Apologies for the long stretch since my last post, friends. I’ve been pounding through the third-pass edits of my upcoming literary fantasy novel, The Last Tale of Vastland. It’s turning out great, but my summer deadline looms, so I took some time to finish that up. Anyway, without further ado, here at long last are more thoughts on prose in fiction.

In my last article I pondered the meaning of an author’s style, plus the power that style has to enrich and propel readers through a story. I also made the (blatantly obvious) claim that each author has their own style: like a fingerprint, the way each author writes is different than any other.

But riddle me this: why today do many authors try to erase their fingerprints? To eradicate their style?

Oh, I understand the impulse. These authors believe that on the author side, thinking about style takes attention away from the story; while on the reader side, they think a distinct style can become a distraction, with the very words and sentences on the page–even if beautifully written–pulling the audience from complete immersion in the fictional dream. And so they file down their prose in an attempt to make it invisible. They call their objective clear windowpane prose, as opposed to its colorful, “obscuring” cousin, stained glass prose.

And I say it’s a fool’s errand. “Clear windowpane” writing is never as good.

Clear Windowpane Writing

This argument has been around the block and back again. The term “windowpane” prose first appeared all the way back in an Orwell essay from 1946:

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist or understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane.”

Here Orwell is speaking about every author’s internal conflict between egotistically wanting to be noticed yet also wanting to disappear behind their words. But today the metaphor has been taken up to attack “purple prose,” literary style, or really any fiction that strays from a normal, average reader’s base-level fluency.

Today, fantasy juggernaut Brandon Sanderson and his ilk are the most enthusiastic cheerleaders for clear windowpane prose. In his 2012 BYU lecture (and elsewhere), Sanderson is crystal clear that crystal clear is what he aims for in his books. And he’s not alone in either genre or commercial fiction. Don’t think about style, they say, just write. Be plainspoken, not “literary.” Speculative Fiction author –no intellectual slouch himself (go read him if you haven’t yet)--compares thinking about your writing style to thinking about how you walk, which inevitably causes you to walk funny. And of course he quotes the grandaddy of stripped-down, journalistic “kill your darlings” prose, Ernest Hemingway.

And truth be told, this is good advice for making a living. People open their wallets for neutral prose.

The best-seller lists are dominated by “workmanlike” writing styles. Sanderson himself sells millions, year after year. In 2026 to date, the #2 Amazon best seller is Project Hail Mary, despite Andy Weir recently going viral for his eye-rolling, Reddit-like prose.

Although a cheesy GMA or Oprah Book Club pick may sneak in somewhat artistic prose, the million-sellers are normally flat genre reads like Rebecca Yarros, Sarah J. Maas, Dan Brown, or John Grisham. I’d never heard of Freida McFadden, but her The Housemaid holds the #7 spot on Amazon sales this year, with a 4.5-star rating from 717k reviews. (!!) And what’s her style like? See for yourself: here are the first few paragraphs:

If I leave this house, it will be in handcuffs. I should have run for it while I had the chance. Now my shot is gone. Now that the police officers are in the house and they’ve discovered what’s upstairs, there’s no turning back.

They are about five seconds away from reading me my rights. I’m not sure why they haven’t done it yet. Maybe they’re hoping to trick me into telling them something I shouldn’t.

Good luck with that.

The cop with the black hair threaded with gray is sitting on the sofa next to me. He shifts his stocky frame on the burnt-caramel Italian leather. I wonder what sort of sofa he has at home. It sure doesn’t cost five figures like this one did. It’s probably some tacky color like orange, covered in pet fur, and with more than one rip in the seams. I wonder if he’s thinking about his sofa at home and wishing he had one like this.

Or more likely, he’s thinking about the dead body in the attic upstairs.

Simple, straightforward, with lots of short sentences–even single-sentence paragraphs to punch it up for the ADHD internet age. I pasted this into a reading calculator and found it’s at a 6th grade reading level–-about right for most vanilla prose bestsellers. The kind where calling couch leather “burnt-caramel” stands out as a titillating descriptor.

This is windowpane prose at its finest. No one would read this and think about the language—it’s not worth thinking about.

“Top-of-the-Head” Writing

I know I’m coming across as elitist here, looking down my big fat nose on commercial (i.e., windowpane) prose. And I suppose there is some truth to that. (I do have a big fat nose, and I can be a snob…) But honestly, it’s not the writing itself or the fact that everyday folks gobble it down like potato chips that bothers me. I completely understand being enthralled with a page-turner of a beach read. Sometimes you don’t want to think about fancy words or clever writing, you just want raw action, gut-level suspense, swooning romance, or repulsive horror. You know, fun. And I say, ok. Read what you like. Have your fun.

But don’t tell me this is “good” writing.

This is where I get rankled with the clear windowpane fanboys (and girls). Although if judged purely on utility, everyday diction and nondescript style may pass with high marks, but it’s never objectively good. No, not in any known universe. Sure, it’s serviceable to the story, but literature is so much more–always has been, always will be.

For all their talent for gripping a reader, these books are lowest-common denominator writing, trite and forgettable by definition. Famed editor Sol Stein labeled this “top-of-the-head prose” because the writer simply plunks out whatever hops into his or her brain at the moment and calls it good enough.

“I see manuscripts and books that are spoiled for the literary reader because they are one long stream of top-of-the-head writing, a writer telling a story without concern for precision or freshness in the use of language. Some of this storytelling reads as if it were spoken rather than written, stuffed with tired images that pop into the writer’s head because they are so familiar. The top of the head is fit for growing hair, but not for generating fine prose.”

(Stein on Writing–a great book. Highly recommended.)

I think “top-of-the-head writing” is a better descriptor than “clear windowpane” as it nails the problem with this style of writing (and not just for “literary” readers as Stein says, either, but everyone.) The text on the page betrays an author who took no time to think about silly things like word choice, sentence length, or cutting out those pesky clichés. There’s no time for that! Just keep typing! They’ve got sixty thousand words to go, they gotta sell another book since (oh no!) the last one is already being forgotten, they gotta make more moola!

I’m being cynical here, of course, but think about it: telling Freida McFadden or Brandon Sanderson to reach higher, learn the craft, take more time to get it right is simply ludicrous. It would be like suggesting to McDonald’s CEOs they should do better than two-dollar heart attack burgers. It’s laughable. And they’re laughing all the way to the bank.

But in literature, friends, popularity doesn’t greatness make. Ever. Money is no measure of quality.

Painted-Over Windows

Now, none of this should swing the pendulum too far in the other direction. We should not let overly-literary books off the hook, either. Not at all.

Some fancy-schmancy “auteur” writers definitely make their stained glass windows so obscure they might as well be painted over in black. While the dreaded, overly-ornate “purple prose” is long gone nowadays, I do see plenty of NPR-adored books far too big for their britches. These novels are the equivalent of modern art: so avant-garde they’re downright bizarre. The literary parallel of a banana taped to a wall or Jackson Pollock splatter paintings. Only pleasurable to PhDs wanting to show off their bewildering smarts, but leaving the rest of us squinting at the ugliness.

Yes, artistic literary experiments with punctuation, narration, etc. do have their uses, and once in a coon’s age those experiments actually work out well (ex: Cormac McCarthy’s avoidance of quotation marks). But by and large, not for the average, educated reader.

It’s natural to drift to extremes when arguing one’s point (I’m often guilty as charged) but with all the strong feelings either way, I think subtlety is what’s missing in the modern “good prose” debate. Whereas once our culture commonly agreed that poetry was both immensely powerful and pleasurable, today the common man sees it as stilted and pretentious–and that assessment is quickly drifting into fiction as well. So now anything other than “everyday language” is flushed down the toilet. I can’t tell you how many arguments I’ve (stupidly) engaged in over the decades about this, advocating for the middle path. Freshness in language over “normal talk” writing. Power and precision. And beauty whenever possible.

“Both And” Writing

As an example, last time I quoted the introduction to Steinbeck’s East of Eden, which is as lucid as it is packed with meaning. As a second example, let’s look at the masterful opening of Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove, which wonderfully bridges that same gap:

When Augustus came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake—not a very big one. It had probably just been crawling around looking for shade when it ran into the pigs. They were having a fine tug-of-war with it, and its rattling days were over. The sow had it by the neck, and the shoat had the tail.

“You pigs git,” Augustus said, kicking the shoat. “Head on down to the creek if you want to eat that snake.” It was the porch he begrudged them, not the snake. Pigs on the porch just made things hotter, and things were already hot enough. He stepped down into the dusty yard and walked around to the springhouse to get his jug. The sun was still high, sulled in the sky like a mule, but Augustus had a keen eye for sun, and to his eye the long light from the west had taken on an encouraging slant.

Evening took a long time getting to Lonesome Dove, but when it came it was a comfort. For most of the hours of the day—and most of the months of the year—the sun had the town trapped deep in dust, far out in the chaparral flats, a heaven for snakes and horned toads, roadrunners and stinging lizards, but a hell for pigs and Tennesseans. There was not even a respectable shade tree within twenty or thirty miles; in fact, the actual location of the nearest decent shade was a matter of vigorous debate in the offices—if you wanted to call a roofless barn and a couple of patched-up corrals offices—of the Hat Creek Cattle Company, half of which Augustus owned.

His stubborn partner, Captain W. F. Call, maintained that there was excellent shade as close as Pickles Gap, only twelve miles away, but Augustus wouldn’t allow it. Pickles Gap was if anything a more worthless community than Lonesome Dove. It had only sprung up because a fool from north Georgia named Wesley Pickles had gotten himself and his family lost in the mesquites for about ten days. When he finally found a clearing, he wouldn’t leave it, and Pickles Gap came into being, mainly attracting travelers like its founder, which is to say people too weak-willed.

This is not overly-dense, yet neither is it “top-of-the-head” writing. It’s in between, though I’d argue it falls more on the stained glass side, with every choice being made intentionally. The situation is so fresh, Augustus’ characterization so vivid and interesting; the wording is surprisingly accessible, and McMurtry’s style hearkens back to a distinctly-American oral tradition which here feels unique–not to mention highly entertaining. Everyday readers can easily enjoy this, while the highly educated have plenty to roll up sleeves over, digging into the rich layers of meaning.

In short, this, friends, this is good prose.

To Be Fair…

To be fair, Sanderson is not as one-sided about windowpane prose as many of his admirers and imitators might make him out to be. Whereas they claim “basic is best” and sneer at stained glass prose as highfalutin’ or unengaging, Sanderson is actually very complimentary of fine writing. He even admits to using it himself at times:

“I try for this [clear windowpane prose]. It’s much more a craftsman style than an artist’s style of writing. I prefer it, but I like reading both of them…I stick to trying this, though I will sometimes do a little more flowery start to a chapter where in my description I may allow a little stained glass in my description to set that particular chapter, and then I go windowpane. You’ll see this used very often in genre fiction.”

Sanderson goes on to encourage his BYU students that are skilled in poetic description or voice to go ahead and include both in their books. There’s a continuum between windowpane and stained glass, he says, and neither is “right.” Both have purposes, so read and write what you like.

While I am always skeptical of anyone claiming that in the end all things are equal, and while I do think good prose must by necessity tip the scales toward the artistic, I can agree that there are times and uses for all styles.

Even the bland—so long as it doesn’t take over.

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room! What do you think? What have I missed or glossed over, where have I gone astray? Looking forward to hearing your ideas in the comments :)

It wasn’t quite what I’d expected.

I’ve read half a dozen Steinbeck novels and liked nearly all of them. Of Mice and Men and Grapes of Wrath are my favorites. (As you can tell, I’m not much of a rabble rouser: the hype on these classics is justified, I say.) So imagine my surprise when I cracked open Eden only to wrinkle my nose, chapter after chapter, muttering, “What the…?”

This long, rambling, disjunctive tale has only the distant suggestion of a unified plot—not to mention constant asides, an unnecessary biographical narrator showing up every now and again, and long, stilted conversations about Hebrew words. Of Mice and Men this ain’t.

Yet for some reason I kept reading to the end.

I have zero problems tossing a half-read book into the trash bin (in fact, I do it all the time), but for some reason I plowed on to the last page of East of Eden despite having many (many!) sour and bewildered feelings. And now, after weeks of reflection, those feelings still linger. But I can’t say I “disliked” it. While not my favorite, I’ve concluded one thing saved the work: Steinbeck’s style.

Maybe you’ve had this experience, too: you read something that really isn’t hitting home, but you find yourself turning pages anyway because there’s just something about the book–a quality of “ahhh!” It could be a subtle hum among the words or blatant as a tornado siren, but the writing is just capital-G “Good.”

But what makes it that way? What quality in that particular combination of words on the page strikes us as “Good” writing? Steinbeck’s novel has gotten me to mull this over for the past month. And in the end, I can definitely shout from the rooftops that I completely, unarguably don’t know. Oh, I have thoughts (I always have thoughts), but it’s more an impression. A gist. An inkling.

So unlike most of my articles, what follows is not so much me shooting my mouth off (er…shooting my keyboard off?) but me—a non-scholarly amateur who loves a good read—thinking through “style” in fiction. Below is the introduction—just some bare-bones basics. Next article, I’ll get a bit more specific. Of course, I’d appreciate your help in refining my ideas.

What is Prose Style?

Let’s start by cording off some territory. What we’re talking about here is an author’s prose style being Good, as opposed to mediocre or poor. As with anything literary, there are trunkfulls of terminology by really smart folks from the past thousand-plus years of criticism, so it would be easy to spin wheels in mud over things like voice, tone, mood, and more, but I think all we need right now are two terms:

“Prose Fiction”: writing that tells a story without use of traditional poetic techniques (regular meter, rhyme, fixed line lengths, etc.)

and

“Style”: How a writer uses language, including word choice, sentence structure, rhythm, tone, voice, etc.

While to-the-point, these are a little bland, in my mind. Maybe a bit better is to say “prose style” in fiction means an author’s personal way of expressing themselves on the page. This makes sense. A hundred people could tell (or write) the exact same story, but each would tell (or write) it with their own distinct flair. That flair is their style.1

Are All Styles Created Equal?

Fine and good. So style is each author’s individual way of telling a story. Got it, nice to know. But what makes one author better at it than another? What criteria can we use.

Let’s start by killing the notion that it’s all subjective, that writer A is “better” than writer B just because you like them more, and someone else could validly say the opposite. I detest this argument. It’s such lazy thinking, killing thought. It’s also strangely convenient that subjectivism insulates the arguer from criticism (“You can’t tell me my feelings are wrong!”)

Plus, it’s obviously untrue.

Yes, education, personal experience, and inclinations do differ, coloring which novels a person will like more and which less, but that’s only taste. The text on the page doesn’t change based on who reads it. A novel holds inherent qualities regardless of your perceptions. East of Eden’s style can be excellent even if I, Don Beck, don’t like it, or terrible even if I personally love it.

I’ll gladly admit it can be tough to say with confidence which it is. This isn’t math, there’s no obviously “right” answer here. But well-read, discerning readers will generally agree, and over the generations they are proven right or wrong. (For more on that, see the “passionate reader” theory here.) And as with all the great books, so many intelligent, discerning readers love Eden that it obviously has the special sauce (which, by the way, is sweet-and-spicy BBQ sauce.)

So taste is useless as a distinction. But what about communication? At a base level, can’t we say a “Good” fictional style communicates clearly to its intended audience?

When some fine Substack folks recently discussed this, floated the term “lucid,” which I like even better than “communication.” That word connotes more than mere understanding of a told story: we should “see through” the written words to look on foreign places, times, and events. We should be pulled into the “fictional dream,” able to personally experience others’ lives. A solid style “shines a light” so we readers can understand deeply, be impacted by that author’s attitude, experience, and ideas. “Good” style changes lives.

Most writers have different ways of achieving lucidity through their wordsmithing, and some are clearly better at it than others. While some emphasize plot, sweeping us up in exciting action (think: Reacher novels), others rely on emotions, making us cry or swoon (think: upmarket lit), and still others focus on the ideas, trying to convince us to change (think: most dystopian novels). And it’s all through the words they choose, what images they decide to show the reader, wrapped up in their entire attitude about it—it all combines to create the effect.

For Example…

As an example of style in action, let’s read the opening paragraphs from East of Eden:

The Salinas Valley is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like— how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kept the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding—unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that the morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.

What’s been communicated to readers here? Volumes, and it’s all crammed into only two short paragraphs and one long(ish) one:

• Obviously, Steinbeck is describing a place (the Salinas Valley) so that we can form a mental picture of the landscape, with its winding river, grasses, and contrasting mountains.

• But even more, he’s presented us with the image of it–what it would feel to intimately know that valley, between those mountains. He’s tied to nature–to that place–and it appears he feels deeply for it.

• He’s filtered this through a narrator (the “I”--whomever that is). We find him (assuming it is a male) to be quite thoughtful. He’s reminiscing about the past (“remember”/”memory” is repeated four times etc.) He’s a bit poetic (“beckoning mountains with brown grass love”) although not highfalutin; he’s a pretty plainspoken American, using everyday words.

• Finally, we might wonder about the idea of the valley standing between opposites: the Santa Lucias vs Gabilan peaks are described as poles of light vs dark, sunrise vs sunset, warm and grassy foothills (like a mother’s lap, like love) vs. dark, brooding, unfriendly, dangerous ridges that cause dread. Could that contrast be important thematically? (spoiler: yes, absolutely!)

Obviously, another author could take a different approach. For kicks, I fed this into ChatGPT and told the dumb-bot to turn this passage into a modern commercial novel. Here’s what it came up with:

The Salinas Valley sits in Northern California—a long, narrow strip between two mountain ranges. The Salinas River cuts through the middle, winding its way to Monterey Bay.

