Perhaps the one novel that no serious writer in America would care to write today is one about a man who sets out to succeed in life and does so through work, decisive action, and discretion, without stepping on anyone's neck, without causing his family suffering, without himself becoming stupid or inhumane.

What was his own place in the greater scheme of things? Did he ever stop to ask? He was, assuredly, no saint, a man of normal and altogether human appetites. He had not broken another man or stomped on anyone's neck to get where he was. He had, true, contributed no new ideas, changed nothing significantly in the world around him, would leave little after him. He raised a family; he gave to charity. What he bought and sold the world could have easily survived without. He paid taxes; he contributed to the traffic and growth of the economy. He had principles; he was businesslike—and businesslike, for him, was a compliment, which he used to mean dependable and orderly and sensible. He was serious, a man not to be fooled with. There was nothing trivial about him. He had worked his life long, and it had given him character; he had realized his dreams, and it had given him pleasure. He was a man who never complained; if he doubted, he kept his doubts to himself. Ambition served him well. How many others are there like him? More, perhaps, than one might guess.