tale, to the phenomenon of a tolerated literary iconoclasm in a land
alive with caterwaulings of virtue.

As hinted above not all the Arts escape, nor do any of them escape all
the time. Music, whose sly and terrible vices were for centuries
unperceived by the high priests, has been brought to earth in places.
"Jazz Incites to Sin. Syncopation is Devil's Ally." Discovered! One
reads the morning paper and feels a return of hope. The High Priests
are aroused. They have disembowelled an ally. There is hope then of a
bloody fray. Another Edition and they will be on our own heads,
swinging their snickersnees. Mencken will be arrested and burned in
public. Anderson will be strung up by the heels and his estates
confiscated. There will be war--red war, and we in the army of the
iconoclasts growling impotently at each other will face about and have
at them with hullaballo and manifesto and snickersnee in turn.

"Nude Painting Banned From Window. Nab Store Keeper." We read on. The
snickersnee swings towards the vitals of Hollywood. "Movie Magnate
Charges Work of Art Cut; Sues Censors. Seeks Redress in Courts."

Valhalla! They are closing in. Another forced march and they are upon
us.

Alas, our coffee cools as we wait impatiently for the alarms to sound.
We are intact. Mencken still lives. Anderson still lives. The tide of
battle sweeps us by, passes us up, and there's the end to it.

Again, our victory rankling, we cast about for reasons. Do not the
censors read our books? Yes, the censors read our books. And
scratching their necks pensively and immediately below their left