I remember what I called things as a kid. Grasses. Hidden flowers. The spot where a toad lived. The hour birds woke in summer. Smells most of all. Trees. Seasons. Even people.

To the east, the Gabilan Mountains were bright. Open. Full of sun. They felt welcoming—like they wanted you there. I used to want to climb them, the way you lean into someone you trust.

The Santa Lucias to the west were different. Dark. Closed off. They blocked the sea and felt cold. Dangerous.

Even then, I loved the east and feared the west.

Why? I’m not sure.

Maybe it was simple. The sun rose over the Gabilans. Day began there. And night came in from the Santa Lucias.

Ug. This is so sloppy, so kitschy that I think it could actually get published today. But notice that all the same bullet points I analyzed from the original, above, are still there—though in lesser form.

• While the valley is still described, the “memory” focus is diminished, feeling here more like a catalogue being ticked off than someone reminiscing.

• Also, while the narrator still uses everyday words, he’s nowhere near as poetic. He’s more to-the-point. Staccato, even. (All. Those. Fragments!)

• Most dramatically, while the thematic contrast between the two mountain ranges is there, it’s not only downplayed, but downright cliché; the stylistic emphasis on sparseness has spoiled any resonance.

Were this the actual start to an “updated” East of Eden, we’d need more than three paragraphs to fully determine whether this style “worked” or not. For example, maybe this version’s narrator is younger, or more traumatized, thus the strange style. But that’s probably being overly-generous. I think it’s fair to say this is not “Good.”

Regardless, hopefully you see the point: different authors (or mindless AIs) will make different authorial choices in diction, syntax, poetic elements, and approach, all of which create differing styles. Communicate different things. And some are more successful than others.

Let’s leave it at that for now.

Next time I’ll to dive into the “stained glass” versus “clear windowpane” prose debate, as well as give a few more specific criteria for what makes capital-G “Good” writing–told with both examples and (as always) my particular (cornball) writing style.

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room! Please do chime in and tell me your thoughts and ideas—let’s figure this out together. And as always, I’d love for you to keep plugged into the conversation, so be sure to subscribe!

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One year ago today (March 26, 2025) I uploaded my first Substack article to the acclaim of next-to no one. Now, 365 days later, the Reading Room is just shy of 1,500 fantastic, intelligent subscribers. I can honestly say it’s been nothing but a pleasure to meet you all, grow with you, and learn from each of you. Thank you!

As a mini-celebration of our anniversary, here’s that first article from one year ago. (PS: I edited it a little because…well, I guess I can’t leave well enough alone!)

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The Lack

I read a fascinating article the other day suggesting we need a “Great American Fantasy” novel. And I couldn’t agree more.

The commenter, New York Times’ Ross Douthat, admitted we’ve had great American novelists who’ve written great American novels, but in the realm of fantastical fiction, we come up short. Douthat even goes so far as to suggest such a work could actually reinvigorate our national letters:

“If I were giving out assignments for would-be invigorators of our stuck culture, I would suggest new experiments in the national fantastic and a quest for the Great American Fantasy story.”

Well said, sir. I’ve felt this same way for years now.

The U.S. boasts excellent writers—even excellent fantasy writers, but we’ve yet to produce a distinctly American fantasy—a secondary world based on our own shores and our own history. We have medieval influences; we have urban or dark academia fantasy; we even have a growing number of non-European settings (Africa, China, South America., etc.) But why no novel derived from our own four-hundred year struggle? What about our local and national history? Our distinctive dialects? Our rich mythology and folklore? Where are our home-grown fantasy worlds based on the South, the West—even the original 13 colonies? Where is our popular epic like Narnia? Even our Hogwarts, for goodness’ sake. Not a Westeros, but a West Virginia–except imbued with magic.

As one who loves fantasy literature and who’s been fascinated by the American ethos since–well, since forever, I want this. We need this.

I’m sure you’re immediately objecting, thinking of this-or-that novel that fits the bill. I would agree with you: although scant, a few popular North American-inspired fantasy novels have been produced. Alternative histories. Magical realism. “Weird West” tales. There aren’t many, but they do exist. I’ve read and enjoyed many of these myself.

But are any of these what we could call “greats”?

Sure, we can debate about what “great” really means (cultural influence? critical acclaim? sheer popularity?), but I think it’s abundantly obvious that no matter the definition we’d settle on, the answer is no. No American fantasy of sufficient quality has had lasting cultural impact, capturing our ideals, our values, or our imaginations. The fact that we need to Google to find these book titles is clear evidence of this.

What About Oz?

In his article, Douthat says that the closest we’ve come was The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

It’s hard to argue with that. Yes, Dorothy’s portal-world adventure is rife with medieval trappings (castles, wand-wielding fairies, a talking lion), but Baum sifts those through Americana. The otherworldliness here is strange, yet familiar, just as Midwestern as it is Ozian (That’s a real adjective. You’re welcome.) Ultimately, the “home” in “there’s no place like home” is a Kansas farm circa 1890. Plus, the Oz novels were a sensation, capturing the imagination of America for well over a century, even to our day (Exhibit A: Wicked).

However, granting that Baum’s Oz works perfectly as a fairy tale, in my mind it can’t take the “Great American Fantasy” crown for two reasons.

First, it is not an adult book, but an excellent series for children. More in line with fairy tales than mature fiction. I do believe fairy tales and folklore are excellent, worthy of study and discussion despite their simplicity, but these are not novels, not written for mature readers.

And second, Oz only goes halfway. Baum gives us much to ponder, but his world is still too foreign. It fails to build a rich, deep secondary world exclusively from trusses and beams of Michigan lumber and Boston ports. Monkeys, a lion, castles and kingdoms—these are not native to our shores. Baum splits the difference between Old and New World.

So as much as I like it, Oz neither embraces “Americanness” through and through, nor is it developed adequately to be a “great American fantasy novel.” This is not to diminish it, of course. Not in the least. It’s marvelous. But what we need is something more “Tolkienish.” (That’s not a word; I just made it up.)

So What is “American Fantasy?”

Now’s the point where we might want to bicker about the definition of “fantasy,” as I’m sure we all can think of novels that both fit some form of that term yet also focus on the United States—thus refuting my suggestion we don’t have such a work.

In modern publishing, dark or urban fantasy comes immediately to mind, as these are frequently set in current-day US cities (such as The Magicians, The Dresden Files, American Gods, or Percy Jackson.) Even “high fantasies” set elsewhere are strikingly domestic. I’m thinking of the Brandon Sandersons, whose characters speak in 21st century middle-American, and whose encyclopedic world building, for all its impressiveness, rests firmly on a bedrock of social justice, equality of sexes, and the democratic mindset—all hallmarks of the American Project. Despite their façade, these books are about as medieval and as European as Starbucks and Chevrolet.

So obviously, in many respects American fantasies do exist. But they’re not enough for me. What I’m longing for is, first and foremost, fantastical settings based on our nation’s past and populated by a wide swath of our diverse peoples. A Middle Earth-ish “America,” as strange as it is familiar. A Last of the Mohicans with all its larger-than-life heroes and villains, all its spellbinding adventure, but transformed, its magic made real. I don’t merely want bears and savage men (both native and white) lurking in the primeval forests of our continent, but dragons. And Appalachian dragons at that, whatever they may be.

Douthat quotes another writer, Tanner Greer, who suggests our national fantasy must be…

a distinctly American fantasy work, a work that grappled with the ‘mythic’ elements of our culture… something like a Cormac McCarthy or Herman Melville novel, but set in an ambiguous somewhere else…

Tolkien has his characters speak the idiom of a lost medieval age. The American counterpart would have his characters speak the idiom the 19th century yeoman, the frontiersman, or the foreman of a railroad gang …

…the tradition needs to be grounded not in other fantasy titles, but American literature, the American experience, the myths of our people.

And that last point describes well the “stuff” of this missing novel, I think. All fantasy is an amalgamation of some cultural ideas: Tolkien, for all his Britishness, was not wholly true to “England” or even “Europe,” but a kaleidoscope of Western influences. His successors are even less so, crafting a medieval-flavored world that never really was. And that’s fine. Great, even. It’s what we’ve come to love about fantasy.

But again I ask, where is the kaleidoscope of American influences sprouting from our people and our history? Where is that epic, alternative world fully inspired by our shores and beautifully written to withstand the ages?

The Root of the Lack

It’s not lack of talent from our authors, I think. Our nation is chock-full of imaginative writers with more talent than at any other time in history.

No, I’d humbly suggest it’s a lack of vision.

Or more accurately, a myopic vision skewing our past.

Whereas one hundred years ago we looked upon ourselves (rightly, I’d assert) as a great nation, today many are nervous to claim it. Our only mirror is a fun-house mirror, distorting our own image, distending our ugly parts, shrinking most others. Using this skewed postmodernist perspective, we look back and see injustices, fits and failures, racism, division, and blown opportunities—the complexities of every civilization in history—and like an accident on the highway, we can’t tear away our eyes. We’ve “deconstructed” ourselves to the point of demolishing ourselves, leaving us to survey the ruins of our own making and bemoan how terrible it (and we) are. I wonder if our fantasy writers think it’s better to squeeze their eyes shut, not to look, and flee to a mystical British kingdom that never was, one “better suited” to honor, love, and rollicking adventure. It’s easier that way. Leave the remains of the American Project strewn behind.

Now, I’m not suggesting this is intentional—though for some (the major, metropolitan-based publishing houses?) it is.

Take, for example, three of the public comments to Douthat’s article:

1. The fantasy is that we are a democracy not possible with the electoral college and the Supreme Court. America needs to compare itself to the rest of the civilized world... and stop being individualistic.

2. America itself is a fantasy in 2024. Broken, scattered, simultaneously covert and overt, littered with devils, angels, succubi and cherubim, familiars and grotesques. A cruel metaphor for it’s benevolent spirits in quicksand. Awake or asleep America is a fantastical phantasy of grief and glory foregone.

3. We already have a “Great American Phantasy.” It’s called the “American Exceptionalism.” Duh!

Yes, these may be trolls, but can we discount them? Even readers who do not believe their rants, who do not participate in their self-hatred, still drink from the swampy cultural water. And so (knowingly or not) they are poisoned. It’s hard to blame fantasy authors for sticking to the less “controversial,” “more popular,” and well-worn paths.

If writing (and reading) about America’s past causes many shame and regret, we will not do it. Plus if one writes it but no one will publish it, why bother? From that view, there’s nothing magical here to work with from North America’s past. Not even dark magic. There’s just tragedy. Tolkien, a notoriously cranky professor, loved his country and countrymen so much that he enchanted it and them in the most fascinating, meaningful way. Our Tolkiens? I wonder if they’re too busy escaping—or, worse, self-flagellating.

Second Thoughts

But now that I’ve stated all this so starkly, as if I’ve definitively discovered all the answers, I need to back it off a bit.

Nothing is simplistic here, and I’m merely surmising. I know there are obstacles to writing the “Great American Fantasy” novel other than a poor self-image, and maybe these are more looming than I’m giving credit. For example, we Americans are a pragmatic, inventive people; perhaps our scientific, “modern” streak opposes the task. Science fiction? Definitely, and it had quite a heyday in the 20th century. We’re probably the best sci-fi writers ever. That fits our progressive, innovative spirit. But the idealized? The fantastical? The deep magics of faeries, witches, and wizards? Hmmm… That seems too anachronistic, too superstitious for us modern Americans.

We’re also, admittedly, a young culture. We evolved from an older culture, yes, but our particular history does not stretch back into the awe-inspiring annals of the distant past. How do authors transport us to a mystical land of long ago when the long ago we as a nation possess is less than 400 short years? There are bidets in France far older than our nation’s oldest monument. (Though our indigenous compatriots may have something to say about that, France, so don’t get too cocky.)

I’m sure we could brainstorm more barriers. But I have to admit, in the end I don’t really buy them.

I won’t for one second entertain the notion that we’re incapable of—or incompatible with—a Great American Fantasy novel. And I don’t believe there’s no interest in it, either. No, I think there’s a hunger to chart this new territory, as of yet unexplored—a desire most readers haven’t even realized yet.

I think the reason we don’t have it is because no one has done it. Yet.

But I have faith. It can, should, and will be done someday.

And I can’t wait.

What do you think?

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room today! Let me know your thoughts. Where am I right? What have I missed? Help me think it through. Thanks for reading!

While it’s not perfect, I’ll go so far as to say this is a “must read” novel for all fans of fantasy. Especially if your reading habits tend toward “fast food” fiction—your Sandersons, Martins, and Maases—this is a drop-what-you’re-doing-and-read-now novel. It could reset your expectations for what the genre can and should achieve.

I know that’s a bold claim, but let me explain.

I have a simple two-tiered system for thinking about novels that I invented for myself some time ago. Judging from the traction my write-up of it received over the past few months, it seems to have resonated with many of you, too, and I think it will work well here.

In essence, I think of books first in terms of engagement—how much a story pulls me in and keeps me reading, how its story elements and language work together to create immersion.

Secondly, I think of meaning—symbols, themes, and (primarily) a novel’s resonance in my mind both during and after reading.

Beagle gets high marks on both. Not perfect, but very, very high. Please allow me to explain (and I’ll do so with as few spoilers as possible—though I do have to step over that line just a little).

1. High Engagement

The Last Unicorn’s story is interesting, exciting, and at once as mythic as it is grounded. You can gather all this even from a plot summary (from Goodreads):

She was magical, beautiful beyond belief—and completely alone...

The unicorn had lived since before memory in a forest where death could touch nothing. Maidens who caught a glimpse of her glory were blessed by enchantment they would never forget. But outside her wondrous realm, dark whispers and rumours carried a message she could not ignore: “Unicorns are gone from the world.”

Aided by a bumbling magician and an indomitable spinster, she set out to learn the truth. but she feared even her immortal wisdom meant nothing in a world where a mad king’s curse and terror incarnate lived only to stalk the last unicorn to her doom...

What’s interesting about the novel’s storyline is that it begins with the unicorn as our protagonist. She’s wondering whether she is in fact the last of her kind, but at this early point the unicorn is very much a “type,” a symbol with little characterization beyond what we’d expect from the legends: she’s immortal, beautiful, swift as the wind, aloof and skittish (or uncaring) toward mankind, and able both to heal with her horn or use it to kill dragons. She doesn’t even have a name. So far it seems a fairy tale rather than a modern novel.

And the further she strays from the safety of her magical wood to search for her kind, the more we are fascinated—but not yet emotionally anchored. The unicorn is above us. Beyond us.

And she’s beyond the inhabitants of the novel, too. In early encounters no one recognizes her as a unicorn, seeing only a beautiful white mare—until an old witch (Mommy Fortuna) “sees” her and greedily cages her as part of a traveling menagerie of “creatures of night, brought to light.” This first episode—her capture and escape—is wonderfully strange, filled with creatures both real and illusory, and anchored by Mommy Fortuna herself, who manipulates her audience’s perceptions, playing off fear and desire. Here we also meet Schmendrick the Magician, a hapless wizard who longs to perform “real” magic and who, crucially, also sees the unicorn for what she is.

In the two episodes that follow, we become more grounded. First in an encounter with Cully the highwayman and his unimpressive band, and then (in the heart of the novel) old King Haggard’s bleak kingdom, home to the Red Bull, a mindless terror that has hunted down the unicorns. As the story progresses, it becomes a tad less mythic, focusing increasingly on human (or human-like) concerns, yet never losing its sense of enchantment. This interplay between folklore and realism is one of the novel’s great pleasures.

This novel is a quest—but not an epic in the Tolkienian sense. There are no clashing armies, no world-ending stakes. Instead, the story remains intimate: a small group on a personal journey, a localized conflict. And yet, through Beagle’s art, it feels no less consequential. The struggle to return the unicorns promises not political salvation, but something deeper: beauty, wonder, and meaning restored to a diminished world. And by the end, we believe it—we feel it—as keenly as the fall of Mordor.

2. Excellent Prose

But before I get ahead of myself, I need to mention Beagle’s sparkling prose.

The writing here is, quite simply, exciting. One of my chief complaints with modern fantasy is its mundane language use. It’s efficient, yes, but often as lifeless as a newspaper and as cliché as a middle-school essay. It fades into the background even when it could (and should) elevate or delight.

Beagle does the opposite.

He writes with style: an imagination, flair, and poetic instinct that constantly invites pausing—even rereading. His analogies surprise, his diction steals your breath, and his sentences carry layers of meaning, all without ever becoming bloated or indulgent. This is not “purple prose.” It is controlled beauty. A writer practicing his art.

It’s tough to choose just one example, so here’s the first paragraph, which introduces us to the unicorn. (This is a bit long, but it’s worth it!)

The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of sea foam, but rather the color of snow falling on a moonlit night. But her eyes were still clear and unwearied, and she still moved like a shadow on the sea.

She did not look anything like a horned horse, as unicorns are often pictured, being smaller and cloven-hoofed, and possessing that oldest, wildest grace that horses have never had, that deer have only in a shy, thin imitation and goats in dancing mockery. Her neck was long and slender, making her head seem smaller than it was, and the mane that fell almost to the middle of her back was as soft as dandelion fluff and as fine as cirrus. She had pointed ears and thin legs, with feathers of white hair at the ankles; and the long horn above her eyes shone and shivered with its own seashell light even in the deepest midnight. She had killed dragons with it, and healed a king whose poisoned wound would not close, and knocked down ripe chestnuts for bear cubs.

Unicorns are immortal. It is their nature to live alone in one place: usually a forest where there is a pool clear enough for them to see themselves -- for they are a little vain, knowing themselves to be the most beautiful creatures in all the world, and magic besides. They mate very rarely, and no place is more enchanted than one where a unicorn has been born. The last time she had seen another unicorn the young virgins who still came seeking her now and then had called to her in a different tongue; but then, she had no idea of months and years and centuries, or even of seasons. It was always spring in her forest, because she lived there, and she wandered all day among the great beech trees, keeping watch over the animals that lived in the ground and under bushes, in nests and caves, earths and treetops. Generation after generation, wolves and rabbits alike, they hunted and loved and had children and died, and as the unicorn did none of these things, she never grew tired of watching them.

