CHAPTER XVIII
AN ESSENTIAL MONOGAMIST
The adventure of Sabbath "gaming" served as a curtain
raiser to the great tragedy of my life. I pause on the brink
of this tragedy, hesitating to take the plunge, even in memory;
hesitating for the reader's sake as much as for my own. I
ask myself, "Will anybody endure to read a detailed statement
of the grievances of one man, at a time when so many
millions of men are suffering?" Again, reader, let me beg
you to believe that I am not writing this book to defend myself.
Amid the terrific events that are going on in the world
at this hour, I would not take ten minutes of my time for
such a purpose.
I am telling this story in defense of a cause. It was not I, but the cause, that was maimed and tortured through these years, and any other man in my place would have met my experience. The matter at issue in this book is not the character of Upton Sinclair, but the character of the machinery upon which you rely every day of your life for news of the world about you. If that machinery can be used deliberately and systematically to lie about Upton Sinclair, it can be used to disorganize the people's movement throughout the world, and to set back the coming of Social Justice.
I grope in my mind for a simile to make clear how I feel about this book, how I would have you feel. Say to yourself that Upton Sinclair is a guinea-pig—surely a sufficiently unpretentious creature! It would be entirely preposterous of a guinea-pig to expect that a book should be written about him, or that a research-laboratory should devote its attention to him. But the scientist reaches into a pen full of guinea-pigs, and catches up one by the neck, and makes him the subject of an experiment—removes his thyroid gland, let us say, or gives him an injection of a serum. So suddenly it becomes of the utmost consequence what happens to this guinea-pig. Trained experts take his temperature every ten minutes; they keep a chart of his pulse, they watch his respiration, they analyze his excretions; and nobody thinks
