Philosophy Proper he's critical of philosophical and scientific materialism on the grounds of reason alone, because he sees that it doesn't make sense. — Wayfarer
That's nonsense. Nothing doesn't make sense on the basis of reason alone except that which is self-contradictory. Materialism is self-contradictory only on the most tendentious and/ or simpleminded interpretations of its meaning. Such simplistic thinking is the go-to of polemicists
As to the OP philosophy if it is to be of any use should improve the quality of our lives. Someone mentioned conceptual analysis. Conceptual analysis would be useful if it produces clarity, and it is arguable that clarity should help us to live better than confusion.
Returning to the improvement of the quality of human life—why should we assume that it will be the same ideas which improve the quality of all human lives?
Another point is that so-called 'analytic philosophy' cannot consist entirely of analysis. Analysis without synthesis would be to quote Dostoevsky "pouring from the empty into the void".
Those who concern themselves with such pointless questions as what the correct way is to do philosophy for example regarding the 'analytic/ continental' or the 'materialist/ idealist' divides are mostly moral crusaders. As it is in science, so it should be in philosophy—all avenues which yield fruit should be explored and we should maintain open minds.
Why should we concern ourselves with such tedious moralizing questions as which is the correct way to do philosophy? If there is one way not to do philosophy that would be it.
I don't usually like to quote passages from other writers but here is an interesting take on philosophy from E M Cioran's
A Short History of Decay:
Farewell to Philosophy
I turned away from philosophy when it became impossible to discover in Kant any human weakness, any authentic accent of melancholy; in Kant and in all the philosophers. Compared to music, mysticism, and poetry, philosophical activity proceeds from a diminished impulse and a suspect depth, prestigious only for the timid and the tepid. Moreover, philosophy—impersonal anxiety, refuge among anemic ideas—is the recourse of all who would elude the corrupting exuberance of life. Almost all the philosophers came to a good end: that is the supreme argument against philosophy. Even Socrates' death has nothing tragic about it: it is a misunderstanding, the end of a pedagogue—and if Nietzsche foundered, it was as a poet and visionary: he expiated his ecstasies and not his arguments.
We cannot elude existence by explanations, we can only endure it, love or hate it, adore or dread it, in that alternation of happiness and horror which expresses the very rhythm of being, its oscillations, its dissonances, its bright or bitter vehemences.
Exposed by surprise or necessity to an irrefutable defeat, who does not raise his hands in prayer then, only to let them fall emptier still for the answers of philosophy? It would seem that its mission is to protect us as long as fate’s neglect allows us to proceed on the brink of chaos, and to abandon us as soon as we are forced to plunge over the edge. And how could it be otherwise, when we see how little of humanity’s suffering has passed into its philosophy? The philosophic exercise is not fruitful; it is merely honorable. We are always philosophers with impunity: a métier without fate which pours voluminous thoughts into our neutral and vacant hours, the hours refractory to the Old Testament, to Bach, and to Shakespeare. And have these thoughts materialized into a single page that is equivalent to one of Job’s exclamations, of Macbeth’s terrors, or the altitude of one of Bach’s cantatas? We do not argue the universe; we express it. And philosophy does not express it. The real problems begin only after having ranged or exhausted it, after the last chapter of a huge tome which prints the final period as an abdication before the Unknown, in which all our moments are rooted and with which we must struggle because it is naturally more immediate, more important than our daily bread. Here the philosopher leaves us: enemy of disaster, he is sane as reason itself, and as prudent. And we remain in the company of an old plague victim, of a poet learned in every lunacy, and of a musician whose sublimity transcends the sphere of the heart. We begin to Eve authentically only where philosophy ends, at its wreck, when we have understood its terrible nullity, when we have understood that it was futile to resort to it, that it is no help.
(The great systems are actually no more than brilliant tautologies. What advantage is it to know that the nature of being consists in the “will to live,” in “idea,” or in the whim of God or of Chemistry? A mere proliferation of words, subtle displacements of meanings. What is loathes the verbal embrace, and our inmost experience reveals us nothing beyond the privileged and inexpressible moment. Moreover, Being itself is only a pretension of Nothingness.
We define only out of despair. We must have a formula, we must even have many, if only to give justification to the mind and a facade to the void.
Neither concept nor ecstasy are functional. When music plunges us into the “inwardness” of being, we rapidly return to the surface: the effects of the illusion scatter and our knowledge admits its nullity.
The things we touch and those we conceive are as improbable as our senses and our reason; we are sure only in our verbal universe, manageable at will—and ineffectual. Being is mute and the mind is garrulous. This is called knowing.
The philosopher’s originality comes down to inventing terms. Since there are only three or four attitudes by which to confront the world— and about as many ways of dying—the nuances which multiply and diversify them derive from no more than the choice of words, bereft of any metaphysical range.
We are engulfed in a pleonastic universe, in which the questions and answers amount to the same thing.)