There is a small band of True Philosophers in this world at any time, each one moved to talk intensely about very simple things with the best of their friends. Their simple-minded doggedness may attain nuisance proportions. This is a heart-breaking activity which produces absolutely nothing of value—insofar as whatever is of value is self-standing, already present, and in no need of defenders. What is true does not come and go, and probably does not depend upon Philosophers. In spite of this, these retainers continue to be born in every generation, capable of delight at the merest nothing, sitting in their fields pitching rocks at the moon, endlessly thinking, waiting to find a purpose. There is no responsible accounting for this form of delight by anyone I know.