This, friends, is marvelous writing.

It not only establishes the main character and her world, but places readers in a state of sustained wonder. Not every paragraph in the book is this rich (and thank goodness, or it would overwhelm) but here, at the outset, Beagle sets the tone. Questions bloom (why a “lilac” wood? why so many ocean images?), while phrases like “the careless color of sea foam” or “soft as dandelion fluff” delight on the sentence level. And beneath it all are thematic tensions: time vs. timelessness, life vs. immortality, nature vs. self-awareness, even loneliness. Yet all the while it’s smooth. Clear. 100% readable.

The entire book operates this way. Beagle lets himself wax poetic, and most of the time it works beautifully. Yes, he can overreach, using similes like someone’s touch being “cold as a cloud” (huh?) or describing “a wet, hooty marsh wind” (what??), but even his misses are unfailingly interesting.

I’ll take that over safe, lifeless prose any day of the week (and twice on Sunday.)

3. Deep Meanings

The Last Unicorn is packed with more meaning than a 290-page novel has any right to contain. And, crucially, it explores rather than explains.

To me, the hallmark of great literature is not argument, but immersion. Lesser authors “build” their points like bricklayers constructing a house: it’s workmanlike and obvious. The better ones, though, wander through ideas, allowing readers to experience them rather than just be pummeled by them. Beagle belongs firmly in that latter camp.

Starting in the opening passage (above), we see a main theme emerging: mortality. The contrast between the unicorn’s timeless existence and the fleeting lives of the creatures she observes. She is enchanted but isolated. Detached. When she leaves her forest, she risks losing that immortality—and for those who know the story, that risk becomes heartbreakingly real. Even inevitable. Page after page, images of time and death abound (clocks, a skeleton, old men, a dying land, even the Red Bull itself…)

And yet, we cannot neatly summarize Beagle’s “message” about mortality. It flitters on the edge of understanding. Sure, we can gesture toward it—immortality’s loneliness, memory’s burden, the corruption of experience, even the burden of love. But the novel resists reduction. It suggests rather than declares.

Other themes abound, too: perception, romance, heroism, duty, desire, and more. The book is rich with ideas that are easy to notice, but difficult to pin down, which is exactly what good literature should do.

But let’s briefly consider two standouts.

First: enchantment.

Unicorns here symbolize timeless beauty, something ancient and magical being increasingly pushed out by modernity. When on page 4 the hunters ask why unicorns have disappeared, their answer is blunt: “Times change.” And later: “Would you call this age a good one for unicorns?” Of course it isn’t. The modern times of the book (and our own day!) is devoid of enchantment.

But the tragedy is not just that enchantment is gone, but that we no longer even perceive it. People cannot recognize the unicorn standing before them. They prefer believing titillating illusions—Mommy Fortuna’s false monsters—to truth. Beagle reinforces this with deliberate intrusions of the mundane (tacos, bottle caps, even the dumb name “Schmendrick”) to constantly remind us of the clash between the magical and our boring, modern world.

As the story progresses we realize freeing unicorns to roam wide and free is not merely to restore horned horses, it is to restore wonder. Beauty. Meaning. Perhaps even the divine. (I couldn’t help but notice that the unicorn had to go through an “incarnation” out of the mystical, into the physical, becoming (wo)man…)

Second: stories themselves.

Beagle toys with metafiction throughout this novel. He consciously fractures traditional tales, legends, and myths. Fairy tale conventions are twisted, mocked, and undercut. Cully fails as Robin Hood—which he himself calls a myth. Mommy Fortuna’s creatures are (mainly) fakes. Lir’s heroic dragon and ogre-slaying are both trivialized and exaggerated.

And yet this is not subversion for subversion’s sake. Beagle is no postmodernist: he ultimately affirms the old stories. They are not mocked into irrelevance, but refined through tension, shown to be missing but necessary. Perhaps most dramatically, in the climactic scene Lir acts heroically—truly heroically—and the world responds positively, with the unicorn being able to rally, the Bull defeated, and Haggard’s dominion destroyed. His sacrifice matters.

And then, Schmendrick teaches him his duty: not to pursue romance, but to rule justly and selflessly (unlike Haggard). Beagle elevates something deeper than adventure fiction: the everyday sacrifices of honor and duty that anyone can achieve. Real storybook heroism, he shows, is quieter, steadier, more grounded–and all of us can live it.

Final Thoughts

That’s far too little to say about this book, but for our purposes, it’s enough.

The Last Unicorn is a rare thing: a novel that succeeds on both levels of my little framework. It is deeply engaging, being strange, funny, moving, and consistently interesting; and it’s rich with suggested meaning, offering more on each reread rather than less.

It is not perfect. There are a few stylistic misfires, maybe a moment or two of overindulgence (ex: I friggin’ hated that butterfly), but I say these are flaws of ambition, not of emptiness.

In a genre increasingly dominated by formula, by efficiency, clean, “functional” prose and endlessly expanding, meaningless plots, Beagle reminds us that fantasy can be something more. It can be lyrical. Symbolic. Philosophical. Even mystical. It can aim not just to entertain, but to enchant.

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room, friends!

So tell me, have you read The Last Unicorn? Or maybe just seen the 1982 animated film? What did you think? Or maybe you’ve not read it at all—will you give it a shot now? Comment below!

Since ancient times the “literature of the impossible” has served as a perfect medium both for inspiring wonder in the young as well as for communicating important truths. There’s a reason they’re called “fairy tales,” after all—and a reason children have always loved them.

In a previous recommendation list, Fantasy Novels for Literature Lovers, I mentioned that compiling a list of well-written fantasy inevitably draws children’s literature into the conversation. Many of the most beloved works in the genre were written for younger readers, yet remain powerful and meaningful long after childhood.

However, that earlier list grew so long that I decided to spin these titles off into their own post.

And so—voilà! Here it is in all its glory: a list of classic fantasy books for smart children, not to mention we who are still young enough at heart to remember the delight of discovering magic for the first time.

My (Vague) Selection Criteria

As with all my lists, please remember this is subjective. Think of these selections as representatives rather than some definitive or exclusionary canon.

Strangely enough, I actually found this one harder to curate than my fantasy list for adults. There are simply so many wonderful options! I’m not exaggerating when I say this list could easily run to a hundred entries or more.

Compiling the list proved tougher than I expected especially when considering newer works. Because I’m trying to focus on “classics,” meaning children’s fantasy that has clearly stood the test of time, the more recent a book is, the harder “timelessness” is to assess. So you’ll notice I lean heavily toward older works—generally those fifty plus years old—which have wrestled their way from one generation into the next.

Also, I tried to choose stories I’d argue possess that quality I’ll vaguely (and perhaps snobbishly) call strong literary merit. By that I mean prose that is well written (appropriate to the reading level, of course), that neither placates nor talks down to children, yet at the same time acts as a conduit for deep meaning and sublime significance.

So aside from the no-brainer classics included here, I gave myself a bit of wiggle room by asking one guiding question—one I totally made up:

“What books should every precocious child read while they’re still young?”

That question helped narrow things down a tad, though I’ll readily admit someone else could ask the same question and swap out many of the titles I ended up choosing.

By “still young,” I had in mind a fuzzy definition of “pre-teen, yet old enough for chapter books.” Think mid-elementary through early middle school readers (or so). I did not include any picture books for younger readers, though many of those are (obviously) wonderful in their own right.

At the same time, a few titles here push the upper edge of that range. Not every sixth or seventh grader will breeze through Tolkien or Stevenson, but a curious and ambitious reader absolutely can (and often should)—especially if they’re sitting on Mom’s or Dad’s lap on the couch. After all, sharing wondrous stories is one of the great joys of parenthood.

Finally, if you don’t see your—or your children’s—favorite book here, please don’t shoot me. Feel free to shoot off a comment, though, to tell me what a knucklehead I am… (I’ll probably agree.)

So without further ado, off we go!

BOOKS FOR YOUNGER READERS

Aesop’s Fables (c. 600 BC)

Grimm’s Fairy Tales (1812)

Greek Mythology (ancient)

I’m lumping Aesop, Grimm, and mythology together as all three are obvious inclusions, yet I suspect many parents don’t initially think of them. Kids absolutely love these stories (as do adults, obviously). The ancient wellspring of fantasy storytelling, myths, fables and fairy tales are eternal, and have introduced generations of children to magical worlds, heroic adventures, and the moral imagination that underlies our beautiful Western literature.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll (1865)

Carroll’s strange masterpiece of dream logic, wordplay, and delightful nonsense remains one of the most imaginative children’s books ever written. While some of the animated versions did a nice job of capturing the wacky spirit of Alice’s adventure, reading this is a tour de force in playful humor, symbolism, and the necessity (and confusion) of logic itself. (Plus who doesn’t love a good jabberwocky story?)

Pitch: A curious girl named Alice tumbles down a rabbit hole into a bizarre world where logic bends, animals talk, and nothing—absolutely nothing—makes sense.

The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald (1872)

I have actually never read this, but I had to include it as MacDonald influenced writers from Tolkien to C. S. Lewis. In fact, many claim this enchanting fairy tale helped inspire the entire modern fantasy tradition!

Pitch: A young princess and a brave miner boy must outwit a sinister race of goblins plotting beneath the mountains.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum (1900)

If you’ve only seen the Judy Garland movie (or worse, Wicked), you’re missing out. Baum’s fairy tale blends whimsical adventure with memorable characters, imaginative worldbuilding, and folkloric traditions in a way that still captivates readers 125 years later. I’m especially taken aback by how American it is, blending Americana with fairy tales in the best possible way.

Pitch: Swept away by a cyclone, Dorothy journeys through the magical land of Oz alongside a scarecrow, a tin man, and a cowardly lion in search of a wizard who can send her home.

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (1908)

Cozy fantasy a century before cozy fantasy became a thing. Grahame’s gentle animal fantasy mixes pastoral beauty, friendship, and just enough adventure to create one of literature’s most charming worlds–and oh how beautifully written. It’s breathtaking!

Pitch: Mole, Rat, Badger, and the wildly irresponsible Mr. Toad tumble through riverbank escapades, woodland dangers and the occasional motorcar disaster.

Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White (1952)

You might not know that E.B. White was a masterful essayist (co-penning the classic on writing, Elements of Style) who happened to pen two of America’s best children’s stories, Stuart Little and this one about a pig. This quiet classic combines talking animals with a surprisingly profound (and moving) meditation on friendship, loyalty, and the fleeting beauty of life. (If you don’t tear up at the end, you’re a stronger person than I!)

Pitch: When Wilbur the pig learns he’s destined for the dinner table, a clever spider named Charlotte hatches a miraculous plan to save him.

The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis (1950–1956)

Not sure if much need be said about this series, starting with fantastic The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. Lewis’s beloved portal fantasy blends a creative, thrilling adventure with deep moral imagination, resulting in a magical world infused with Christian sensibilities of surprising depth. (Not to mention one of the best animal characters ever created, the amazing Reepicheep.)

Pitch: Through an ordinary wardrobe, a group of children stumble into the enchanted land of Narnia, where talking animals, ancient magic, and the great lion Aslan await.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl (1964)

I could have listed many of Dahl’s books, as each is wildly imaginative, delighting readers with his outrageous humor, grotesque villains, and an overwhelming sense of hope. While Charlie may be best known, others such as The Fantastic Mr. Fox, James and the Giant Peach, Matilda, and The BFG are each unforgettable.

Pitch: Poor but kind-hearted Charlie Bucket wins a golden ticket to tour Willy Wonka’s mysterious chocolate factory—where strange sweets and even stranger fates await the other children.

BOOKS FOR (SLIGHTLY) OLDER READERS

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson (1883)

Okay, I cheated here. This is only “fantasy” in that a child could never do what Jim does in this book—and that’s pretty thin. But I absolutely love Treasure Island and find it contains the spirit of all the best fantasy (I know, cheap.) I myself didn’t read it until my 30s, and immediately regretted not having discovered it at age twelve. Stevenson’s swashbuckling adventure is surprisingly subtle despite its constant tension and excitement. It practically invented the modern pirate story–possibly even the “boy’s book”--and remains one of the most thrilling tales ever written for young readers.

Pitch: Young Jim Hawkins discovers a treasure map and soon finds himself sailing toward danger, mutiny, and the influence of the pirate Long John Silver.

Peter and Wendy by J. M. Barrie (1911)

Another on my TBR list, as I (like most of us) am very familiar with the story from film adaptations, but have not yet leapt into Barrie’s original play or novel. Still, I feel confident recommending the original story of Peter Pan, with its mix of wonder, adventure, and melancholy–not to mention a deep rumination on growing up (or not).

Pitch: Peter Pan whisks Wendy and her brothers away to Neverland, where pirates, mermaids, and the ticking crocodile await.

The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien (1937)

It’s interesting that in our day and age we often forget The Hobbit was originally a children’s book–and a perfect one at that. Tolkien’s adventure story manages to be funny, thrilling, and mythic all at once, and often uses fairy tale tropes just as much as it breaks new ground, suggesting the epic fantasy its “sequel” would ultimately invent.

Pitch: The comfort-loving hobbit Bilbo Baggins is swept into an unexpected quest to help a band of dwarves reclaim their treasure from a fearsome dragon.

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster (1961)

This entry is one of my three selfish inserts into this list (Treasure Island was the first; the third is below). I read Juster’s fantasy when I was about ten and adored it, and then a decade or more later reread it only to realize how brilliantly clever it is. A little like Alice in Wonderland, this is a book that plays with the English language and, strangely, mathematics–which may sound boring as all get out, but trust me, it’s both fascinating and hilarious. The wordplay, logic puzzles, and philosophical humor is all hidden beneath a relatable children’s portal adventure. (Give this one a try for sure!)

Pitch: A bored boy named Milo drives through a mysterious tollbooth into a land where words and numbers literally come to life.

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle (1962)

No list of children’s fantasy is complete without L’Engle’s unusual blend of fantasy, science fiction, and spiritual allegory. This book helped redefine what children’s speculative fiction could achieve.

Pitch: Meg Murry travels across space and time with two strange celestial guides to rescue her father from a dark cosmic force.

A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin (1968)

Admission time: I’m not much of a fan of this book (see my review here), but a blind man can see how influential and beloved it is. Le Guin’s prose is sparse and (often) elegant, elevating this story to the level of a mythic coming-of-age story, not to mention one of the first to use the “wizard school” trope. Its themes are also worthy of exploration, including power, responsibility, and self-knowledge—even if it is all a bit “hippy.”

Pitch: A gifted young wizard named Ged unleashes a shadow creature he cannot control—and must journey across the seas to face the darkness he created.

Redwall by Brian Jacques (1986)

This is my third personal add-in: my son, Mitchell, adored this novel, and he was in good company: millions of other kids around the globe agree. While I’m not sure if Redwall will survive to become a timeless classic, it should. Jacques’s fantasy of mice, rabbits, and badgers is a resonant epic with clear morality, well-crafted writing, and universal significance (not to mention mouthwatering feasts!) (Here’s a post I wrote about it, and here’s a second.)

Pitch: When the villainous rat Cluny the Scourge attacks Redwall Abbey, the young mouse Matthias must rise to become the hero his people need.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J. K. Rowling (1997)

I said at the outset that I focused on classics over fifty years old, but Rowling is forcing me to break that rule. Although Harry Potter is a gargantuan cultural phenomenon, none of us know how it will be perceived in two or three generations. That being said, I feel pretty confident it will have a long legacy—at the very least paralleling Oz: perhaps not read as much in 50, 75, 100 years, but known and loved. Rowling’s writing is nothing special, but the story and characters clearly are–not to mention its exploration of base level positive virtues.

Pitch: An orphaned boy discovers he is a wizard and begins his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—where dark secrets are already stirring.

Just for completion’s sake, here are some of the “top contenders” that almost made the list…

• Winnie the Poo - I worried this was too young…though it’s excellent!

• The Bridge to Terabithia - Despite its magic, I’m not convinced of its staying power

• Tuck Everlasting — ditto above

• The Neverending Story -ditto above

• Mary Poppins - I feel this is already shrinking?

• The Chronicles of Prydain - Love these! You could convince me to move it up!

• Percy Jackson (series)- The writing here is…well…

Thanks for visiting the Reading Room! I love books, especially classics—both in general and sci-fi/fantasy, and love talking about them! So let’s keep the conversation going—what do you think?

And truth be told, most fantasy today is commercial trash. I can admit that—and in a younger day I embraced it. For example, Terry Brooks’ Shannara series was a favorite of middle-school Don. Looking back now, they’re perfect examples of popcorn fiction: exciting, wildly creative tales of magical action and adventure, salted to taste with enough danger and derring-do for every wide-eyed, growing boy (or girl).

But, let’s be honest, they’re pretty vapid.

Yes, you can find a theme here or there in Shannara, but none blow your mind. It’s all well-trodden, even cliché. And the prose? Exactly what you’d expect from a guy who cranked out thirty-three books, one after another (and don’t worry, fans, it’s been announced a ghostwriter won’t let it RIP after Brooks’ retirement… So long as there’s still a buck to be made, Shannara will trudge on).

Most fantasy is simple, fun, throwaway fiction. That includes all the big names of today: Sanderson, Martin, Abercrombie, Maas, and the rest. Argue all you like: despite being really, really fun, they’re largely forgettable. Period pieces. Fast food fiction.

“Literary” Fantasy?

Fortunately, there is indeed something more for those of us not only wanting quick thrills but deep, rich, well-written literature.

