It is the mother of that strained
and vague style, where there seem to be two or even more meanings in
the sentence; also of that prolix and cumbrous manner of expression,
called _le stile empese_; again, of that mere waste of words which
consists in pouring them out like a flood; finally, of that trick
of concealing the direst poverty of thought under a farrago of
never-ending chatter, which clacks away like a windmill and quite
stupefies one--stuff which a man may read for hours together without
getting hold of a single clearly expressed and definite idea.[1]
However, people are easy-going, and they have formed the habit of
reading page upon page of all sorts of such verbiage, without having
any particular idea of what the author really means. They fancy it is
all as it should be, and fail to discover that he is writing simply
for writing's sake.
[Footnote 1: Select examples of the art of writing in this style are
to be found almost _passim_ in the _Jahrbuecher_ published at Halle,
afterwards called the _Deutschen Jahrbuecher_.]
On the other hand, a good author, fertile in ideas, soon wins his
reader's confidence that, when he writes, he has really and truly
_something to say_; and this gives the intelligent reader patience to
follow him with attention.
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