The thesis, while being formulaic and rigid in nature, proves to be both effective in use and serves as an ironic seed for creativity.
I once knew a writer. And like all successfully writers of the modern age, he taught English for morons at college. In one class, we were instructed to write a five to seven page essay, double spaced with at most a 12-point font, about — doughnuts or something exciting like that. To all the students’ dismay, when the day came for our papers to be returned, they were heavily inked in red: “-10 points for lack of thesis.” Some of the student athletes complained. They said, “topic sentences hinder creativity!” He replied, “it’s a thesis, not a topic sentence, and a good one will be creative.” Challenged for an example, my professor then went to the blackboard and wrote out one of the most beautifully worded thesis statements I had ever set my eyes upon. It was eloquent, easy to understand, and spanned a fucking paragraph. “Rigid structure forces your focus on the word use and style. It takes the content out of the equation,” he explained.
The thesis statement is easily appreciated by those versed in the art of poetry — especially those who write bad sonnets.
When I was in high school, I particularly liked sonnets. They are insanely strict in structure and rhyme, but are beautiful in tone. I used to imitate Shakespeare when I wrote them, using archaic diction and being purposely vague and unintelligible. My readers described them in similar terms: some where “peaceful” and others “dark.” Regardless, they were predominately “utter shit.” In my sophomore year in high school, one of my sonnets was published in the student newspaper. A concerned teacher at my school contacted my mother after coming upon it, saying that maybe she should consider getting me some professional help. I was successful as a poet at the mere age of 15.
Why is there so much dandruff in this old man’s hair and why do I get this insane urge to brush it out for him?
Formal structure never died, it just fell the fuck apart. Granted there are those who have purposely broke it in attempts to be original, but their prose ends up reeking of it.
Why did it break apart? Because our attention spans have been compressed to the point that they overlap themselves. Because there are more colorful advertisements around us then could possibly be taken in at a single glance.
Because some single sentences deserve their own paragraph.
Because — well, who gives a fuck right?
Modern fiction (and modern society in many of the same ways) has crushed the formalities I was indoctrinated in growing up, but it sure hasn’t killed them. I still have this lingering, seething feeling of guilt every time I can’t remember if I should use “who” or “whom,” every time I can’t figure out how to close a quotation of dialog, every time I write a fragment sentence. Ultimately, formalities still do have their place. They just also have this awfully bad habit of getting in the fucking way.
So what’s the conclusion?
There is none.
Because while there may be beauty in ideal perfection, perfection is subjective and unrealistic while imperfection and fragmentation is as good as ensured. But there has to be something beautiful about that too, doesn’t there?
