If you follow the niche world of classical studies on Substack, you may have come across a now well-trafficked article with a list of classics the author said you should just ignore. The comment sections have been interesting, to say the least. I was surprised to see so much agreement. I appreciate the efforts of those who tried to counter the proposal.
It has long been popular to question the idea of a “classic.” It is often considered an elitist construct, or a relic of outdated curricula imposed by dead (white) men. Others are quick to say, “Just read what you like. Who cares?” Of course, the most heartbreaking conclusion some draw is, why bother with Plato or Dickens when Netflix and social media are available? “I watched the movie…” or “I read a summary…” Lord, help us.
Dismissing the classics isn’t just a harmless preference; it’s an act of self-sabotage. It erodes our intellectual and cultural foundations, leaving us adrift in a sea of superficiality. The Great Books aren’t arbitrary; they are the distilled wisdom of humanity, battle-tested across centuries. They foster literary continuity, binding generations in shared narrative. They form the backbone of a Western canon that defines our cultural makeup. Without them, we fail to understand ourselves as a people. We lose the subtle nuances embedded in our everyday language. We become dumber: collectively more shallow and more susceptible to the manipulations of a soundbite-driven age.
Immersing oneself in the great books isn’t about snobbery or gatekeeping. It’s about reclaiming what has been lost from previous generations and standing on the shoulders of those who thought deeply about the good, the true, and the beautiful. It’s about learning how to engage in a conversation that has been going on for thousands of years. Time didn’t start when we were born. If “do what you love” means avoiding challenge, it’s a recipe for mediocrity. The classics demand effort, but they repay it with transformation.
Classics Are Classics for a Reason: The Survival of Great Literature
On the conservative end, an average of 2.5 million books are published worldwide every year. When accounting for self-publishing or multi-volume sets, that number is often estimated at around 4 million. The overwhelming majority of these books will disappear into obscurity. What survives?
Trendy bestsellers or viral sensations can be fun reads for a season, but they come and go. I dedicate some of my reading time to this genre, usually on an airplane or at the beach. It’s typically mindless and entertaining. Classics, however, are works that resonate across time and context. They earn their status through a ruthless process of reading, reviewing, discussing, debating, and robust responses. The process goes on long after the author has died, while their ideas live on. Classics are classics because they captivate the reader by addressing universal human experiences and ideas. They often cause readers to question assumptions. They motivate readers to think deeply and critically. They often elicit an emotional response. They find a lodging place in the heart and mind. Sometimes they stir up anger or disgust. Good! Classics help readers think about what they believe and think, and force them to ask, “Why?”
Italo Calvino defines a classic as “a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.” It’s not a frozen text, but it is alive and conversant with each new reader. The Iliad isn’t just an ancient war epic; it’s a profound meditation on rage, honor, and the futility of conflict. In a world at war, Achilles’ heel seems eerily prescient. Shakespeare’s Hamlet presents a prince paralyzed by doubt, mirroring the modern epidemics of anxiety and indecision. These aren’t relics, they’re mirrors reflecting an unchanging reality of humanity.
Plenty of skeptics want to question who gets to decide what is considered a classic. They argue it’s a subjective pursuit, imposed by academics. There is no shortage of critiques of the Western canon for its supposed biases, but these critiques do not invalidate the profound impact the classics have had in shaping Western civilization since its inception. The classics persist for a reason. They’ve influenced far more than anyone realizes, sometimes for good, sometimes not so good. Freud’s psychoanalysis wasn’t formed in a vacuum. Continental philosophers are arguing with someone. George Lucas’s Star Wars saga borrowed the hero’s journey from Joseph Campbell’s interpretations of myths like The Odyssey. Most stories follow the pattern of Cinderella. Virginia Woolf dissects grief and time. Fyodor Dostoevsky probes morality’s grey zones. The classics survive because they offer essential tools that no self-help fad can match.
If we don’t read the classics, modern culture is unmoored. My kids have joyfully read the Harry Potter series, and I’m glad to see them with a book in front of their faces instead of a screen. But in time, I hope they discover the relationship with Dickensian orphans and Virgilian quests. A classicist will readily recognize a nod to Norse epics in Marvel films (without the depth). The anti-classics crowd is settling for fast-food versions of gourmet meals. It’s easy, but it starves the soul of vital nutrients. Ignorance of the Great Books contributes to a society that’s intellectually malnourished.
