> Theme is a tricky beast to define. In my upcoming (next
> week!) booklet
> on writing short stories, I tackle the topic thusly:
>
> Theme
>
> This short book on short story writing shall end with
> perhaps the most
> difficult topic to dis-cuss. What is theme? [...]

The explanation of theme comes in the second half of the booklet,
which covers aesthetics (rather than mechanics). The aesthetics
section is introduced as follows:

The Aesthetics of Short Story Writing

"And how are you now, Professor?" the Empress asked, bending over the
invalid.
The Professor looked up, and smiled feebly. "As devoted to your
Imperial Highness as ever!" he said in a weak voice. "All of me, that
is not Lumbago, is Loyalty!"
"A sweet sentiment!" the Empress exclaimed with tears in her eyes.
"You seldom hear anything so beautiful as that-even in a Valentine!"
-Lewis Carroll, Sylvie and Bruno Concluded

Beyond the mechanical issues of short stories are the aesthetic
considerations. When one speaks of character movement, or theme, one
is entering less clearly charted territory than when one speaks of
point of view, dialog, and tense, and indeed, aesthetic issues are
less easily defined, but are of critical importance in serious
fiction.
First, let me explain exactly what I mean to do when I hold aesthetics
up as being something different from mechanics. Aesthetics are about
the beauty behind a story, and by beauty, I do not mean prettiness or
preciousness. I consider Camus' novel L'Etranger (The Outsider) and
Knut Hamsun's Sult (Hunger) to be aesthetically pleasing novels, but
neither is about anything particularly pleasing to the eye or senses
in the way a bucket of ice cream on a field of fresh grass on a hot
summer's day might be pleasing. These novels are pleasing because they
examine human nature carefully, honestly, and do so in a way that is
enjoyable, in a very broad sense for me to read. In short, they are
aesthetically masterful works because they are, in my opinion,
beautiful art, even in light of their subject matter.

Well-orchestrated mechanics are a large part of literary aesthetics,
but they are not enough unto themselves. The most brilliantly turned
phrase, most authentic dialog, and the most tightly knit plot, without
much under their surface to say to me as a reader, are like comparing
finely polished glass to finely polished diamond. A quick jerk of my
mental hammer will shatter the glass, but do little or no harm to the
diamond. A work that is perfectly executed, but has nothing of merit
to say-a piece that puts form before substance-is, at best, a
temporary joy.

Works that dig under the skin of the human condition by exposing
genuine and meaningful character movement, speak to humanity through
theme, evoke timeless allusions, and leave me with more understanding
than before I read them, however, even if they are not perfectly
executed on a mechanical level, are something to behold. The ideal, of
course, is to produce works that are both mechanically and
aesthetically superior. I consider Hemingway's "A Clean, Well-Lighted
Place," to be just such a short story. I would like to point to one of
my own short stories as an example of such a work, but in all honesty,
do not feel that anything I have written has reached that mark yet. I
may never be able to reach that mark, but I can still strive towards
that end as a short story author.

--
Quinn Tyler Jackson

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