But I don't think of you

I can't recall how many years ago it was when the lawyer pushed The Fountainhead to me and said fervantly that I had to read it. Three? Five?

These days, she's still doing it. Every other few weeks, she'll be buying a new copy of the book, ready to give it to someone who's worthy. And that's a risk I'd never dare to undertake. Can you imagine if the other party comes back with a small frown and the five words that spell the death of your friendship: I didn't really like it? "Really" being the word that's designed to soften the blow but really only the final stab when you consider what a non-opinion means, particularly in relation to this book.

Giving a book is impossibly intimate and requires a huge dose of courage that I do not have, which is why I only ever give very safe books on those few rare occasions. I don't really volunteer recommendations either, unless being asked while walking around in a bookstore. The burden is just too much to bear.

In another three to five years, I will probably pick up The Fountainhead again and read it for the third time. The first time, I sped through it as best as I could speed through a book of such weight because I needed to know, what next? In my just-ended second run, I wondered if there are readers who hate Howard Roark and if there are, what sort of individuals they are. I'm not sure it's a good thing that I can see Keating, Toohey and Gail Wynand much more clearly now. But Dominique remains an enigma somewhat. I wonder what I'll gather after a few more years.

I'm not linking it. Because I'm not recommending it. But if you google it and chance upon a movie trailer, don't watch it. Even if Ayn Rand did write the screenplay, there is no way a movie can match up to what your mind is capable of seeing if you should read the book.