“Now, talk. Talk about the things you really want said. Don’t tell me about your family, your childhood, your friends or your feelings. Tell me about the things you think”
Mallory looked at him incredulously and whispered:
“How did you know that?”
Roark smiled and said nothing.
“How did you know what’s been killing me? Slowly, for years, driving me to hate people when I don’t want to hate…. Have you felt it, too? Have you seen how your best friends love everything about you–except the things that count? And your most important is nothing to them, nothing, not even a sound they can recognize. You mean, you want to hear? You want to know what I do and why I do it, you want to know what I think? It’s not boring to you? It’s important?”
“Go ahead,” said Roark.
Then he sat for hours, listening, while Mallory spoke of his work, of the thoughts behind his work, of the thoughts that shaped his life, spoke gluttonously, like a drowning man flung out to shore, getting drunk on huge, clean snatches of air.