The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; The Art of Literature — Schopenhauer — John Shaqi
The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; The Art of Literature
Schopenhauer · en
When one sees the number and variety of institutions which exist
for the purposes of education, and the vast throng of scholars and
masters, one might fancy the human race to be very much concerned
about truth and wisdom. But here, too, appearances are deceptive. The
masters teach in order to gain money, and strive, not after wisdom,
but the outward show and reputation of it; and the scholars learn, not
for the sake of knowledge and insight, but to be able to chatter and
give themselves airs. Every thirty years a new race comes into the
world--a youngster that knows nothing about anything, and after
summarily devouring in all haste the results of human knowledge as
they have been accumulated for thousands of years, aspires to be
thought cleverer than the whole of the past. For this purpose he goes
to the University, and takes to reading books--new books, as being of
his own age and standing. Everything he reads must be briefly put,
must be new! he is new himself. Then he falls to and criticises. And
here I am not taking the slightest account of studies pursued for the
sole object of making a living.
Students, and learned persons of all sorts and every age, aim as
a rule at acquiring _information_ rather than insight. They pique
themselves upon knowing about everything--stones, plants, battles,
experiments, and all the books in existence. It never occurs to them
that information is only a means of insight, and in itself of little
or no value; that it is his way of _thinking_ that makes a man a
philosopher. When I hear of these portents of learning and their
imposing erudition, I sometimes say to myself: Ah, how little they
must have had to think about, to have been able to read so much!
And when I actually find it reported of the elder Pliny that he was
continually reading or being read to, at table, on a journey, or in
his bath, the question forces itself upon my mind, whether the man
was so very lacking in thought of his own that he had to have
alien thought incessantly instilled into him; as though he were a
consumptive patient taking jellies to keep himself alive. And neither
his undiscerning credulity nor his inexpressibly repulsive and barely
intelligible style--which seems like of a man taking notes, and very
economical of paper--is of a kind to give me a high opinion of his
power of independent thought.