I had no respect whatsoever for the creative works of 
    either the painter or the novelist. I thought Karabekian
    with his meaningless pictures had entered into a con-
    spiracy with millionaires to make poor people feel stupid.
    I thought Beatrice Keedsler had joined hands with other 
    old-fashioned storytellers to make people believe that life
    had leading characters, minor characters, significant de-
    tails, insignificant details, that it had lessons to be 
    learned, tests to be passed, and a beginning, a middle, 
    and an end.
      As I approached my fiftieth birthday, I had become
    more and more enraged and mystified by the idiot deci-
    sions made by my countymen. And then I had come
    suddenly to pity them, for I understood how innocent and
    natural it was for them to behave so abominably, and
    with such abominable results: They were doing their best
    to live like people invented in story books. This was the
    reason Americans shot each other so often: It was a 
    convenient literary device for ending short stories and
    books.
      Why were so many Americans treated by their govern-
    ment as though their lives were as disposable as paper
    facial tissues? Because that was the way authors cus-
    tomarily treated bit-part players in their made-up tales.
      And so on.
      Once I understood what was making America such a
    dangerous, unhappy nation of people who had nothing to
    do with real life, I resolved to shun storytelling. I would
    write about life. Every person would be exactly as impor-
    tant as any other. All facts would be given equal
    weightiness. Nothing would be left out. Let others bring
    order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order, instead, 
    which I think I have done.
    (210)