Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860) emerges as a prodigy whose early genius shaped a bold, singular voice in philosophy. His landmark work, The World as Will and Representation, appeared in 1818, when he was still in his thirties. He believed his creation carried a sublime weight, yet the public resonance was minimal for a long time. His mother, Johanna Schopenhauer, would gain recognition as a novelist, casting a separate light on the family’s intellectual footprint. In the German philosophical world, attention gravitated toward Hegel, whose circle was crowded, while Schopenhauer, a relatively obscure lecturer, stood apart. Fame did come, but not through a direct, tidy metaphysical system. Instead, it arrived through the art of living well and a distinctive talent for aphorisms about life’s realities. In the twilight of his career, he finally acknowledged the impact of his early, almost ascetic critique of rationalism, a stance rooted in voluntarism against Hegelian rationalism.
Schopenhauer’s fundamental claim centers on a single, mysterious urge—the will—that manifests throughout nature and drives every object, from gravity to human motivation. He argues that the world we experience is a representation shaped, perhaps insufficiently, by this underlying force. Facing a life inherently marked by suffering, he drew inspiration from Christian mystics and Buddhist thought, both of which emphasize negating the will to live. For him, relief from suffering could even point toward self-annihilation, yet his own actions remained tethered to the will, leading to a paradoxical solution: the artist and the ascetic. The artist frees perception from ordinary desires through a disinterested, contemplative stance, while the ascetic learns to embrace a form of inner emptiness. Since Schopenhauer denied a personal God and, as pantheists claimed, rejected a deified world, hope becomes aligned with renouncing the will to live. This stance underpins his notorious metaphysical pessimism: the world, in his view, is the worst of possible worlds, a stark contrast to Leibniz’s theodicy which seeks to justify suffering.
In The Art of Being Right, Schopenhauer, noted for his sharp sensitivity and unflinching critique of human folly, investigates why people often choose the subjective satisfaction of being right over an objective grasp of truth. A large portion of the material draws on Aristotle, focusing on the techniques of argument that can mislead rather than illuminate. Schopenhauer believed that Aristotle’s analysis fell short, prompting him to develop a systematic catalog of rhetorical traps that he called 38 strategies for deception. This exploration of persuasive misdirection sits at the crossroads of sophistry and philosophical rigor, inviting readers to scrutinize the aims behind any claim to certainty.
The work presented by Luis Fernando Moreno Claros, a leading commentator on German philosophy and biography, gathers fragments from Parerga and Paralipómena along with the central treatise. When comparing the two texts, one observes a tension: in the first he openly asserts or denies his fitness for the art of deception as a tool, while the second reveals him reconsidering that stance and seeking truth through a more disciplined approach. The material invites readers to approach it as both a sophist’s playground and a rigorous philosophical inquiry. In this sense, the book serves as a mirror for how Schopenhauer treated the tension between appearance and reality, deception and truth, and the ongoing struggle to discern genuine insight from clever rhetoric.
The framework Schopenhauer adopts rests on a will capable of adopting masks to steer intellect wherever it pleases. Reason, he argues, is often inadequate, and human nature can be morally pliable. This ambiguity fuels a wide array of argumentative devices, including concealment, exaggeration, provocation of opponents, ambiguity, superficial refinements, and broad generalizations, along with questioning and ad hominem tactics. The discussion extends to attempts to redirect the debate through strategic moves like tu quoque or changing the main subject to a subsidiary issue. Such a catalog forms a vivid portrait of eristic discourse, a style associated with the 19th century and even earlier iterations in Aristotle. In a world dominated by rapid image reproduction and constant information flow, the idea of using deceptive techniques in a heated political debate would seem perilous, perhaps self-defeating. Yet Schopenhauer’s critical spirit endures as a warning about the seductive power of rhetorical skill when detached from genuine understanding.
Ultimately, the work challenges readers to recognize how easily a lively exchange can slip into a contest of wits where truth becomes secondary to victory. It invites a contemporary audience to consider how the capacity to argue well may coexist with a deeper comprehension of reality, urging vigilance against the temptations of clever manipulation. The text remains a provocative exploration of how language, logic, and motive intertwine in the search for truth, a topic as relevant today as it was in Schopenhauer’s own era.