Not a million options, mind you—“literary fantasy” is a distinct flavor within the broader genre. And anything with “literary” attached to it will always struggle to compete with gut-level, “magic sword kill monster” storytelling (excepting you, Mr. Tolkien). But still, we can uncover enough books so even the most hard-nosed curmudgeon of the classics can find their daily dose of enchantment, and the most “beach-readery” reader can broaden their horizons.

So allow me to offer my recommendations for fantasy fiction accomplishments that owe no apologies to anyone. Yes, some stiff-necked professor may call us fans geeks or nerds (I’ll own it), but she’ll have to dismiss these particular works at her own peril. Each book is wonderfully written, richly layered, and thematically significant—novels to not merely entertain, but enlighten. And endure.

Before we dive in, some “here there be dragons”…

First, I want to make clear my little list contains representatives—only a sampling, not the end-all-be-all of what could be labeled “literary fantasy.” You’ll see timeless ancient and medieval mainstays as well as more modern works spanning a wide swath of tones, styles, and subjects. I made no attempt at demographic balance or tidy representation of every fantasy sub-genre (portal, urban, grimdark, etc.). These are simply the novels I think readers like me—contemplative souls who crave well-written fantasy—might appreciate.

Second, as I prepared this list, speaking with others and snooping around the interwebs, I found that after awhile the definition of “fantasy” began to blob. Have you ever focused on the way you walk so much you actually started walking funny? That’s similar to what happened. Nearly everything containing the least whiff of the unusual started fitting the bill. Even dream sequences or mystic visions started seeming fantastical.

So out of pure survival, I returned to a definition I once heard years ago: fantasy is the literature of the impossible. That’s to say, unlike realistic fiction, the plot, characters, and themes hinge on clear deviations from commonly accepted plausibility. While science fiction remains grounded—however speculatively—in what might be scientifically possible, fantasy is clearly wrapped in mystery. It traffics in what everyday readers know to be impossible: magic, Faerie, dragons, gods, and imaginary worlds.

Note: Using the above definition, some could argue I wrongly left out greats of Christianity. Many seem (to them) impossible, such as Dante’s tour through the afterlife, Milton’s tracing Satan’s defiance, Faust making his ill-fated bargain, or Lewis writing Uncle Screwtape’s letters. And I see your point. However, I didn’t include them because (1) I don’t think most readers think of these as “fantasy fiction,” and (2) these are not “impossible” to me, as an Orthodox Christian. Maybe more symbolic than realistic, but still.

I also, as you’ll see, did not include much children’s literature. This was intentional. Not because they’re somehow lesser, or not “literary enough,” but because I posted a follow-up list with only great works for both the young and the young at heart. (Read it here!)

As a final caveat before the list, I must admit there are a handful of titles here I myself have not yet read. I hope you’ll grant me a little grace on this point. I found some books are so commonly mentioned, so persistently praised, that they demanded inclusion if this little list is to feel semi-complete. To compensate, I’ve tried to indicate which remain on my TBR pile (which at this point rivals a phone book [remember those?]).

Now, on to the list!

The Odyssey (8th century BC)

Surprise, surprise! When I assert that Homer wrote fantasy, I often get the fish eye, but this tale of a hero’s island-hopping adventures with monsters, witches, and gods fits the bill perfectly. It will appeal to fans of deep literature and exciting storytelling alike. Plus, the poetry is breathtaking.

Pitch: After victory in the Trojan War, the hero Odysseus wanders for a decade, losing everything on his way back home to reclaim his wife, son, and throne.

Beowulf (c. 700 AD)

Like The Odyssey, this classic poem satisfies fantasy lovers on every front. The battles with the monster Grendel, his mother, and the dragon are equally exciting and poignant, the verse gorgeous, and the meditation on fame, mortality, and doom unmistakably “literary.”

Pitch: The great hero Beowulf comes to the rescue of a king whose hall is invaded by a murderous monster.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (14th cent)

I adore this little work. Here Arthurian legend meets moral allegory in a strange, wondrous Middle English romance. This tale of temptation and the testing of a hero’s soul resounds to this very day. The magic is overt—but the real trial is spiritual.

Pitch: Sir Gawain accepts a deadly beheading challenge from a mysterious green giant—and must survive both the axe and a subtler test of character.

Phantastes – George MacDonald (1858)

Tokien and Lewis fans unite: MacDonald inspired both with his dreamlike fairy romance. I’ve not yet read this one (odd, as it’s right up my alley), but my understanding is it’s less concerned with plot than with spiritual transformation. With enchanted forests, faerie landscapes, and the hunt for idealized beauty, who wouldn’t love this early fantasy vehicle of sanctification.

Pitch: A young man enters Fairy Land and wanders through beauty, terror, and self-loss in a quest that reshapes his soul.

“The Metamorphosis” – Franz Kafka (1915)

I nearly left this one off, but there’s something about Kafka’s novella that seems to fit. Yes, it’s absurdist. Yes, it’s modernist. But it’s also fantasy: a man wakes up transformed into a monstrous insect. This impossible premise is a model for literary fantasy, as the “magic” is not for spectacle but a purpose: to symbolically expose modern alienation.

Pitch: A traveling salesman wakes to find himself a giant cockroach—and learns exactly how conditional his family’s love really is.

The King of Elfland’s Daughter – Lord Dunsany (1924)

Another must-read for me (it’s actually on my nightstand right now…), Dunsany clearly belongs here. This is high, mythic fantasy 40 years before the genre hardened into tropes—concerned with longing, enchantment, and the perilous border between mortal life and Faerie. His prose is described as “incantatory” yet tinged with melancholy. (Yes, please!)

Pitch: A lord marries the daughter of the King of Elfland, only to discover that bringing magic into the human world comes at a terrible cost.

The Hobbit (1937), The Lord of the Rings (1954–55), The Silmarillion (1977) – J.R.R. Tolkien

Ahh, you knew it was coming. The anchor of the entire list. Tolkien is the gold standard. He fused myth, philology, Catholic imagination, and the narrative sweep of ages past into a secondary world of astonishing depth and power. The Hobbit and LOTR each combine epic adventure, moral drama, and a meditation on power, sacrifice, and providence–and the Silmarillion is poignant myth and legend that deepens the whole. ‘Nuff said. (But, if you do want a deeper dive, here’s my detailed explanation of why Tolkien 100% deserves “classic” status!)

Pitch (LOTR): A humble hobbit must carry a ring of absolute evil into the heart of darkness to destroy it—and save the world.

Gormenghast – Mervyn Peake (1946–1959)

I first heard of Peake from famed critic Harold Bloom, who included it in his recommendations from The Western Canon. Peake’s trilogy is gothic, grotesque, and unlike anything else in fantasy, focusing as much (if not more) on setting, style, and theme over plot–and it’s fascinating. The crumbling castle of Gormenghast is less a setting than a living organism of ritual and decay, while Steerpike—one of literature’s great villains—claws his way upward through manipulation and murder. I read the first book decades ago; writing this entry reminds me I need to reread it as well as the other two!

Pitch: In a vast, decaying castle ruled by empty tradition, a brilliant schemer sets out to overturn the entire ancient order.

The Once and Future King – T.H. White (1958)

I loved this trilogy, especially for how White melds classic with modern, including both theme and language. White retells the Arthurian cycle with whimsy, anachronism, and (at the end) devastating pathos. What begins as charming educational fantasy (ever see Disney’s Sword in the Stone?) ends in tragedy—an exploration of justice, power, and the failure of idealism.

Pitch: A boy tutored by Merlin grows into King Arthur—and watches his dream of a just kingdom unravel.

Till We Have Faces– C.S. Lewis (1956)

I’m predicting Till We Have Faces is on the ascent right now, as it’s being rediscovered and garnering more and more buzz every year. Lewis’s retelling of Cupid and Psyche is both psychologically acute and theologically daring, and the prose is (in my opinion) some of his best. Basically, the book seems to ask whether we can ever truly see the gods (God)—or ourselves—without self-deception.

Pitch: A jealous sister retells the myth of Psyche from her own perspective—and discovers that the gods were not what she thought.

One Hundred Years of Solitude- Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1967)

While I wasn’t purposefully checking boxes, I wanted to include at least one example of magical realism. I love this trope, although I have to admit I DNF’d this particular book–not because of any flaw in it (I actually enjoyed the part I read), but because it drifted off for me. Still, it’s a hands-down classic with a wonderful, smooth-as-butter style that serves up enchantment in a meditation on time, memory, and generational foolishness.

Pitch: The Buendía family builds a town in the jungle—and repeats the same passions, mistakes, and wonders for a hundred years.

A Wizard of Earthsea– Ursula K. Le Guin (1968)

Le Guin strips fantasy to its mythic essentials here with “true name” magic, shadow creatures representing our evil natures, and the search for self discovery. Spare prose that many find elegant frames this coming-of-age tale that becomes a Taoist, Jungian confrontation with the self. (Full disclosure: I reviewed this some time ago, and I found it meh, and ultimately disappointing–though plenty of smart folks think it sublime.)

Pitch: A gifted young wizard unleashes a shadow creature—and must cross the seas to confront the darkness he himself set loose.

The Last Unicorn- Peter S. Beagle (1968)

This novel is much adored, and a common statement about it concerned increased enjoyment from multiple reads. (I’ll let you know, I’m halfway through it right now.) Lyrical, sometimes comical, and suffused with sorrow, Beagle’s novel reflects on the fading of magic in a disenchanted world. It’s as much about the cost of becoming human as it is about finding lost unicorns.

Pitch: The last unicorn sets out to discover what happened to her kind—and risks losing her immortality along the way.

[Update 3-22-26: I finally finished this book, and yep. It’s great! Read my reflection here.]

Watership Down- Richard Adams (1972)

Another of my favorites (see my recommendation here). Talking rabbits should not work. Yet Adams combines epic quest structure (based on Virgil’s Aeneid), rich rabbit folklore, and startling realism to craft a survival saga that feels both antique and modern.

Pitch: A band of rabbits flee the destruction of their warren and journey across the dangerous countryside to found a new home.

The Book of the New Sun– Gene Wolfe (1980–1983)

Wolfe’s masterpiece is “science fantasy”—a strange mixing of both genres in the best possible way. It’s a demanding, Melvillian book that bends and outright breaks many storytelling conventions yet is oh so satisfying. Told by an unreliable narrator in a dying far-future Earth that feels medieval, it layers theology, memory, and symbolism into a text that rewards rereading. (Want to know more? See my recommendation here and here.)

Pitch: A disgraced torturer exiled from his guild wanders a decaying world, narrating his own rise to the position of king (“Autarch”).

Little, Big- John Crowley (1981)

Another Harold Bloom recommendation, Crowley’s novel set in early 1900s America is quiet, domestic, and deeply strange. Faerie exists—but obliquely—interwoven with American family life across generations. I’m currently four chapters into this, and already loving both the tone and language.

Pitch: A peculiar family living in a rambling house gradually discovers they are entangled in a hidden fairy history.

Tigana– Guy Gavriel Kay (1990)

Kay is well known for his rich, layered prose, and he appears in most lists of “literary fantasy.” He blends political intrigue, lyrical writing, and mythic resonance in a story about memory and cultural erasure–also breaking tradition by setting his story in a fantasy Renaissance Italy. This is another I DNF’d, though I should give it another shot based solely on the number of recommendations. (And I did enjoy Kay’s Sailing to Sarantium.)

Pitch: A conquered province whose very name has been magically erased plots rebellion against the sorcerer-king who stole its identity.

Piranesi- Susanna Clarke (2020)

I love this book. (Read my fawning praise here.) Strange in that it sets you adrift from page one, confused about what’s happening and who our narrator is, by its end this novel is downright awe inspiring. Minimalist yet metaphysical, Clarke’s book reads to me like a Platonic allegory disguised as a mystery–with plenty of wonder to go around.

Pitch: A gentle man catalogues the infinite, labyrinthine House which he lives in alone—until his true situation begins to unravel, revealing the shocking truth.

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room. So tell me: what essentials have I missed? What did I get wrong on the list? Leave a comment and let’s chat about it!

However, while Hyperion is an achievement that will continue being hailed within the genre for decades to come, it ultimately stumbles just this side of “classic”—and that’s what pains me the most. It will eventually be forgotten, though this book had the potential to sit atop not only sci-fi readers’ favorites, but the ranking of greatest novels of all time.

But it’s not. Simmons just misses the mark.

Lets chat about it.

A Superb Premise

Let me give you as simple a rundown on Hyperion as I can–though please forgive me when I flub it. Summarizing this story is a monumental task. It’s downright baroque.

The tale, set 700 years in the future, at first seems fairly standard “galactic empire” fare: Humanity has conquered the stars, inhabiting and terraforming planets all across the galaxy. However, mankind has split into the “Hegemony” who occupy a great technological empire, versus the “Ousters,” a loose conglomeration of strangely-evolved, nomadic space-barbarians who threaten civilization from the fringes.

For most authors, that premise would be enough conflict to fill an 800 page novel—heck, for an entire series. But not for Dan Simmons. Galactic tension hardly scratches the surface.

For on the outskirts of known space lies the distant planet Hyperion, an isolated “outback” world. There, a bizarre anomaly has been discovered: the Time Tombs—a series of monuments, temples, and caves hurtling backwards through time. You read that right: the time tombs are from the future, but due to a mysterious chronological field, they’re not getting older, but younger.

But wait, there’s more.

Somehow tied to this anomaly is a shadowy creature called the Shrike, a being that lends a strong horror element to the book. (Hyperion is bloody and terrifying—not for the squeamish.) Vaguely humanoid with four arms, covered in razor wire, blades, and spikes, no one knows who or what it is–only that it stalks Hyperion, murdering innocents, somehow using its powers over space and time to be everywhere and anywhere on the planet. The Shrike’s victims are dragged to a massive, thorny metal structure called the Tree of Pain where they are impaled to suffer for eternity. So terrifyingly mysterious is the Shrike that a galaxy-wide cult developed around it, convinced that soon (very soon) the Shrike—the so-called “Lord of Pain”—will be loosed on the entire galaxy to punish mankind for our sins. Fanatics even ritually travel to the Time Tombs hoping to be killed by the Shrike.

Which is exactly what our protagonists are doing.

The Church of the Shrike has for some unknown reason chosen six strangers to land on Hyperion exactly when the Ousters and Hegemony ready themselves to war over control of the planet. We thus start the novel by meeting our pilgrims, who collectively decide to voice their personal histories with Hyperion and the Shrike, plus why they’ve accepted this suicidal pilgrimage in the first place.

As each pilgrim’s tale unfolds–and the space battle rages overhead–we learn about this universe, its politics, its mind-bending technology, and of course the deadly Shrike.

And it’s fascinating.

Chaucer in Space

Although one long, unified story, Hyperion was originally published in two parts: Hyperion (1989) and The Fall of Hyperion (1990). The entirety of the first novel is consumed with the pilgrims’ tales, each divided by the frame narrative’s connective tissue describing their journey to the Time Tombs. The book is quite literally a set of interconnected short stories, and I can’t express how gripping, fresh, and engaging it is—not to mention exceedingly well written.

As a short story author, Simmons knocks it out of the park. Each tale is both exciting and satisfying, with two in particular standing among the best science fiction ever penned: “The Priest’s Tale” and “The Scholar’s Tale.” That latter proved one of the most moving reading experiences I’ve had in years. (I’m not ashamed to admit those particular pages in my book are now tear-stained. I can’t tell you how rare and wonderful that is for me.)

As I’m sure you’ve already noticed, the entire setup is a clear nod to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which medieval travelers pass the time story-swapping during a holy pilgrimage. Like Chaucer, Simmons divides his pilgrims by profession (the poet, the priest, the soldier, etc.), with each tale suited to its teller, both in content and style. For example, “The Detective’s Tale” parallels crime noir (with a cyberpunk flair), while “The Soldier’s Tale” is pure militaristic SF. I do wish Simmons had shifted every story into first-person point-of-view rather than sticking with third so that we delve into each characters’ voice, but this is a stylistic nitpick. These tales are outstanding.

Furthermore, as the stories progress, the universe of Hyperion is slowly but surely fleshed out for us readers, both inside and between them. And there’s oodles here to flesh out.

Because the novel begins in media res, we’re jammed into a foreign place, with casual mentions of bizarre things like farcasters, the World Web, the Technocore, the datasphere, Hawking drives, blue-skinned cybrids, and “treeships” (space vessels that are literally giant trees!) Even the familiar is twisted here, with Catholicism and Judaism being nearly extinct, yet each having their own little planet homes; a city named after the poet John Keats; and Earth long ago destroyed in the “Big Mistake” (whatever that is). It’s all so dizzying–even jarring at first. But as chapters pass, our hunger to understand is fed (somewhat), even as our wonder remains.

This first book is hands-down, jaw-droppingly excellent. Reading it, I grew more and more convinced Simmons rivaled Gene Wolfe as a grandmaster of science fiction. As I flipped to book two, I’d become a true Simmons fanboy. I couldn’t possibly have been more excited to read on, to learn how my lingering questions about the pilgrimage, the Shrike, and the Ouster/Hegemony conflict would be resolved. Surely an equally-stunning, satisfying conclusion awaited me.

Ah, but there’s the rub.

A Lackluster Conclusion

The story’s second half (The Fall of Hyperion), does not nearly rise to the towering heights of the first. It’s not “bad,” mind you, it’s just…well, disappointing. Lackluster.

While I would have been perfectly satisfied for Simmons to continue his “Canterbury Tales in space” framing device (I even thirsted for it), he completely abandons his pilgrim-centric, interconnected storytelling. Instead, we zoom out to something closer to epic sci fi. A bold move, to be sure. As was adopting an entirely different storytelling method, using a new character living halfway across the galaxy who “sees” across space and time in his dreams.

