“But you see,” said Roark quietly, “I have, let’s say, sixty years to live.
Most of that time will be spent working. I’ve chosen the work I want to
do. If I find no joy in it, then I’m only condemning myself to sixty years
of torture. And I can find the joy only if I do my work in the best way
possible to me. But the best is a matter of standards—and I set my own
standards. I inherit nothing. I stand at the end of no tradition. I may,
perhaps, stand at the beginning of one.”