Arthur Schopenhauer opens his essays on literature by dividing writers into those who write for the sake of the subject and those who write merely for money. He argues that the latter group ruins literature and language through prolixity, affectation, and the conscious concealment of empty thoughts. True authors think for themselves before putting pen to paper, drawing materials from their own observation rather than compiling from existing books.
The discussion extends to style, which Schopenhauer describes as the physiognomy of the mind. He warns against imitation, stating that an artificial style is like wearing a lifeless mask. True brevity comes from depth and weight of thought, not from the arbitrary omission of necessary words or grammatical forms. Simplicity and clarity remain the absolute marks of genuine genius.
Schopenhauer criticizes the public's preference for matter over form, noting how readers often obsess over the historical or biographical trivia surrounding a work rather than engaging with the art itself. He laments the decline of the study of ancient languages, asserting that Latin and Greek provide essential mental discipline and keep barbarism at bay by connecting modern minds with centuries of classical thought.
The volume addresses the detrimental effect of the daily press and anonymous reviewing, which he views as a shield for journalistic cowardice and corruption. Literary journals should act as a rigorous dam against useless books, yet they often promote mediocrity through mutual praise and commercial collusion.
Finally, Schopenhauer explores the difficult path of genius in a world dominated by mediocrity. True masterpieces rarely receive immediate appreciation from contemporaries because the majority lacks critical discernment and harbors deep envy. Consequently, a great thinker must direct his efforts toward posterity, working in solitude and letting time separate the enduring gold from the transient chaff.