I suppose it wasn’t a poor idea to shake things up in the second 400 pages. I myself don’t understand why that decision was made, but I glean Simmons’ impulse. Nor is the new character’s “psychic dream” device a dumb idea–although it smacks of a cheap solution to narrative unity. Not to mention adding unnecessary layers of complexity.

Worst of all, as readers we’d come to love the pilgrims of Hyperion. We care for them, root for them, and feel dread over their inevitable arrival at the Time Tombs and the Shrike. But suddenly, they’re forced to share page space–even (in many ways) play second fiddle to an assortment of Hegemony politicians and generals arguing over the war effort, which now takes center stage. Not to mention major plot complications springing up, such as a conspiracy by Technocore AIs or the death of John Keats’ bioengineered body.

And there’s more, so much more than that, too.

Simmons dogpiles on characters, ideas, events, and landscapes. While a few of the twists and turns are fascinating, propelling the book onward, overall it’s too much. Too different. Too wide-ranging. And (I’m sorry to say) too flipping long. The second half could be cut by at least two hundred pages, it’s so bloated.

Ultimately, Simmons fails to stick the landing. What he resolves often feels rushed, dull, and occasionally even aggravating. Especially in his eye-rolling use of deus ex machina—first and foremost being how the Shrike is destroyed (if indeed it is??). This produced one of the stupidest “out-of-thin-air” contrivances I’ve read in a long, long time.

(For those who’ve read the book, I’m speaking of Brawne’s sudden “love magic” in Chronos Keep. Ugh. Second in stupidity would be the reveal of Moneta’s true identity. Double ugh. Third would be… Bah. Enough.)

Some enigmas remain confusing, too, unclear by the last page. This isn’t tough to understand, as Simmons had so many, many (many) plot and character threads to tie together. This book would be a masterpiece indeed if he had tied them all up.

But he didn’t. And it isn’t.

The Mystery Box

So what gives here? How did this incredibly skilled author fail?

As I reached page 750, I realized that Simmons is one of the most talented “mystery box” writers I’ve ever encountered—for both the good and the bad that implies.

If you’ve not heard that term, “mystery boxes” were made famous in a 2007 Ted Talk by movie director J.J. Abrams, who showed the magic shop “mystery box” he’d bought as a child but never opened. Why? Because wondering what could be inside was more exciting, he said, than what he’d ever actually find if he actually opened it to look. Abrams turned that box into a metaphor for storytelling: the best part of stories, he claimed, are the thrills in not knowing—the suspense, the anticipation. This is what keeps viewers viewing and readers reading. It’s about hints, surprise, suggestions of the unexplained. Anyone who’s seen Abrams’ TV show Lost knows well the drug that is his “mystery dropping” (“Wtf? A polar bear on a tropical island?” “OMG, what’s in that hatch?” etc. etc. etc. on and on and on.)

The problem is that all stories must end—their mysteries must eventually get resolved. And creatives who focus on “mystery box dropping” often can’t give satisfying answers, as they’re more interested in whipping up suspense or confusion than answering their own questions. Take the ending of Lost as a famously-unsatisfying ending.

So too is Fall of Hyperion’s.

Simmons expertly builds suspense by baking us an intoxicating smorgasbord of futuristic sweet treats, each looking so delicious, tempting us, keeping us at the table with excitement and anticipation. But when at last we take a bite, we find the chocolate is just molded plastic, the cake made from sand. While Simmons dangles fascinating mystery after mystery before our noses, compelling us to turn pages, delighting us with “OMG what now?” moments, his mystery boxes are too many, his breadcrumb trails too convoluted. Most lead to either “meh” solutions or to nowhere. The story-world of Hyperion is outstanding, atmospheric, and downright crammed with intriguing characters and events, but Simmons struggles to do more than tantalize. This is doubly true the more vast and complex his ideas become: his ambitions proved too much for him, I think. Once Hyperion’s mystery boxes are unsealed, inside we find gold nuggets far less than mismatched pairs of tube socks.

So the second half—and especially the ending—disappoints. Not completely, but noticeably. And unfortunately, that tarnishes the first part. Maybe only degrading it from an A+ to an A-, but still.

The Fall of Hyperion, however…well, that’s C-level at best.

Why I Still Stand With Dan

If I come across as overly-critical, it’s because Hyperion could—maybe even should have been the perfect literary science fiction novel.

I was cheering for Dan the whole time. And although it didn’t quite pan out, I still stand firmly in his camp. That’s right: in the end, count me a badge-wearing Simmonsite (Simmonser? Simmonsie?)

Why? Because in our sad modern publishing environment, authors are pressured to write to formula. Cookie-cutter books in three acts with predetermined character arcs and perfectly-placed “save the cat” emotional beats, all tied up in the end with engineered ribbons and bows. This is why today’s traditionally-produced fiction (especially genre fiction) feels so, well, beige.

Simmons, though, stands above this. He chucked all “rules” and did his own thing, including:

• Clever narration. His story doesn’t follow a simplistic, linear path, but instead uses clever narrative frames (sometimes even frames within frames), time jumps, and juggling a dozen perspectives.

• A rich universe with lots to explore: rich history, far-future tech, alien landscapes, and truckloads to ooh and ahh over.

• Top-notch prose. Simmons obviously loves language, as this is a well-crafted book. In spite of needing edits in the second half, both for length and for prose (ex: I swore if he described the sky as “lapis lazuli” one more time I’d scream), Simmons serves in many ways a writer’s writer.

• Big ideas, and even bigger themes. Self-sacrifice. Self-reliance. The power and terror of religion. The very nature of the human race itself and our future. (Plus, his take on AI is far more fascinating today, 35 years after its publication, than in his own day) .

• Pages dripping with allusions, ranging from classic literature (Dante, Keats, Chaucer, Beowulf, Romeo and Juliet) to modern pop culture (Raymond Chandler, the Wizard of Oz, “see you later alligator”) to Judeo-Christian imagery (Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac, the “tree of pain” mimicking a crucifix, “love” being the glue that holds the universe together, the mystic Jesuit Teilhard…) Even if not all references gelled perfectly, part of the joy in reading Hyperion is spotting the literary Easter Eggs and noting how they deepen the novel.

While I likely won’t read the follow-up duology anytime soon (Endymion (1996) & The Rise of Endymion (1997)), I do encourage every serious reader and budding literary author to read and study Hyperion. Simmons attempted something new, something bold, something artistic. While he may fail to reach “classic” levels of greatness due to fumbling the ball on the ten yard line, these two novels are truly admirable. The creative risks taken are breathtaking.

So I’m with Dan, and if you too love good fiction, you should be as well. Simmons shot for the moon, and even if he missed–so what? That still put him among the stars.

Thanks for visiting the Reading Room today!

What do you think? Have you read Hyperion? If not, will you give it a shot? And I’m sure there are Hyperion fans out there who think I’m a rube for criticizing Fall of Hyperion—so let’s hear from you! What did I miss? How am I wrong?

Let’s think about this a bit, shall we?

How Books Become Immortal

To start, we should define our terms. Namely, what is a “classic” book? Only after coming to grips there can we guess—and of course, it’s only a guess—whether Tolkien fits the criteria.

In his little booklet Literary Taste (1909), Arnold Bennett outlines the path books follow to become “greats.”1 First, Bennett flatly states that popularity is always beside the point. Nearly every popular work—even those once adored as “modern masterpieces” by critics of their day—fail to become classics. The fanfare dies off, sales plummet, all awards are forgotten, and readers move on to the new flavor of the moment.

Exhibit A:

Booth Tarkington—ever heard of him? Me neither. But in the 1910s and 1920s he was widely considered the United States’ greatest living author, winning accolades and awards including not one but two Pulitzers. But today?…

Exhibit B:

Pearl S. Buck, whose The Good Earth was a 1931–32 bestseller, became the first American woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Nowadays, is she read outside feminist theory courses or by random PhD students?

Exhibit C, D, & E:

Wilkie Collins, Sherwood Anderson, and Thomas Wolfe… ’Nuff said. You get the idea. Fame—both societal and critical—is fickle, and soon fizzles out.

And yet, whether or not they’re initially popular, some novels do manage to live on. A handful even grow to mountainous proportions. How?

Bennett believes it all stems from the admiration of a minority of passionate readers. Not the general public. Not college professors. Not publishers or editors. Not even critics. A broader body of hardcore literature aficionados—those with “a hot interest in literature,” who read not merely for “fun,” but because it’s who they are. For them, living without books is living without air. Or, as Bennett says, “They enjoy literature as some men enjoy beer.” (Ha! Nice one, Arnold.) You know the type: they bore everyone at Thanksgiving about the symbolism of wishbones in eighteenth-century British romances. That type.

(Hey, wait—I do that! …)

Whenever this obsessed faction magnetizes around some book’s special something—feeling it yields a deep, evergreen reading pleasure—they adopt the book as their own. They sing its praises. Near-fanatically. And simply put, this is what makes “a classic” to Bennett:

“A classic is a work which gives pleasure to the minority which is intensely and permanently interested in literature.”

But it doesn’t stop there.

Over the centuries, literary praise for the chosen poem, play, or novel is again and again whipped up by one “persistent minority” after another, because they just can’t leave a certain author alone. They “kept on savouring him, and talking about him, and buying him” (not to mention posting brilliant Substack posts about him.) Until at last, the public-at-large accepts their verdict. Everyday Joes soon find themselves praising Shakespeare, Dickens, or Austen… not because they actually read them (they don’t), but because these writers are so frequently hailed as “great” that normies figure they must, in fact, be great. And they are.

Public taste in fine literature is thus, in large part, an echo of concentrated enthusiasm. A classic survives across generations because the “passionate few” repeatedly re-experience it strongly enough to keep obsessing about it—and they drag the culture along with them.

It seems obvious to me this is exactly what’s happening with The Lord of the Rings.

LOTR Fans and LOTR Critics

While The Hobbit was much-admired as a fanciful children’s book, The Lord of the Rings’ initial reception was mixed, to say the least. Over the seven decades since, the trilogy has certainly taken its share of critical beatings. It’s been damned as esoteric, trite, old-fashioned, clumsy, juvenile trash, hippie, and nerdy.

However, from its 1954 publication onward a “passionate minority” also arose to praised its brilliance. Even big names in literature were enthralled. The great poet W. H. Auden labeled it a “masterpiece” that in some ways outdid Paradise Lost. (!!) Others, too—Iris Murdoch, Richard Hughes, Ursula K. Le Guin—were early enthusiasts. Fellow Inkling C. S. Lewis may best encapsulate the early praise:

[The Fellowship of the Ring] is like lightning from a clear sky; as sharply different, as unpredictable in our age as [William Blake’s] Songs of Innocence were in theirs. To say that in it heroic romance, gorgeous, eloquent, and unashamed, has suddenly returned at a period almost pathological in its anti-romanticism, is inadequate. To us, who live in that odd period, the return—and the sheer relief of it—is doubtless the important thing. But in the history of Romance itself—a history which stretches back to the Odyssey and beyond—it makes not a return but an advance or revolution: the conquest of new territory.2

Today, three or four generations later, the scales are now fully weighted in Tolkien’s favor. To say a “passionate few” has galvanized around Tolkien seems trite—Middle-earth is beloved, intellectually admired, and respected by both the minority and majority. I can’t think of many authors in the last century to enjoy such a long, warm embrace.

Yes, some snobs still refuse to acknowledge LOTR as “real” literature, but so what? Since the 80s and 90s their puddle seems rapidly evaporating. Serious scholarly work abounds on not only LOTR, but The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, and Tolkien’s other tales. A constant stream overflows with both peer-reviewed articles within the academic establishment as well as countless videos, podcasts, and mass-market books besides. The Professor’s letters are scoured for nuggets of information, his every word choice analyzed and annotated. Entire conferences are devoted to Tolkien’s life, lore and writing. University students are increasingly assigned his books, sometimes entire courses focusing on Tolkien alone.

If Bennett was right, then it seems pretty clear the gate’s been opened wide and Tolkien is being triumphantly paraded into the Western Canon’s heavenly ranks.

What Makes a Classic a Classic?

Okay, but let’s dig a little deeper to ask why. Why is The Lord of the Rings so lauded? What is it about the novel that lends it such weight?

Unfortunately, while Bennett traces a book’s path to the stars, he admits he can’t define which qualities make his “passionate minority” get so, well, passionate about one book over another. It resists a tidy explanation, he says. Although he invokes “truth, insight, knowledge, wisdom, humour, and beauty,” he freely admits “these comfortable words do not really carry you very far.” To him, the critic stands right beside the everyday reader, saying of masterpieces: “they give me pleasure. But why? No answer!”

The best Bennett can suggest is that it’s neither this-or-that moral value nor this-or-that literary quality, but a “mysterious” intuition collectively formed by well-trained, experienced readers—that’s eventually caught, like a benign flu, by the public at large:

[A classic] survives because it is a source of pleasure, and because the passionate few can no more neglect it than a bee can neglect a flower. The passionate few do not read “the right things” because they are right. That is to put the cart before the horse. “The right things” are the right things solely because the passionate few like reading them.

Although this may not be overly helpful, other critics have tackled the question far more boldly than Bennett. Two of my favorites are Italo Calvino in Why Read the Classics? (1986), and Harold Bloom’s The Western Canon (1994). Neither gives us a tidy, systematized checklist; instead they offer markers of greatness. I find them useful, so maybe you will as well.

So let’s (clumsily) try to combine Calvino’s and Bloom’s ideas into a handful of aspects. As we run through them, we’ll also see how the Professor fares.

1. Aesthetic Splendor

For Bloom, everything begins and ends with aesthetic merit. A classic work possesses what he calls “aesthetic strength,” or “aesthetic splendor”—a “mastery of figurative language, originality, cognitive power, knowledge, exuberance of diction.” A book cannot be justified by ideology, educational usefulness, cleverness, or moral uplift. It must overwhelm readers by artistic force.

Crucially, this splendor is apprehended by individual readers alone. Bloom insists the aesthetic is “an individual rather than a societal concern.” Canonical value can be widely recognized and discussed, but it can’t be argued into existence or rammed down the reading public’s throats. No: to Bloom, “one breaks into the canon only by aesthetic strength.” The book is the thing.

This is perhaps the least formulaic of the criteria—possibly a bit too broad. It’s likely what Bennett was circling when he said only passionate, experienced readers can recognize literary greatness. Aesthetics relies on subtlety, and only the fluent few have the antenna to detect it.

Tolkien’s Aesthetics:
So does The Lord of the Rings display aesthetic strength? Well, it certainly has originality. And judging by how much scholarly ink is ardently spilt over its themes and meanings, it also appears to abound in “cognitive power.” Even its diction is top-notch: as a philologist, Tolkien thought long and hard about the meaning and impact of every word choice, and the end result is wonderful.

It appears that the LOTR’s only Achilles heel may be its style. Even fans admit it’s anachronistic, written in an older, outmoded register. Some who want to love the books quit reading in frustration because of it. Bloom himself slammed Tolkien for this, mocking him as “stiff, false, archaic, overwrought, and finally a real hindrance [to reading].” Worse, he insults the style as some sort of King James Bible knockoff that reminded him of reading the Book of Mormon.

Fair enough, I suppose, if overly harsh. But isn’t anachronism the point? Tolkien is not trying to be a Melville, Faulkner, or Joyce; he’s crafting a modern mythopoeia, and as such an “archaic” style works perfectly. It’s all that would work, in fact. As Lewis argued (above): in LOTR “heroic romance, gorgeous, eloquent, and unashamed, has suddenly returned.”

2. Strangeness

The hallmark of mediocrity is cliché—resulting in what Bloom derisively calls the “period piece.” Yes, a mediocre book may turn bestseller, but after its 15 minutes fade, so does the book. It has no lasting interest.

By contrast, canonical authors stretch out and “overwhelm the tradition and subsume it” with the unique twist of their approach or the particular ways they encapsulate ideas. Greatness, for Bloom, is almost always marked by “strangeness.”

The paradox (and difficulty) of great books lies in this uncanniness. Their strangeness is not mere oddity, but also somehow just right—and this shocks the reader. Classics make us “feel strange at home,” presenting new angles and perspectives, and ultimately changing our worldviews. Canonical literature never flatters the reader; it confronts and ultimately enlarges.

Thus the first encounter with a great book is often uncomfortable:

“When you read a canonical work for the first time you encounter a stranger, an uncanny startlement rather than a fulfillment of expectations.”

But the more the work performs its magic on us (and on the culture), the more it feels inevitable—like it was always right, it had to be this way all along. Bloom says all classics possess “a mode of originality that either cannot be assimilated, or that so assimilates us that we cease to see it as strange.”

Calvino mentions this too, focusing especially on how such strangeness “plants” itself in us:

“[C]lassics are books that exert a peculiar influence, both when they refuse to be eradicated from the mind and when they conceal themselves in the folds of memory, camouflaging themselves as the collective or individual unconscious [...] If we reread the book at a mature age we are likely to rediscover these constants, which by this time are part of our inner mechanisms, but whose origins we have long forgotten. A literary work can succeed in making us forget it as such, but it leaves its seed in us.”

We recognize ourselves more fully because the classic upsets our assumptions. The literary canon does not baptize us into some ethical purity, nor relieve our questions or concerns. A masterpiece doesn’t set us “free of cultural anxiety”; rather, it “confirms our cultural anxieties, yet helps to give them form and coherence.” The classics do not solve the problems they point out—they clarify them, forcing us to think, to dig deep, sometimes shaking our entire lives as they do.

This is why Bloom bluntly says, “Without the Canon, we cease to think.” The classics sharpen our cognitive and rhetorical power—our ability to perceive metaphor, nuance, and life’s complexities. They increase the mind’s and heart’s capacities. Lesser works entertain; canonical works expand consciousness.