The Importance of Literary Continuity
American culture is in an era of generational siloing. Classics serve as a bridge between feather quills and TikTok. They create literary continuity, a shared thread weaving through time that reminds us that we are part of something larger than our immediate interests. The classics can serve to foster intergenerational dialogue, preserving wisdom that might otherwise vanish. They can sometimes give a reader the sense that they are a stranger to their own society in a good way, expanding one’s horizons beyond the here and now.
This continuity isn’t abstract; it’s practical. George Orwell’s 1984 warned of totalitarian surveillance in 1949: “Hey Alexa, what did I order last week?” The classics encode lessons from things like plagues (Decameron), revolutions (A Tale of Two Cities), and tyranny (Hiero): blueprints for resilience. By prioritizing feel-good reads (or none at all), we isolate ourselves in echo chambers. Social media amplifies the silo effect while the classics challenge it.
Continuity preserves cultural memory. History is often revised or forgotten, but the classics stand as immutable witnesses. By dismissing the classics as irrelevant, amnesia accelerates. We’re left with a present untethered from the past, vulnerable to demagogues who exploit ignorance. Opting out of the classics doesn’t erase them or the important (or dangerous) ideas that emerge from them; it just leaves you clueless about the references. Literary continuity isn’t a luxury; it’s a significant part of what holds a civilization together.
The Canon of Western Literature
At its core, the Western canon provides a framework for understanding our identity. We cannot escape the reality that the West sits at the intersection between Athens and Jerusalem. Biblical illiteracy is at an all-time high in the modern West. Even non-believers were once intimately familiar with the biblical text, whereas today many Christians have only a vague grasp of key narratives, concepts, and doctrines. Aristotle’s Poetics defined tragedy, and Milton’s Paradise Lost wrestled with free will. How do these works intersect or diverge from the teaching of the Bible? These are questions at the foundation of Western thinking, but without the foundation, we lose the vocabulary for big ideas. The United States Constitution draws from Locke’s treatises and Montesquieu’s The Spirit of Laws, classics that informed the Enlightenment. We can ignore them, but then our civil discourse becomes meaningless.
Critics argue the canon is exclusionary, but wholesale rejection is cultural vandalism. There are certainly works that should be considered for “inclusion,” but rejecting that canon because they are not there (yet) is like burning down a house because it needs some new carpet. The Western canon is a repository of evolving debates, so there is room for more. An anti-canon position plays into anti-intellectual hands. If classics don’t matter, why preserve any heritage? It’s not imposition; it’s invitation: ask questions, offer critiques, and grow.
Missing Nuance and Becoming Dumber
Language is the classics’ stealth weapon. They infuse our speech with depth, turning mundane words into layered symbols. If we ignore them, our communication flattens and our intellect dulls. Prepare yourself for more conversations filled with “like” (without similes), “literally” (when it’s, like, totally figurative), and “you know?” (when nothing was actually said).
Consider idioms like “Achilles’ heel” from Homer, signifying vulnerability; “Catch-22” from Heller, for no-win situations; “A pound of flesh” from Shakespeare, when we demand unbending justice. Without context, they’re just phrases. If we lose the stories, we lose the nuance. Classics expand our vocabulary. Vague words enable manipulation, but the classics can help us hone precision by forcing us to follow lengthy storylines and complex ideas, rather than clickbait headlines and 140-character quips. We settle for emojis over eloquence to our own peril, and everyone suffers if we are all dumber.
Abandoning the classics isn’t liberation, it’s amnesia with a side of complacency. These aren’t dusty tomes to read out of guilt or snobbery, and turning our backs on them is taking a vast library and using it as kindling for a fire because reading them can be hard work. The survivors of that ruthless, centuries-long gauntlet aren’t there by accident; they’re the voices that refused to shut up. Reading the classics is not homework; it’s an invitation to the longest, richest conversation humanity has ever had. You can skip it, but don’t pretend the table wasn’t set for you. The feast is warm, the seats are open, and the conversation is more engaging and enriching than anything trending today.
How do you define the true, good and beautiful?
Nice!