dinner earlier so that I can spend a couple hours inside her seemingly 'complex' characters and sleep with a mind full of them, continuing their lives in my dreams. I often fail to realize that the book is indeed a work of fiction, but at every random moment, I'm not surprised to see them in my group of friends, my family, or in a random stranger walking in Brooklyn.
Which leads me into my first actual post that doesn't consist of worthless drivel, though many times, my more "thoughtful" ones were often castigated with equal fervor. For the last three weeks, I've asked every friend and acquaintances if they've read the same book. So far, I've only come across one, but even that person does not remember a single character's name. To keep things simple, ZERO have said that they've read it.
But it's not a simple, "No, I have not read The Fountainhead". Every response seems to illicit an interesting emotional range of discomfort, shame, and self-condemnation - as if they've committed a sinful act of negligence. A confession of their supposed guilt soon follows, anxiously looking towards me for forgiveness.
"Honestly, I'm not much of a book person. I haven't read a book since college... I know, I probably should... Maybe I can borrow your book after you're done".
If they had simply said, "No", I was ready and eager to give them a quick summary up to the point I've read to and briefly discuss Rand's philosophy of individuals and society. But instead, I'm often unable to go beyond their perceived "problem" and must suddenly become a priest and bear the individual's intellectual confessions.
It got me thinking, "Do I make you feel guilty?"
Two Sunday's ago, I attended another new church with a co-worker somewhere, roughly 20 minutes northeast of NYC. During the offering, I noticed my friend/co-worker pull out a $10 bill and slip it into the basket. As it swiftly passed me for my contribution, I asked him, "Do you make only $100 a week?"
I didn't care if he tithed accordingly or not - even more so because my wallet failed to leave my back pocket during the whole service. However, the comment seemed to have struck a nerve and 15 minutes after the preacher spoke, "... and it doesn't matter how many times we pray, or how often you attend church, or how much you tithe...", we turned to me with a smile and quite audibly said, "See?" A week later, he brought up the incident in front of other "Christians" during a dinner and singled me out and accused me of being judgemental.
Was I so wrong?
One of the main characters in The Fountainhead, Howard Roark, is ostracized because the people he interacts with are overwhelmed with their own guilt because Howard believes himself to be guiltless (guilt here is used in a slightly modified way, as eloquently projected in the book - don't take it too literally). I don't dare to parallel myself to Roark's life; I may or may not be guiltless, in some other way. But say, I, too ask loaded questions or make critically sarcastic remarks... is it so bad to every once in a while feel quilty and look into a mirror for answers? If you see yourself at fault, you can change it, rather than ignore it...
... the other possibility is scandalously self-satisfying: believing yourself to be guilty, but through reason and sound arguments, you acquit yourself on all counts of the indicted charges.
