by Sokolov’s obsequious descriptions ofnLiebling’s political leftism, which arenrather ineptly concealed praise. He tellsnus that Liebling in his “Wayward Press”ncolumns “wrote more freely and pointedlynabout the evils of monopolisticnnewspaper publishers and of right-wingnwitch-hunting anti-communists [a recordnfor consecutive hyphenated nouns,nI think], of anti-labor reactionaries andnof threats from all sides to freedom ofnthe press and other First Amendmentnrights.” If Sokolov really thinks likenthat, he is as paranoid as he suggestsnhis subject must have been. His narrativenof Liebling’s involvement in thenHiss-Chambers trial is worse, a belatednpostscript to the pro-Hiss agitprop thatnhas never died. The author’s tone herenturns abruptly and noticeably mean. Henabandons his heretofore detached interestnin Liebling to hurl slurs at ProfessornAllen Weinstein, author of Perjury:nThe Hiss-Chambers Case, who had begunnhis research convinced of Hiss’sninnocence and finished sure of his guilt.nSokolov refers to Whittaker Chambersnas “a morally and politically corruptnjournalist,” a smear surely less temperatenthan Weinstein’s criticism of Liebling,nwho befriended Hiss and aided hisnlawyers by passing along information onnChambers’s connection with the CommunistnParty.nIf Sokolov set out to use Liebling asna prop, however, he was fortunatelyndiverted by the poignant tragedy of thenwriter’s life. For Liebling himself wasnineffectual as a propagandist, a role henmight have tried in still another attemptnto gain the national recognition thatncame so easily to his contemporary,nErnest Hemingway. Like Hemingway,nhe wrote pieces about drunks, waitersnand washed-up boxers; unlike him,nLiebling’s attempts at fiction were unknownnto all but his most intimatenfriends. His leftism had something tondo with resentment, as it so often does:nLiebling never forgave his father, anNew York Jew, for leaving Manhattannfor a suburban enclave in Far Rockaway.nFor Liebling, New York City was a pan­noramic tableau of life, glamour and deprivationnside by side. Liebling alwaysnempathized with the tragic. Perhaps thatnis why his writing never achieved thennational audience he sought. Unless anwriter is indeed a Zola or a de Maupassant,nthe picaresque is not the routento fame. Liebling wrote some interestingnand even funny pieces and aimed somentimely barbs at the stuffed shirts in thenpublishing business. But like today’snNew Yorker, which publishes anythingnthat appeals to the editor (quality is annafterthought), Liebling wrote for himselfnalone, purging private demons andnpoking fun at people he didn’t like innpieces and books that were almost universallynignored. His life was eventfulnenough to provide a script for a contemporarynleft-liberal like Sokolov, but thenresult is less eloquent than Liebling’snown writing.nJL/orsey’s anthology, On Mencken,nconsists of nine essays by men who knewnhim well and have devoted years tonstudying his work, among them WilliamnManchester, Alistair Cooke and AlfrednA. Knopf, Mencken’s publisher. Thenvolume contains representative selectionsnof his writing, including politicalnreporting, literary criticism and severalnof his curmudgeonly pieces on a varietynof topics. The essays, typical of commemoratives,nare congenial but fulsomenin their praise for the man, which makesnone wonder: What was the point innwriting them? The gist of all of them isnthat Mencken’s convictions ring loudlynand clearly in all his work; heaps ofnpraise and repetitious amens from hisnnnfriends don’t add to Mencken’s standingnin American letters. The point, however,nis the occasion of the one hundredthnanniversary of his birth, whichnprompted who knows how many articles,nseminars and scholarly papers onnthe man and his work.nFor Mencken, like very few others ofnhis profession, has become an institution,na “school,” so to speak. It hasnevolved, over the years, into an attitudenthat suggests such qualities as individuality,ndaring and skepticism, which are,nto Mencken’s fans and imitators, inherentlynnoble. This is the theme thatnflows uninterrupted through these ninenessays.nBut nonconformism and devil-maycarenare not qualities of thought, but ofnmanner. Mencken wrote copiously onnphilosophical subjects, but said littlenthat had not been said before. In thenmost illuminating essay in the book,nCharles Fecher tells us that Menckennwas a “Renaissance man,” and that “henmirrored his own age.” His essays onnreligion and science, debunking the firstnand bowing to the second, were reflectionsnof an ideology Mencken did notninvent but accepted. His distrust of politicians,nin an era of widespread politicalncorruption and scandal, was not unique.nHis “libertarian” aversion to governmentnin all its forms was mainly thenEnlightenment notion that man, especiallynatheistic man, was the measure ofnall things.nWhat is most notable about Menckennis that no one, certainly not the contributorsnto On Mencken, has anythingnnegative to say about him, though henadministered countless bashings himself.nWas Mencken intimidating.’* Nondoubt of that. What’s more, he had angenial wit that seemed to counterpoisenevery harsh sentence he wrote. To saynthat he never deeply offended anyone isnprobably to come very close to the truth.nHe made hard jokes about nonintellectuals,n”the vast herd of human blanks”nand “the lower orders,” but was eternallyncivil and courteous, even to bootblacks.nHe castigated churchmen, butn13nMay/June 1981n