The Blind Spot

Remember The Fountainhead? No? Doesn’t matter, neither do I. Not the details, that is to say. What I do recall is this somewhat abstract notion of an ideal man. A virtuous man, entirely rid of ego while having been blessed with a great talent. His name was Rourke. There was also Keating who was the exact opposite. He wasn’t particularly talented, but his ego fueled his ambition and through self-indulgence he got what he desired. When Rourke had nothing. In terms of material success, that is to say. Deep down Keating always knew Rourke was the real thing, while he was simply a fake.

A filmmaker friend of mine hasn’t been making films for a while. Moreover, he hasn’t even been trying. I told him, “that’s pretty brave.” He nodded and said, “very Rourke-like right? Rourke simply sat in his empty office and quietly waited for a commission to come his way. And it did, eventually it did.”

I smiled. When what I should have said was: “but isn’t it very Keating-ish to compare oneself to Rourke?” Didn’t he see this? I wondered.

Don’t you see? Don’t you, dear neighbour, see how you complain and complain about your mother who is always complaining? How you judge the very people that judge you?

And what about me? What is it I don’t see?