Tolkien’s Strangeness:
Similar to his archaic style, I think “strangeness” works within The Lord of the Rings via contrast. The unsettling power of the work is in large part due to how thoroughly Tolkien transports us away, jarring us from our comfortable modern lives into a long ago age that never existed. Had LOTR been written a thousand years prior, maybe it would not have been as strange (if at all); but in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, the entire book feels like a gauntlet thrown at the reader’s feet.

Our consciousness is enlarged by suffering with Frodo and Sam, witnessing Aragorn’s majestic return, and so forth. The book challenges us: we must confront heroism, sacrifice, simple goodness, even God’s workings in the world.

3. Rereading

Bloom offers one ancient test that remains “fiercely valid” for a classic: “unless it demands rereading, the work does not qualify.”

Calvino famously supports this, too:

“A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say. [...] Every rereading of a classic is as much a voyage of discovery as the first reading.”

Canonical works are normally dense (and “strange”), so they resist quick consumption. One readthrough is never enough. No mere pleasure here, but “high unpleasure or more difficult pleasure that a lesser text will not provide.” This difficulty is not obscurity for its own sake–classics don’t need to be experimental (though some are). But they must contain layered meanings and aesthetic compression.

Bloom derides works he believes are “top-heavy” with messaging or political urgency but lacking aesthetic density. A book may be morally forceful or socially relevant (and thus highly popular in its day), yet these are temporary. If the book doesn’t reward rereading by one generation after another—if it doesn’t deepen upon each return trip through the text—it fails the test of canonical endurance.

Canonical works never exhaust themselves; instead, they generate renewed thinking. Readers return not because teachers require it, but because something always remains unfinished in the encounter.

I love how personal Calvino makes this. He says we each have our own classic book waiting for us, one that will nose its way into our very souls:

“we do not read the classics out of duty or respect, but only out of love [...] Your classic author is the one you cannot feel indifferent to, who helps you to define yourself in relation to him, even in dispute with him.”

Tolkien’s Rereadability:
This may be the easiest criterion to highlight, for Tolkien certainly rewards rereading. Yes, this is true on an enjoyment level, but moreover is what the LOTR has to say. A reader could memorize the epic quest, the battles, every plot point and character, even lines of dialogue, yet more would await exploration in Middle-earth: languages, side characters (I see you, Tom Bombadil), connections with the larger legendarium, themes, not to mention simple phrases and titles. For example, I once read an entire essay on the significance of Frodo being repeatedly called “elf-friend”—you could read LOTR every year your whole life and never pick up on that, but once you have it refreshes the novel for us.

(Bonus: check out the Amon Sul podcast which walks through Tolkien’s works, chapter by chapter, elucidating more than you ever thought possible!)

4. The Anxiety of Influence

Canon formation, Bloom argues, is not friendly transmission but a death-match between newer and older works:

“Poems, stories, novels, and plays come into being as a response to prior poems, stories, novels, and plays […] a conflict between past genius and present aspiration, in which the prize is literary survival or canonical inclusion.”

Slightly less dramatically, Calvino adds:

“A classic is a book that comes before other classics; but anyone who has read the others first, and then reads this one, instantly recognizes its place in the family tree.”

Bloom famously labels this struggle “the anxiety of influence.” Canonical writing is “always rewriting.” Elbowing the past greats to clear out space for the self. This anxiety cripples weaker authors as they wonder how to compete with—or even contend with—the giants that came before them. But instead of crippling the masters, anxiety “stimulates canonical genius.”

Greatness recognizes greatness but is not overshadowed by it. Great books do not merely admire the past; they wrestle with it, distort it, absorb it, and emerge transformed.

Any strong literary work “creatively misreads a precursor text,” pushing it (and us) forward. Masterpieces overwhelm the tradition rather than being overwhelmed by it.

During interviews, Bloom implies this was a baseline qualification for classically-striving works. For example, while Toni Morrison earned his praise for Song of Solomon due to its successfully melding Woolf and Faulkner, Beloved is, in his view, a blustery, overtly political work—a period piece, not an aesthetic accomplishment. Another interviewer asked Bloom about Harry Potter, which he dismissed as “all clichés,” unlike The Wind in the Willows, which was fresh and beautiful.

Tolkien’s Anxiety of Influence:
When I explained Tolkien’s aesthetic splendor, I pointed out that his work is purposefully anachronistic. A prime reason for this is definitely the “anxiety” he felt about modern literary influences: he grappled with his modernist/postmodernist contemporaries and predecessors by out-and-out rejecting them. (And spitting on their graves.)

I’m not sure how many newer novels the Professor actually read, his head being stuffed with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, traditional fairy tales, and such, but it’s clear his goal was trashing all influences from the previous centuries, elevating and emulating much, much older authors and works.

But it’s not really that simple, is it? His refusal to write a “current” novel actually created a current novel—just a remarkable one. One that feels shockingly new, being a combination of both ancient and current. He is not simply recreating The Kalevala or Beowulf, but establishing a new tradition—his own—that fuses them with romantic literature. And that proved groundbreaking.

In Conclusion…

So where does all this gobbledygook leave us?

First, it leaves me feeling humble. Bloom, for all his snotty bravado, was right when he said predicting canonization is a fool’s game. We can’t know the future, and the canon is not a committee decision, nor a scientific process. It’s messy, seeing how literature survives the long, slow winnowing of time. The most we can do is make an educated wager, guided by hints of greatness, then wait and see.

And yet: if I were going to place a bet, Tolkien seems about as safe as it gets.

The Lord of the Rings has the aesthetic strength, the strangeness, the density that rewards rereading, the deep embeddedness in (and “creative misreading” of) older traditions—not to mention the unmistakable power to enlarge the inner life of us readers.

More than that, it ‘s already done what classics do by generating Bennett’s “passionate minority” of devotees—scholarly and otherwise—across multiple generations, in separate corners of the world, with no sign of petering out. I’d argue that every indication is that Middle-earth will continue to be read about, loved, argued over, annotated, imitated, and—yes—studied, for centuries to come.

If the canon is what endures, then Tolkien probably isn’t knocking at the door anymore. He’s already inside, taking his seat at the table.

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Thanks for visiting the Reading Room! As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this: what did I miss or get plain-old wrong? Do you agree that Tolkien is halfway to classical status?

This intuition may or may not match your reality, but the truth doesn’t matter much. Regardless of how much you’ve read, whether you’re young or old, formally educated or not, there is always too much left unread. Volumes mock you from the stacks. And in some ways it gets worse the harder you try, because once the “basics” are checked off you realize just how little of the surface you’ve really scratched.

I’ve been plagued by this feeling for thirty years.

In college, I boldly set out to read the Western Canon in earnest, naively determined to conquer the whole dadgum thing—only to discover just how long that road actually was. (It’s infinite.) Plus, I constantly hit roadblocks that jarred me, swerved me, or sent me careening into a ditch. And this with the advantage of an English lit degree, too, not to mention a genuine, self-motivated desire to read the classics on my own. For fun. But still, the more time passed, the more the obvious crashed into me like a semi hitting a building—reading it all is impossible.

Yet to this day I still find myself mentally berating myself for every gap. “How can you possibly claim you’re literate if you’ve never read Marlowe? Wharton? Pynchon? Only one Austen novel? What are you, a hayseed?”

(Am I alone here?…)

So other than telling ourselves to shut up (often a good idea) how do we fix this? Or–since I’d argue that for most normal readers like you and me, “fixing” it isn’t realistic—how do we at least improve? Knock out the big titles, at a minimum? How do we make a few more miles down that road, swerving around the deepest potholes without blowing out our tires?

In other words: get to that absolute baseline of experiencing every ground-zero, basement-level must-read of the Western Canon.

A One-Year Experiment for Fools

As an experiment, I rolled up my sleeves to design a reading plan that would cover these essentials: a survey of the great masterpieces of Western literature for beginners, from the ancient Greeks to our day—and to try to cram them all into a single year.

Why one year, you ask? Why not two, or five, or ten, or no timeline at all?

No grand reason, honestly. I simply know myself. If you’re like me, we work best when not just “grazing,” but when committed to a clear schedule. Sure, without that discipline we may do okay, but more often than not the results turn out scattershot and sloppy. This holds true in my job, in physical exercise, in my fiction writing habits, and even in worship (thank God for the Church’s cycle of services saving me from my lazy self). A plan gets it done.

So yes: one year. Again, not to read everything, but to cover the basics.

Almost immediately after my initial excitement, I realized how foolish this was. The classics span far too far, stretch way too wide. There are simply too many greats. I soon found myself making not a yearlong plan but a century’s long plan…

So, tongue pinned to lip, I got to culling—and let me tell you, it hurt.

First, I cut all lyric poetry. (Be still, my heart!)

Then I cut all drama—though I just couldn’t bring myself to leave out Sophocles or (gasp) Shakespeare, because that would be outright lunacy.

Then for sake of brevity, the longer novels had to go. (Ouch!) Looking over the list, you’ll definitely spot those omissions, possibly shouting aloud what an idiot I was for cutting this or that. I agree with you, my friend. My index finger still burns from pressing the delete key, condemning to the abyss Anna Karenina, The Brothers Karamazov, Les Misérables, the longer Dickens novels, and many other cherished works. Cutting so much to squeeze into the timeframe really, really—really—hurt. Gouging out your guts with a rusty trowel kind of hurt.

But it didn’t stop there.

I soon found myself having to slash most non-British and non-American books as well. Yes, you’ll find a couple Russians texts, a few French and a smattering of other European works—but it’s shamefully skimpy. And I didn’t even consider the non-Western works that have deservedly muscled their way into the broader Canon. That would have made the project completely unmanageable.

Oh, and forget “equitable representation.” Even if I believed in that kind of bean-counting (which I don’t), there simply isn’t room here to fret over questions like: Are there enough women? Enough Black authors? Latinos? Gays? I’ll say it plainly: no. There aren’t. There isn’t enough of anybody.

When the dust settled, I saw what was left: a fair (if slim) survey of the works that I, a non-academic, maintain are universally acknowledged as major literary achievements of the past 2,000+ years. Maybe a couple “iffers,” but mainly.

Even so, this list is like dipping a bucket into the Atlantic and claiming you’ve caught the ocean. It’s tiny. Bare-bones to the point of skeletal. But hopefully, what’s left is enough to give general readers some taste of the progression and power of the thing itself, as a whole.

The Brutal Math of Reading

Finally, to double check my schedule I asked how much reading one can realistically do in a year. This wrinkled it even more.

I’ll confess something upfront—I’m a notoriously slow reader. Years ago I trained myself not to skim, but to savor. This was born largely of survival: my first BA was in philosophy, and I learned the hard way how entire tomes by Plato, Kant, Kierkegaard, and their pals can be “read” without understanding a single blessed thing. So I slammed on the brakes and forced myself to read slowly. Every. Single. Word. (Sometimes. Even. Twice.)

Now I can’t shift into a higher gear. I always read slow and steady, no matter what. Even with commercial fiction (probably why I struggle to enjoy it.) Heck, even reading cereal boxes—I’m like a snail crawling across the letters.

So, when I saw online estimates suggesting that an average college-level reader can read 15,000–18,000 words per hour, I conservatively set my target at the low end.

Because I wanted this plan to be feasible for normal, serious readers—not PhD’s who have the luxury of reading for a living (lucky bastards)--I figured an ambitious but achievable goal was one hour of reading per weeknight, plus two hours on Saturday and two on Sunday. That adds up to nine hours per week, or roughly 135,000 words per week.

Wait, what?

135,000 words per week is insane!

That’s like finishing The Return of the King in nine hours. No chance I could hit that. Especially when grappling denser, more difficult texts. Maybe some speed-reader could, but not folks like little old me.

Therefore, you’ll see below that I scaled this back considerably, out of sheer self-preservation, shooting for more like 100,000 words a week. Still a clip, but doable. And besides, speed is not the point here—we’re not BookTok influencers and these aren’t popcorn reads. This is great literature; our goal is to actually absorb their magic and message.

Even so, I’m not convinced this schedule allows enough time for full enjoyment and understanding. A year is a long grind and life happens: days get busy, we get sick, we lose momentum. So while this experiment might be possible for some unusually disciplined readers, your mileage will absolutely vary.

No matter what, if you do attempt it, remember this above all: do not read merely to finish. Flipping to the last page is not the point. Engaging with our predecessors—with the literary geniuses of our culture—is. Slow down whenever you need to. Take a break, slip in a “buffer” week. Whatever. 52 weeks or 60 or 104–in the end, who cares?

Important Notes Before the Unveiling

First: I have not included either the Bible or any mythology in this plan. And reading Western literature without both is ridiculous.

I strongly recommend that anyone who hasn’t already done so read the entire Bible–namely, the 1611 King James Version—from Genesis to Revelation. You simply cannot get most Western literature without it. It’s impossible. And not only due to its content, either: the KJV itself had a seismic influence on English literature.

Maybe consider tackling this as “Year Zero.” You can even follow one of the many Bible-in-a-Year reading plans available, though I’m not sure if any use the 1611 KJV. (Regardless, the popular Fr. Mike Schmidt’s videos or podcast get a “strong recommend” from me).

Alongside that, read mythology—especially Greek and Roman myths. It doesn’t need to be Ovid; Bulfinch’s retellings are perfectly fine. You might even intersperse a myth with each daily Bible reading.

Second: if you’re a fledgling classicist, I highly recommend keeping a reading journal. Honestly, even experienced readers swear by it.

You can buy a pre-printed reading journal, use a digital platform, or just grab a spiral-bound notebook. After each reading session, jot down a few sentences about what you just read. That’s it. Trust me, you’ll remember far more and think much sharper. If you want, you can also predict what will happen next or note what you’re curious to learn in upcoming chapters. Not required—but both are fun and useful.

Also, though time will be tight, I recommend taking some time to research each book after finishing it. You’ll have the rest of your life to ponder these works, but now, before soldiering on, glance at summaries of themes, symbols, and significance. CliffNotes. A quick “What Beowulf is about” YouTube video. Wikipedia (ug–not a fan, but still…) That’s enough for now. And don’t forget to copy a couple nuggets into your journal.

Audiobooks?
You do you—but I’m adamant that for works this sublime, reading print matters. To experience the classics as they were intended, to remember and internalize them, putting eyes-on-the-page is essential (or eyes-on-the-Kindle—you can find nearly all older classics for free, via Project Gutenberg or from your local library’s app).

That said, audiobooks can be useful occasionally—on long drives, for instance. I might reserve them for some more contemporary novels, which often translate better to audio. Not all do, though, so don’t be shy about cutting your listening short if one falls flat (ex: I find Gatsby a dreadful listen, but Steinbeck wonderful).

Plays:
Here I flip my advice. If you must choose, watch plays rather than read them. Both would be better, but hey, we’re against the clock here. Professional recordings of Shakespeare and Sophocles are readily available online, and although some performances may be snoozers, as long as you avoid amateur productions you’ll likely be fine. (And yes—journal afterward.)

So without further ado, here’s the list in all its madcap glory:

The Great Classics-in-a-Year Week-by-Week Reading Schedule

Ancient & Medieval Foundations

Week 1: Homer, The Odyssey (~121,000 words)
Week 2: Homer, The Odyssey (cont.)

Week 3: Sophocles, Oedipus the King (play – watch or read)

Week 4: Virgil, The Aeneid (~99,000 words)
Week 5: Virgil, The Aeneid (cont.)

Week 6: Beowulf (~25,000 words)

Week 7: Dante, The Divine Comedy (Inferno) (~25,000 words)
Week 8: Dante, The Divine Comedy (Inferno, cont.)

Week 9: Chaucer, Canterbury Tales (Only Prologue, Wife of Bath, Pardoner, Miller – ~20,000–22,000 words)

Week 10:
Selections from either (read as much as you can in a week–try to find a “good parts” version)

• Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene or

• Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur

Shakespeare Festival!

Week 11: watch/read one play per day

• Macbeth

• King Lear

• Julius Caesar

• Henry IV, Part I

• The Tempest

• Hamlet

• Much Ado About Nothing

Early Modern & Enlightenment

Week 12: John Milton, Paradise Lost (~78,000 words)
Week 13: Paradise Lost (cont.)
Week 14: Paradise Lost (cont.)

Week 15: Voltaire, Candide (~30,000 words)

The Rise of the Novel (19th Century)

Week 16: Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (~122,000 words)
Week 17: Pride and Prejudice (cont.)
Week 18: Pride and Prejudice (cont.)
Week 19: Pride and Prejudice (cont.)

Week 20: Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights (~107,000 words)
Week 21: Wuthering Heights (cont.)
Week 22: Wuthering Heights (cont.)
Week 23: Wuthering Heights (cont.)

Week 24: Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol (~28,000 words)
(Strongly recommended for the week of Christmas—feel free to move it there :)

Dostoevsky (yes, he gets a category for himself)

Week 25: Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment (~211,000 words)
Week 26: Crime and Punishment (cont.)
Week 27: Crime and Punishment (cont.)
Week 28: Crime and Punishment (cont.)
Week 29: Crime and Punishment (cont.)

Short Story Festival!

Week 30: One short work per day

• Tolstoy, “The Death of Ivan Ilyich”

• Chekhov, “Gooseberries” (and/or another)

• Joyce, “Araby”

• Poe, “The Tell-Tale Heart”

• Gilman, “The Yellow Wallpaper”

• Hemingway, “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”

• Kafka, The Metamorphosis (this one’s actually a novella ~21,000 words)

American Classics

Week 31: Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter (~63,000 words)
Week 32: The Scarlet Letter (cont.)
Week 33: The Scarlet Letter (cont.)

Week 34: Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (~206,000 words)
Week 35: Moby-Dick (cont.)
Week 36: Moby-Dick (cont.)
Week 37: Moby-Dick (cont.)
Week 38: Moby-Dick (cont.)

