That's the question at the back of this non-SF book, which was the first of Dick's mainstream novels to find an audience, in the mid 70s. The crap-artist of the title is Jack Isidore, gatherer of bits of bizarre information, and chronicler of the lives of the 'normal' people around him. But as Jack sees these people abuse and hurt each other he comes to wonder if normality is all it's cracked up to be. The reader, dragged along by Jack's weird, skewed vision of the world, comes to sympathise with him. Often disturbing, often darkly funny, this is Dick at his most real. If you thought he was just another pulp sci-fi writer, albeit a good one, this is the book to shatter your illusion.