“In ‘Writing Short Stories,’ [Flannery] O’Connor’s most illuminating remarks concern the relationship between story and meaning. These remarks were certainly inspired by the fact that the home O’Connor shared with her mother was a working farm:

I prefer to talk about the meaning in a story rather than the theme of a story. People talk about the theme of a story as if the theme were like the string that a sack of chicken feed is tied with. They think that if you can pick out the theme, the way you pick the right thread in the chicken-feed sack, you can rip the story open and feed the chickens. But this is not the way meaning works in fiction.

“What O’Connor is leery of is the misguided understanding that the meaning of a story is something separable from the story itself. We may remember from our school days identifying the ‘theme’ or ‘meaning’ of a story or poem as if it were an isolated statement that could be neatly detached from the work of literature and memorized for a test. O’Connor invites us to correct this misguided understanding. Tearing back the right thread allows the chicken feed to be dispensed. But the meaning of a story is not some magic thread; it is, as it were, the chicken feed itself:

When you can state the theme of a story, when you can separate it from the story itself, then you can be sure the story is not a very good one. The meaning of a story has to be embodied in it, has to be made concrete in it. A story is a way of saying something that can’t be said in any other way, and it takes every word in the story to say what the meaning is. You tell a story because a statement would be inadequate. When anybody asks what a story is about, the only proper thing is to tell him to read the story.

“This text is a powerful reflection on the way stories work. In order to understand what O’Connor is saying here, it is helpful to keep in mind three ways in which we can know something.

“The first is by way of theoretical statements. We can learn a lot by listening to a lecture. In this mode of knowing, we endeavor to abstract from the particulars of the case and grasp what is essential to it. Although the lecturer might use examples or illustrations to aid comprehension, the primary mode of delivery is by way of statements and arguments made up out of abstract notions.

“Another way we can know something is by what we might call the way of doing. There’s real know-how that comes from doing something, especially when we do something so much that our experience of it becomes rich and varied. For example, our sweet, humble Aunt Emily knows a lot about the virtue of humility by having lived humility over many years. Her theoretical knowledge of humility — her knowledge of humility by way of universal statements and arguments — may be nil. She may have never studied moral theology. If asked to give a definition of humility, she would probably be at a loss. And yet, it’s undeniable that Aunt Emily has a real understanding of what it means to be humble, an experiential knowledge embodied in her habitually humble acts. And by imitating Aunt Emily’s humility, we can proceed along this way of doing as well.

“The third way of knowing is by what we might call the way of showing. By ‘showing,’ I mean the activities of the artistic imagination. A movie is a kind of showing, as is a play. But there are other kinds of showing that do not involve performance either live or recorded. A novel is a kind of showing, as is a poem, as is a short story. These latter arts are showings in the sense that they, just like a movie or play, offer us images of human beings doing things. And whether a showing is performance-based or text-based, it attempts — as we so often say about a work of art — to ‘say’ something. It offers us the experience of something meaningful.”

— from Daniel McInerny, Beauty & Imitation: A Philosophical Reflection on the Arts (Word on Fire, 2024)

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