Week 39: Henry James, Daisy Miller (~27,000 words)

Week 40: Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (~110,000 words)
Week 41: Huckleberry Finn (cont.)
Week 42: Huckleberry Finn (cont.)

Choose-Your-Own Adventure: Modern

Weeks 43–46: Choose ONE

• F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

• William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

• Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

• John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

• Saul Bellow, Herzog

Choose-Your-Own Adventure: Late Modern

Weeks 47–50: Choose ONE

• George Orwell, 1984

• E. M. Forster, A Passage to India

• Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

• Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

Finish Strong

Weeks 51 & 52: Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian (~116,000 words)

(Note: this is not (yet) a “classic”--so feel free to choose another “modern classic” here.)

Okay, Smarty, Are You Going to Do This?

Now that I‘ve gone through all the pain and discomfort of cutting and pruning down to the skinniest classics reading list imaginable, am I going to follow my prescription over the next twelve months?

Nope.

First of all, the point of the experience was to see what this could look like. If it was possible in a reasonable amount of time (and with hearty determination) to knock out the basics of the Western Canon. And I think this shows one way that could be done. Maybe the 52 week constraint is a bit tight, but sure, it’s do-able.

Secondly, I’ve already read nearly all of these. Some more than once. For others, it’s been years (well, decades, actually…) so I’ve forgotten just about everything. I’ll need to reread them now, as an older, more experienced reader, and at some point I will. I’m at a different spot, filling in other gaps–not to mention sampling newer books, to keep in touch with the current bookish landscape.

But if you give this list a shot, be sure to let me know how it’s going!

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room today. The comments are your special spot to torture me by listing in black and white all the greats I stupidly cut from the list, or to otherwise argue. Warning: I’ll probably just respond, “Yep, you’re right.”

In the 80s and 90s, debate raged over the “Western Canon”—essentially meaning the best poems, plays, novels, and essays our civilization has to offer. Where there had once been near-total agreement on what made up the Canon, not to mention its high value and use, disagreements erupted 40 years ago over each aspect of it. Reformers asked, What part should the Canon play in educating students? Who should be considered “canonical”? Who gets to decide on the list? Do we even need a Canon in the first place?

The Combatants

On one side of the issue stood the conservatives. Their orthodox view of the Western Canon had dominated since the 1800s. Proponents (such as William Bennett, Allan Bloom, and E.D. Hirsch, Jr.) saw rising attacks on the Canon since the 1960s counterculture movement, and as a response they wrote vigorous defenses of the tradition. There are clearly masterpieces, they said, and these deserve our full attention.

John Searle summarized this stance well in a 1990 article:

[T]here is a certain Western intellectual tradition that goes from, say, Socrates to Wittgenstein in philosophy, and from Homer to James Joyce in literature, and it is essential to the liberal education of young men and women in the United States that they should receive some exposure to at least some of the great works in this intellectual tradition; they should, in Matthew Arnold’s overquoted words, “know the best that is known and thought in the world.”

The arguments given for this view—on the rare occasions when it was felt that arguments were even needed—were that knowledge of the tradition was essential to the self-understanding of educated Americans since the country, in an important sense, is the product of that tradition; that many of these works are historically important because of their influence; and that most of them, for example several works by Plato and Shakespeare, are of very high intellectual and artistic quality, to the point of being of universal human interest.1

Opposed to the conservatives stood the self-avowed leftists. Or, as Harold Bloom famously labelled them, “The School of Resentment.” To them the Western Canon was bunk, a tool of privilege and power. They reviled the pro-Canon side’s “desire to close not only the American mind, but the American university, to all but a narrow and highly uniform elite with no commitment to either multiculturalism or educational democracy.”2

Their dogma held that classics were too “white,” too male, and too Eurocentric. They demanded an “opening up” to new voices representing “marginalized” groups, such as women, Blacks, gays, and non-European works. They found the Western Canon an ugly product of “the West’s relentless imperial expansion” and a “monumentalist cultural hierarchy that is historically as well as morally distortive.”3

Duke professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr., summarized the position in the late 80s by claiming:

The teaching of literature [has become] the teaching of an aesthetic and political order, in which no women and people of color were ever able to discover the reflection or representation of their images, or hear the resonance of their cultural voices. The return of “the” canon, the high canon of Western masterpieces, represents the return of an order in which my people were the subjugated, the voiceless, the invisible, the unrepresented, and the unrepresentable.4

Gerald Graff of Northwestern punched even harder: “Speaking as a leftist, I too find it tempting to try to turn the curriculum into an instrument of social transformation.”5 Graff and his comrades believed this “social transformation” couldn’t be achieved by merely adding titles from preferred groups to the Canon, though. Only by abolishing it entirely.

And that’s exactly what they did. Throughout the 80s-90s the left waged war against the Western Canon, and ultimately they won. They killed it.

The Aftermath

To say the Western Canon was “killed” is not to claim all canonical works were erased. This was not the result, either in educational institutions or the consciousness of the West. You will of course still find Shakespeare, Dante, Chaucer, Dickens, Keats, and the usual suspects being widely read and studied today—though less frequently, and with far less reverence.

You see, the center did not hold. Most colleges, in particular, supplanted the once-universally admired “classics,” replacing most with “diverse” and modern works.

Take three up-close and personal dramatizations of how this looked in practice during and after the Canon Wars:

Snippet A:

Picture an English major in 1992 sitting down in “Early American Literature Through 1900,” a junior-level survey course. It’s day one, and he’s excited to deep-dive into Bradstreet, Hawthorne, Melville, Twain–all the greats. But when the syllabus is handed out, he’s startled to see none are on it. In fact, front to back are names he’s never heard of, and among the required texts is no Moby Dick or The Scarlet Letter, but an anthology of Native American tales and songs. The professor—a Native American himself—begins class by boldly announcing, “Welcome. I know what you’ve signed up for, but in this class you’re going to read real American Literature…”

Snippet B:

Now shift to a graduate student in 2005 in his American Literature and Culture seminar. It’s taught by a PhD whose dissertation centered on the underlying themes in Leave it to Beaver. He argues that Shakespeare is a pop culture artifact, no better or worse than any other. The class is assigned a biography of P.T. Barnum and to analyze the 1985 Mister Mister rock song, “Broken Wings.”

Snippet C:

Finally, consider another English major in 2022. He sits down in his American Literature survey course–a single, comprehensive class for all American lit. The only one offered by the university. He finds the assigned reading list is abridged to make room for obscure authors from “underrepresented” groups. The prof justifies this by telling the class, “Literature is more than dead white men.”

To my thinking, the above three cases, the same yet different, each around fifteen years apart, speak volumes. The first two I experienced personally (at Michigan State and then the University of Michigan-Flint), while the third student was my son (at Olivet College).

Today such incidents repeat all across the country. Right now. The trend to offset or downplay serious academic study–even appreciation of long-acknowledged classics is firmly entrenched in academia. If you know any current college students, just ask them what books they’re assigned in their literature classes. In most cases, I wager you’ll see exactly what I mean.

A Case Study

A fair counterpoint to the above is that mine are just anecdotes, and as they say, the plural of “anecdote” is not data. So let’s take a more objective approach.

Open Syllabus is a non-profit research organization that crawls publicly-accessible university websites to collect and analyze university course syllabi. Of the 81,818 fiction titles listed in U.S. literature syllabi between 2015 to 2020, the 25 most commonly assigned were:

1. “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

2. Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

3. “A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner

4. “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin

5. “A Good Man is Hard to Find” by Flannery O’Connor

6. The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien

7. The Norton Introduction to Literature

8. “Prufrock and Other Poems” by TS Eliot

9. “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson

10. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

11. “Young Goodman Brown” by Nathaniel Hawthorn

12. “Everyday Use” by Alice Walker

13. Cathedral Stories by Raymond Carver

14. “Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway

15. Short stories by Edgar Allen Poe

16. The Canterbury Tales

17. Sonny’s Blues by James Baldwin

18. “Metamorphosis” by Franz Kafka’s

19. Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

20. Paradise Lost by John Milton

21. The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald

22. “Araby” by James Joyce

23. “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been” by Joyce Carol Oates

24. Beloved by Toni Morrison

25. “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid6

It’s disappointing Open Syllabus’s dataset ends in 2020 because I’m confident the shift away from the Western Canon has accelerated like never before in the six years since, partly due to lockdown-era DEI initiatives, mixed with the so-called “racial reckoning” of the George Floyd riots. But even so, I suspect this was just gasoline thrown on an already-roaring inferno. Anti-Canon advocates had been slash-and-burning territory for decades before Covid, and showed no signs of slowing.

But let’s focus on the data we have.

At first glance, the “top 25” list actually doesn’t seem too bad. We do indeed find many established classics–and even those one might call “questionable” are still (generally) excellent. I like nearly all of them. I even used many to great effect back when I taught high school seniors. (Then again, they were in the textbook anthology we used–which is pretty telling in and of itself.)

Still, there are obvious “tells” in the list that prove conservatives lost the Canon Wars.

First, notice how contemporary the majority of selections are, as well as how overwhelmingly American. Why is this? My guess is for ease of instruction. Relatability. While I love “The Lottery” and “A Rose for Emily,” neither should be that challenging for a college freshman. Classicists argue students should understand the full scope of Western literature and thought, and that this requires they read long, old books—in other words, being challenged. Apparently college profs don’t agree. Tough classics like Shakespeare and Dante are notably absent from the list, and both the Canterbury Tales and Paradise Lost sit there like day-old tuna fish on pizza. Completely out of place. “Cultural transmission and literary appreciation be damned,” colleges seem to say, “we gotta get these kids reading them some Oates and Walker; frickin’ Dante’s way too hard, anyway.”

Secondly, I’m smelling agenda-driven choices all over the list. If, as I contend, professors are picking for ease in instruction, I suspect them killing two birds with one stone by selecting not only simpler but “diverse” texts, thus also forwarding the progressive agenda.

For instance, why in tarnation is “The Yellow Wallpaper” perched there at the top of this list? This is the most commonly studied work in American colleges? I of course don’t mind that story; it has many literary merits. I’ve taught it myself. But…really? Number one in all US colleges? My suspicion is that its “down with the patriarchy” gist squares well with most liberal college professors’ beliefs. This bent might likewise explain other choices, too (“A Rose for Emily,” “Story of an Hour,” possibly “Hills Like White Elephants,” etc.) Even Frankenstein, a hands-down achievement of a novel, can be pounded into the round hole of feminism (etc.), thus earning its sweet #2 slot.

And on top of feminism, the agenda’s also revealed in the list’s African-American authors, namely Sonny’s Blues, “Girl,” Beloved, and “Everyday Use.” Aside from Their Eyes Were Watching God, are any really worthy of their top-spots? Again, none are “poor” (though, ug, that Baldwin…) but I’m looking fish-eyed at this. Gates once again echoes in my head about Blacks being “subjugated, the voiceless, the invisible, the unrepresented, and the unrepresentable.” This list seems aimed toward somehow “correcting” that “historical injustice.”

Third and finally, I wonder if this chart is somewhat misleading. I’m no statistician (far from it), but could analyzing popularly-assigned novels and stories paint a slightly skewed picture? For instance, what if universities each assign wildly different books, so there’s no consensus? “Most popular” would then become little more than coincidence. Any cluster would present like dominance.

Imagine a survey of 100 people in which underwater basket weaving is revealed the #1 pastime–but only because a whopping three people do it, versus the ninety-seven others who each have different hobbies. This appears similar to the syllabi data: of the 81,818 fiction titles in all syllabi, the #1 position won by appearing 2,046 times. A paltry 0.025%. Imagine how low #10 or #25 are…

Should we be surprised that professors aren’t on the same page? Without a Canon guiding them, there’s no longer agreement on the best books that everyone should read. That’s what the Canon was for. And worse, the guideposts for what makes quality fiction in the first place have been ripped from the ground, so now everyone can justify whatever they want to teach in the moment. Profs fill their trays from a literary buffet–and it’s a long, sloppy buffet, lacking even sneeze guards.

It’s hard to confirm all my suppositions without reverting back to anecdotes, but when I call up Open Syllabus’ data for one school, the University of Michigan, I see what we’d expect: overwhelming population by “one offs” that I imagine few other schools also assign (ex: Salt Fish Girl by Larissa Lai (2002) bizarrely tops their list.)

Maybe the National Association of Scholars also lends weight, as their 2019 study of college-assigned summer books proves a dizzying mix. We find both popular and obscure novels spanning a wide range of ethnicities, national origins, genders, and alternative lifestyles. Despite the variety, however, the clumping around progressive darlings is a clear indication of the colleges’ mission, with the top categories being civil rights/slavery (shocker), followed by crime/punishment and (wait for it) immigration.7

Ideology Over Quality

In his shot-across-the-bow book The Western Canon (1994), Harold Bloom codified the conservative perspective. He whipped up national attention for the Canon Wars by publicizing it outside just academia where the battle had been raging since the 60s and 70s.

Although Bloom caused quite a kerfuffle, it appears he had little impact other than to rally the left, giftwrapping them a truly snobby white man to burn in effigy. They needn’t have. Bloom’s book was written as an “elegy” for the Canon more than a defense of it: he clearly pronounced the academy lost. If the Western Canon was gasping its last breath by 1994, it died completely by the 2000s.

But nature abhors a vacuum. Though progressives claimed (and still claim) we need to flush the Western Canon, that was (and is) just lip service. As Bloom clearly saw:

“Idealism”…is now the fashion in our schools and colleges, where all aesthetic and most intellectual standards are being abandoned in the name of social harmony and the remedying of historical injustice. Pragmatically, the “expansion of the Canon” has meant the destruction of the Canon, since what is being taught includes by no means the best writers who happen to be women, African, Hispanic, or Asian, but rather the writers who offer little but the resentment they have developed as part of their sense of identity. There is no strangeness and no originality in such resentment…8

This needs to be emphasized: if the past 30 years of Canon War fallout has shown us anything, it’s what Bloom saw clearly in his time: the left is not as much interested in an “open,” “representational,” or “multicultural” Canon of best authors, but a Canon promoting their own ideology.

Teaching those authors who are female, Black, Latino, gay (etc.) and who also write high-quality work (and there are certainly plenty of those, as Bloom himself gladly admitted) is not the left’s mission. No, they want to shift the criteria for “great” to ideology. Their ideology. Meaning an agenda-driven, anti-Western, “anticolonial,” “antiracist” activism. Though they’ve quite effectively dropped nuclear warheads on the Western Canon since their 1980s chant of “Hey, Hey, Ho, Ho, Western Civ has got to go,” they’ve slowly been building their own criteria–one founded not on aesthetics but on radical, self-serving principles.

While a handful of leftists may be sincere in wanting more inclusivity and fairness, it seems beyond doubt they’re most interested in power. They wanted to be the new elites.

And from what I can tell, they’ve done it.

Okay… What’s It Matter?

You might ask, “Who cares about some college profs arguing about books?”

I’m glad you asked.

Although the Canon Wars’ battlegrounds were the halls of higher learning, ripples from the conflict has spread. They’re still spreading to this day. For example, to those in K-12 public education such as myself, it’s loomed for decades, steadily building strength, even speeding up. For me, a flashpoint came in 2021 or so, when Michigan’s former state superintendent of schools, Mike Rice, railed at an educator conference that “we should not be teaching the same books we ourselves were taught in school.” Period. So simple, so “reasonable,” it was a shockingly pragmatic motto to spit at the power, purpose, and need of a Western Canon.

Harvard clearly agrees with Rice’s sentiment. In late 2025 the Harvard Gazette bemoaned an NCTE report indicating middle and high school English teachers still taught like it’s 1989–or even 1964.9

Labeling this “curricular stagnation,” the article makes a strange leap in logic: because students now live in a non-homogeneous age of smartphones and AI, they can’t (and shouldn’t) read authors from generations past. Students would be better to abandon the classics because…

Some worry that — in a diverse and polarized nation — books that once felt accessible now feel remote or impenetrable, or that cultural conservatism or education bureaucracies have kept the curriculum from a healthy evolution.

Now nearing the end of a long career in public education, I recall many, many iterations of this argument. In fact, one of my first experiences as a student teacher in 1995 was a high school English department being commanded by the principal to drop the Odyssey because it was too difficult. Impoverished students couldn’t “relate” to it, he said. Their test scores would increase with “accessible” texts. Thank goodness those teachers fought back, winning the day for Homer, but this dark scene’s been on repeat, replaying over and over for the next 30 years within both the schools I worked as well as all across the country.

And despite the NCTE’s report, it’s clear the losses are starting to rack up. Shaky literature like The Hate U Give and “instant classics” like The House on Mango Street or that luminary Tah-Nehisi Coates are slowly but surely eclipsing tradition. Even the Advanced Placement (AP) Literature recommendation list—once a bulwark of the Canon-has “opened up” to be more “representational,” including a slew of newer, odder works. Which makes sad sense, since that class is intended to mimic collegiate work.

So, while selections from the Western Canon may seem to persist in K-12 public schools right now, it’s shifting. When in another 20 years NCTE re-runs their study, I predict Harvard’s liberals will be highly satisfied with the new findings.

Just one last point on the K-12 education front:

Unlike the radical leftists who began storming universities in the 80s and now hold tenure, I know many, many well-meaning, conscientious public school English teachers who are sincere, caring, thoughtful educators. These are not “faceless enemies” to me, but colleagues I respect. Sure, I staunchly disagree with the “diversify literature” trend which many have been duped into supporting, but it’s hard not to empathize. For as much as anti-Canon ideology bleeds into their classrooms, most teachers are not themselves ideologues. A few are, sure, but most aren’t.

