In the American Jungle by Waldo David Frank

America, which protects its deer and partridges, still has perpetual open season for philosophy hunting. Dr. Durant turned "The Story of Philosophy" into a best seller by the shrewd device of leaving philosophy out and putting in its place anecdotal stories, whole chapters on nonmetaphysical authors, and his own not too subtly diffused contempt for the entire silly business of "ultimate problems. " John Dewey, the most characteristic American mind of his generation, has always been an antiphilosopher at heart (with unconscious vestiges of the poor side of Hegel). And here is Mr. Mencken, tripping upon the autumnal scene, all decked out in leather jerkin, hunting cap, cartridge belt, and his usual supply of automatic popguns.

"If you want to find out," says Mr. Mencken, "how a philosopher feels when he is engaged in the practice of his profession, go to the nearest zoo and watch a chimpanzee at the wearying and hopeless job of chasing fleas. Both suffer damnably and neither can win. " The "fleas" in this case, you realize, are truth, the absolute, any ultimate concept of the real world, any distinction at all between reality and appearance. Elsewhere, in the same lofty Menckenian column, the same matter is called "bunk. " "For the absolute, of course," he absolutely assures us, "is a mere banshee. No such thing exists. Philosophy in the narrow technical sense"-read, in the sense of the whole silly lineage from Pythagoras to Whitehead-"is largely moonshine and wind music."