Genre and Theme

1. Genre and Theme In Literature

2. Literary Genres • A literary genreis a category of literary composition. • Genres may be determined by literary technique, tone, content, or even (as in the case of fiction) length.

3. There are three basic literary genres • Prose • Poetry • Drama

4. The most general genres in literature are: (in loose chronological order) • epic • tragedy • comedy • novel • short story • creative nonfiction

5. Theme • A theme is a recurrent idea, motif, or lesson in an artistic work. • Most stories (of any quality) have many clear and thought provoking themes. The best works of art have themes that are ambiguous.

6. Theme • Themes are NOT a story’s “meaning” (though many think they are), because they are subjective and open to interpretation. • A theme should be a universal statement about the human (or natural) condition, not a story specific statement of subject.

7. SO HOW DO I WRITE A THEME? • Step ONE: Read the given literary work (or absorb some other type of art). • Step TWO: List as many subjects as you can about the work. • Step THREE: Write a sentence summarizing what the work seems to be “saying” about a given subject.

8. Let’s Practice: “Woman Ironing” By Pablo Picasso, 1904

9. Here’s a stem A theme of _________________________ is that (artistic work) ____________________________ is (subject) ___________________________________________. (complete statement)

10. In Contrast: “Woman Ironing” By Edgar Degas

11. Here’s the stem again A theme of _________________________ is that (artistic work) ____________________________ is (subject) ___________________________________________. (complete statement)

12. O.K. so what’s the connection? • Theme and Genre often give hints about each other. • For Example: Science fiction is a genre that is characterized by (or has characteristics of) futuristic and scientific subjects. So if you know a story is science fiction you are half way to developing your theme.

13. We return to “Salvador” Salvador with eyes the color of caterpillar, Salvador of the crooked hair and crooked teeth, Salvador whose name the teacher cannot remember, is a boy who is no one’s friend, runs along somewhere in that vague direction where homes are the color of bad weather, lives behind a raw wood doorway, shakes the sleepy brothers awake, ties their shoes, combs their hair with water, feeds them milk and cornflakes from a tin cup in the dim dark of the morning.  Salvador, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of younger brothers ready. Helps his mama, who is busy with the business of the baby. Tugs the arms of Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, because today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons, has let go the hundred little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue, and nub of black sticks that tumble and spill over and beyond the asphalt puddles until the crossing-guard lady holds back the blur of traffic for Salvador to collect them again. 

14. We return to “Salvador” Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside the throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heart, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred balloons of happiness, the single guitar of grief, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hands of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elbows and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eye, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memory of kites.