position. We learn only that this woman happened to be caught in it because “she wanted to live.” Why did she want to live? One does not ask “Why?” Men are what they are.
Characters who represent moral or philosophical issues are usually called “archetypes.” I object to that word in this context, because an “archetype” is supposed to be a walking abstraction without individuality. The art (and difficulty) of Romantic characterization is to present the archetypical—that which is typical of any individualist like Roark or any second-hander like Keating—while at the same time giving enough specific detail so that the character comes across as this particular human being.
People refer to Romantic characterizations as “archetypes” not because the individuality is lacking, but because the abstraction shows, and shows by the author’s intention. The particular details of a personality are given, but they are never accidental or irrelevant; they are related to the wider abstraction and deeper motivation of the type of man presented.
Any reader can tell that The Fountainhead is a book not only about an architect from the 1920s to 1940s, but about any innovator in any period or profession. Why? Because I cover the essence of all the issues involved, starting with the most basic issue: the independent mind versus the second-hand mind. Everything I present relating to the conflict of Roark and Keating can be translated (changing only the professional details) into the struggle between any men representing these human attitudes in any profession at any time.
I present characters—in The Fountainhead and in everything else I have written—by means of that which is essential to men on certain kinds of premises.
Contrast this to the characterization of Arrowsmith, which contains a great deal that is totally accidental. Arrowsmith’s devotion to medicine can, as an abstraction, pertain to other doctors, or to any idealist in any profession. But his feelings toward his fraternity, his troubles in deciding what job to take, his hesitations in regard to women—these do not pertain to the issues of “ambitious doctor” or “struggling idealist,” or to anything else of a thematic nature. They are accidental details of the kind that might be present in any personality, but that have no wider significance.
This is the essence of a Naturalist’s approach to characterization. He presents a character whose universality—i.e., application to other men—is only statistical. For instance, he presents a typical Midwestern young man of a certain period, or a typical ambitious doctor. Then he gives that character accidental traits within the range of the statistical assignment. If these traits are consistent with the particular statistical type, the result is a good contemporary characterization. The reader feels: “Yes, I’ve seen that type of man.” But what comes across from the jumble of accidental details is merely the character’s immediate motivation, plus his temporal and geographical averageness.
Arrowsmith is an extremely intelligent presentation of the atmosphere of medical schools and medical careers of a certain period. When I first read it [in the 1920s], it seemed quite interesting, in the sense that an intelligent newspaper article about contemporary personalities is interesting. Today, Arrowsmith is like last year’s newspaper.
If one were to ask, “How does this story apply to any other profession than medicine, or to medicine in any other period than the one presented?” one could give only the most generalized answer. One could say: “In essence, every idealist, every man of integrity, will face a struggle.” That is all. Beyond the general conception of an idealist’s struggle, everything in the book is devoted to the minute details of Arrowsmith’s profession and period.
There are two ways in which people can regard characters in fiction and recognize them. For instance, one often hears that character X is “just like the folks next door.” This is the slogan of the Naturalistic school: its characters are “like the folks next door.” The people who consider such characters “real” are usually those who do not consider abstract characters real. They are the ones who tell me that I write about men who do not exist.
On the other hand, people who can think in terms of essentials tell me that I write about the kind of men they see all over the place. A number of people have told me the names of architects I never heard of, swearing that I copied Peter Keating from them. You can see why. Since I present the essence of that which creates a second-hander like Keating, they can recognize in him many men who do not have