Two central tenets, for the traditional point of view, are, first, the Coleridgian notion that true literary art is “the repetition in the finite mind of the infinite ‘I AM’”—the idea, that is, that, like God opening his fist, the writer creates everything at once, his characters, their actions, and their world, each element dependent on the others—and, second, the concomitant notion that an important part of what interests us in good fiction is our sense, as we read, that the writer’s imitation of reality’s process (“the ineluctable modality of the visible,” as Stephen Dedalus puts it) is accurate; that is, our feeling that the work, even if it contains fabulous elements, is in some deep way “true to life.” The obvious question is: How can the writer possibly do so much at once?