In fact, many first became English teachers because they themselves loved the classics. They find them important. However, when the rubber hits the road in their classrooms each day, they see firsthand how their students struggle to read. They hear them complain about reading even one paragraph, and bragging they never read on their own. School is a chore to these kids, and most never developed the grit nor discipline to do… well, much of anything that’s not “fun” (aka, on a smartphone.)

Classroom teachers are thus in a bind, desperate to find a fix because they care. That and because testing is so high-stakes, reflecting on their teaching. And lo and behold, what’s a quick way to fix it? Easy: assign highly-engaging books written at students’ current (meagre) reading levels, rather than Orwell, Shakespeare, or Homer. Teachers don’t see this as lowering the bar, but of fitting the need, of meeting kids “where they are.” Plus undeniable education research (an oxymoron) reassures them “engagement” means mirroring students perceived selves—that to support students and teach them better we must allow students to “see themselves” in what they read. So that’s what teachers do. To hell with a challenge and to hell with Western culture.

Yes, I understand these hardworking, well-meaning educators. I robustly disagree with the solution they’ve landed on, but I understand it.

Long Live the Western Canon!

In the end, the agreed-upon Canon of masterworks is effectively dead. Bloom warned 30 years ago, “we are destroying all intellectual and aesthetic standards in the humanities and social sciences in the name of social justice.”10 He was right, they’ve been all-but destroyed, and now warty, patch-coated trolls dance a jig on the Canon’s grave.

But is it really dead?

Now that I’ve laid out this situation in all its doom and gloom, I actually have to admit to nurturing a strange, sunny view of it. I think the Western Canon will continue on, albeit in a different way. Classics are not chosen by elites or academics, and so they can neither be murdered nor rescued by them. Whether supported by the stodgy old professors circa 1900 or stabbed by fist-pumping counterculture radicals, the classics trudge on.

In fact, the great works of our culture are not really even on some “list.” They dwell amorphously in our cultural consciousness, rising to the top like cream and staying there due to the inherent power of their aesthetic genius. Shakespeare cannot be dethroned via academic infighting because he was never enthroned by them in the first place: he won an election. 400 elections, actually: one for every year that serious and intelligent readers across the West voted him the best we’ve ever produced. Same for Dante. And Chaucer. And Homer. And Joyce. And Austen, Dickens, and the all rest.

Greatness will out.

True, some may not be unanimously chosen. For others (such as Tolkien and McCarthy), only time will tell . But it’s we the people who decide for ourselves. Both in isolation and together. Over the centuries.

This is not to say I’m happy with the current situation. Because I’m not. I wish higher learning supported the classics and the culture rather than tearing them down. And moreover, I worry about the future of reading in our society, as it’s clearly on the decline–to everyone’s detriment. Of course I hope both will make a comeback, and I do my little part to ensure it’s so. But as that great philosopher Doris Day sang, “que sera, sera; whatever will be will be.”

Canonical authors are survivors. They’ll be here either way, speaking to us long into the future, inspiring and perplexing us, telling us both about their times and our own.

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Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room! What are your thoughts, experiences, and arguments about the Western Canon and the Canon Wars? I always appreciate help refining my (kooky) reasoning.

Now, I tend to read my lighter books “on the side” while plodding my way through more literary fare—kind of like tasty in-between-meal snacks.

Actually, that’s not quite true: I don’t read most of my comfort reads, I listen to them. I know some folks get their panties bunched over audiobooks versus eyes-on-the-page, and I’m actually pretty sympathetic to the “reading means reading, not listening” camp—especially for the full experience, and definitely for difficult, rich literature. You simply can’t absorb Austen, Dickens, or Tolkien while cruising down the highway or doing dishes.

Which is why I only Audible “fun” reads—books meant for enjoyment or relaxation alone (which, in my crazy schema, I label “Level Zero Meaning” books).

The Dresden Files are perfect for this.

Not only are the novels fun, throwaway entertainment, but the audiobook narrator, James Marsters, positively elevates the listening experience. He’s great. (Seriously, a top two audiobook narrator, ever.)

I learned this from my lovely wife, Jennifer. Dresden is her favorite series. She’s listened to it three times—all 17 novels—and has planned a fourth run-through in preparation for book #18, Twelve Months, releasing this month.

While a goofy series about a wizard detective in modern Chicago is most definitely not my cup of tea—I am a card-carrying literary snob, after all—I try to read widely, and Dresden is so popular that I decided to give it a shot.

To truly see what Dresden is all about, fans insist you get through the first three books: Storm Front (2000), Fool Moon (2001), and Grave Peril (2001). Apparently books four and five are even better, and maybe I’ll get there eventually, but for now I want to chat through my reactions so far.

As I said, I have thoughts.

Note: Though I’ll try to keep them to a minimum, there will be trivial spoilers. Also, special thanks to for giving me some early feedback on this post!

An Overview for Your Average Reader

If you’re a “content reader” who devours fantasy, sci-fi, and horror series—you need you some Sanderson, Martin, and King—and if you read primarily for relaxation, I can clearly see why you’d love this series. It’s a fun ride. The story is exciting and constantly evolving, the characters interesting and well-rounded, the world simultaneously familiar and fantastic. And the humor: these books are genuinely funny.

As a contemporary urban fantasy, the setup is a good one: Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden is a human wizard and private investigator in modern-day Chicago who investigates supernatural disturbances. Sometimes he’s hired by clients; sometimes he consults for a special “X-Files-like” police unit. With strong horror elements in abundance, each book follows a loose “creature of the week” format. A case opens on page one and is solved by the last.

In the first book, Harry tracks a supernatural killer who turns out to be a rogue warlock.

In the second, he tangles with werewolves (lots and lots of werewolves).

In the third, ghosts and vampires run amok—in both the mean streets and one’s nightmares.

Meanwhile, the cast of characters, their relationships, and the complications steadily expand. My understanding is that as the books progress, the hardboiled gumshoe trope fades as Harry’s world turns to larger conflicts involving both him and his friends—including a looming war between wizards and vampires, among other assorted mayhem. Butcher claims he’s planned roughly 25 books, with all his multiple arcs converging in a final, satisfying trilogy. If you enjoy epic fantasy or long-form series, this is firmly in your wheelhouse.

The humor is a highlight here. Most of it derives from being stuck inside Harry’s first-person point of view, and he’s quite the character: the classic outsider type that was cool in the ’90s—competent but hilariously sarcastic. Trench-coat-wearing, quick-witted, and perpetually smart-mouthed, he drops pop culture references at will, though deadpan one-liners are his specialty:

Paranoid? Probably. But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean there isn’t an invisible demon about to eat your face. (Storm Front)

Blood Rites wasn’t one of the three books I read, but in it is the perfect quote to demonstrate Harry’s snark:

“Who the hell are you?”
“I the hell am Harry.”
“Are you always a wiseass?”
“No, sometimes I’m asleep.”

Admittedly, the comedy sometimes drifts into immaturity. Not quite Marvel-movie inanity, but what I’d call “stupid guy humor.” And as a guy, I find it funny most of the time (truth-bomb: we men all share the give-your-friend-a-Charlie-horse-and-giggle gene).

I’ve read that some get rankled over what they call Harry’s “misogyny”: he notices women. He describes them. Sometimes he jokes about them. But this didn’t bother me in the least—in fact, this criticism itself seems oversensitive. (And as conclusive proof I’m right, my wife scoffed at the criticism, too, and she’s a girl. So there.)

What’s essential is that for as much as Harry notices—sometimes borderline ogling—the curve of a breast or mile-long legs, he never acts on those urges. Quite the opposite. When a love potion accidentally affects a reporter (Susan), she attempts to seduce him—all while he happens to be fresh-from-the-shower naked and fighting a frog demon. (It’s quite a scene.) Susan even flips the typical pervert’s come-on, but Dresden doesn’t bite:

Susan’s fingers wandered, and her eyes sparkled. “Your mouth says no,” she purred, “but this says yes.”

I went up on my toes, and swallowed, trying to keep my balance and get her hand off me at the same time. “That thing is always saying something stupid,” I told her. (Storm Front, chap. 14)

While Harry admits to his male-ness—and frequently proves it with his anatomical descriptions—he also asserts his old fashioned, chivalrous notions, including opening doors for ladies and, well, protecting them from harm (perish the thought!) Honestly, though, many women such as Sgt. Murphy prove capable of handling themselves just fine in most situations. Women are neither objects nor Mary Sues here, but people–which is refreshing.

As a final introductory note, both plot and pacing keep things moving along, as well it should in good action-oriented fiction. We never wait long before Harry is getting beat up, casting a powerful spell, stumbling into danger, getting beat up again, shouting “fuego,” getting beat up yet again… (Harry’s beaten constantly; reaching deep to overcome pain and exhaustion is his norm, not the exception.)

This is not sublime fiction.

In fact, while Butcher cites Robert B. Parker’s “Spenser” detective books as a tremendous influence, it appears his appreciation of Buffy the Vampire Slayer won out in the end, as The Dresden Files are hardly mysteries we read to puzzle out a solution, to find out who the murderer is and so forth. No, the whodunits always give way to supernatural, magical fight scenes. And sure enough, it’s satisfying to see Harry scrape out a last-second victory.

Aspects Even a Snob Can Appreciate

Okay, all this is interesting enough, but what if you (like me) do tend to enjoy more sublime fare?

Well, you still might appreciate Dresden–at the very least as a frivolous aside. This is commercial fiction after all.

The prose, while often sparkling with clever twists of phrase and gleefully torqued expectations, is nothing that would knock the socks off readers accustomed to classics. It’s fast and easy. As proof, here’s an example from Grave Peril I pulled 100% at random from chapter 19:

There‘s a kind of mathematics that goes along with saving people‘s lives. You find yourself running the figures without even realizing it, like a medic on a battlefield. This patient has no chance of surviving. That one does, but only if you let a third die.

For me, the equation broke down into fairly simple elements. The demon, hungry for its revenge, would come after those who had struck it down. The ghost would only remember those who had been there, whom it had focused on in those last moments. That meant that Murphy and Michael would be its remaining targets. Michael had a chance of protecting himself against the thing—hell, maybe a better chance than me. Murphy didn‘t.

I got on the phone to Murphy‘s place. No answer. I called the office, and she answered with a fatigue-blurred, “Murphy.”

“Murph,” I said. “Look, I need you to trust me on this one. I‘m coming down there and I‘ll be there in about twenty minutes. You could be in danger. Stay where you are and stay awake until I get to you.”

“Harry?” Murphy asked. I could hear her starting to scowl. “You telling me you‘re going to be late?”

“Late? No, dammit. Look, just do what I said, all right?”

“I do not appreciate this crap, Dresden,“ Murphy growled. “I haven‘t slept in two days. You told me you‘d be here in ten minutes, and I told you I‘d wait.”

“Twenty. I said twenty minutes, Murph.”

Using the Flesch-Kincaid readability scale to analyze sentence length and syllable count, this text is at the 5th-6th grade level. The kind of writing where “mathematics” stands out as a “big word” and sentences rarely breach the ten word mark.

Not that this is a dig at Butcher or his craft: his simple diction and style is designed for speedy reading by a wide (even uneducated) audience. It mimics an average Joe’s cadence. It conveys clear thrills along with emotional punch. While elementary, the voice fits both Harry’s blunt character and the purpose of the writing: to entertain. Just don’t expect to be wowed by much more than cute phrasing here or a “did that really just happen” moment there.

That being said, I want to suggest three genuinely admirable qualities from these first Dresden books. Each deserves a slow clap, even from me.

1. Great Characterization

All writers can learn from Butcher’s creation of interesting, often-lovable characters.

On the heroic side, Dresden himself is flawed yet admirable–not to mention, as said above, delightfully smart-alecky. Alongside him stand many others with clear personalities, including Murphy, Susan, and Harry’s skull-inhabiting spirit advisor, Bob. But for me, above all was Grave Peril’s introduction of Michael Carpenter: this modern-day sword-wielding Knight of the Cross flat-out defies the advice given to all modern writers. Michael is honest, upright, serious, unflashy to the point of being demure–even predictable–and yet he is a fan favorite in the series. His unwavering, upright devotion to goodness in general and God in particular should make him a “square,” but in fact, in this crazy world of werewolf street gangs, vampire prostitutes, and ruthless gangsters, Michael’s the opposite. He’s a rock. (And he rocks!)

And concerning the baddies, the literal murderer’s row here is enticingly bad. Butcher gives villains clear personalities and motivations, always packed to the brim with quirks—but never does he cross the line to make them lovable or to steal the show from our protagonists. It’s a fine line which Butcher tippy-toes quite well. Evil is delectably evil. We love to hate Bianca, Godmother Lea, and the rest, but we never admire them. Let’s take a common favorite, “Gentleman” Johnny Marcone: as much as we enjoy his scenes and find his character engaging, no punches are pulled, no excuses offered: for all his businesslike politeness and intelligence, Marcone’s clearly a ruthless mob boss whom Harry despises. For all the fascination, we still root for his defeat.

2. Plant and payoff

I’ve mentioned worldbuilding, and it bears repeating that Butcher’s is a big, big world.

Unlike science fiction or medieval fantasy books, much of the milieu here needs no introduction: we grok modern urban life even if we’ve never set foot in Chicago. So Butcher’s able to zoom in on the wondrous, strange, and eerie. In reality, we’re reading an alternative universe story, one in which the border between the spirit world (the “Nevernever”) may be crossed—both ways. The supernatural is real and somewhat known, however underground (ex: Harry advertises himself as a wizard for hire, which can cause many to squint in disbelief. He even hands out pamphlets explaining what “real” magic is and isn’t.)

And we’re thrown headfirst into both this universe and Harry’s tale. No info-dumping, just the skinniest of onramps. Among the in media res, we glean vague understandings of Harry’s tragic tutelage in wizardry, a mystery about his mother’s deep involvement with faeries, connections with a White Council of Wizards (whatever that is), and more. And by “more” I mean much more. In each book the background is populated more and more, so the setting not only rounds-out but ever-expands. Yes, some wonderings get answered by the end of book three (at least in part), but more question marks are added to the list.

My understanding is that throughout the current 17 books, many mysteries, hints, and events will have ramifications down the line. There are few random encounters or name dropping. Simple interactions–not to mention major plot beats–come back 5, 10, even 15 books later. While I intensely dislike ongoing series due to their “soap opera-ness,” their constant need to up the ante and to dangle carrots to keep readers turning pages, I’m intrigued by Butcher’s forethought. Surely some of this was created on the fly, but not most.

He’s claimed he learned this plant-and-payoff method of writing–where early points come to fruition later–from watching 1994’s Babylon 5. Famously, this was one of the first TV shows to eschew the weekly episode format in favor of a towering, ambitious, “continuous” storyline. Not just season-to-season, but over its entire run. In Babylon 5, everything built to a climax, a definite ending. Arcs, characters, even lines of dialogue from season 1 unexpectedly returned in seasons 4 or 5–much to viewers’ surprise and delight. Butcher obviously loves this, as it appears he’s using the same technique. And it works. From what I gather, this only increases as The Dresden Files progresses, generating a great sense of devotion from readers due to the high return on (reading) investment.

3. Respect for Christianity

Finally, I have to praise Dresden for its respectful depiction of Christianity.

Since the mid-20th century, it’s been “cool”—especially in pop culture—to disparage the faith that built the West. Priest and pastor characters are always hypocrites or perverts, or at the very least naïve, Ned Flanders-like goodie-two-shoes idiots. The church is oppressive and secretive, some cabal or shadowy government wrestling for power. Everyday Christians are not people, they are fools. It’s tiresome–not to mention disrespectful to billions of Believers, yet Hollywood California can’t seem to get over this obsession.

Butcher stands firmly in the opposite camp.

Especially in Grave Peril with the appearance of the saintly Michael and his wife, Charity (a loving family, no less!) Plus there’s the solid, devoted, calm Father Forthill—a good priest! Not only is belief in God treated respectfully, without even a hint of sarcasm, but Christianity is depicted as an exceedingly powerful force, surprising even Harry with its potency. God is real here and so are His great works.

This being the case, one might wonder why Harry doesn’t take Michael’s or Fr. Forthill’s advice and convert—or at the very least attend mass. He doesn’t, though to my mind this fits. Why? Because Harry, an honest man, is stuck in the old Problem of Evil tar pit, as well as grappling with the sinful behavior of many Christians do-gooders.

In Grave Peril, chap 24, before they enter a vampire lair, Michael invites Harry to join him in prayer; Michael says, “I’d like to talk to Him for a moment.” Although Harry politely refuses, letting Michael have his conversation with the divine, he does reflect on it all:

“I don’t have anything against God. Far from it. But I don’t understand Him. And I don’t trust a lot of people who go around claiming that they’re working in his best interest. Faeries and vampires and whatnot, those I can fathom. Even demons. Sometimes even the fallen. I can understand why they do what they do. But I don’t understand God. I don’t understand how He can see the way people treat one another and not chalk up the whole human race as a bad idea. I guess he’s just bigger about it than I would be.”

Harry’s beset by the mystery of God in light of the confusion and evil in the world today. Who hasn’t felt the same? As an Orthodox Christian, I completely understand: it’s an obstacle we all must overcome. Some make it through, some–as it appears with Harry–spin their wheels in the muck. I cannot tell if later in the series Harry will break free, seeing clearly, but no matter. It’s pleasantly shocking that God is sincerely addressed by Butcher rather than being written off as an “immature,” “outdated,” or “misguided” consideration.

My only chagrin is the place of “Faith Power” in Butcher’s magic system. In the endless debate between “hard” vs. “soft” magic systems, Dresden sits comfortably on the fence in-between. While hand-wavy explanations abound on magical “energies” from which a wizard can draw (or something like to that), there are also a few rules. Foremost is that each “brand” of spell (necromancy, thaumaturgy, fairy magic, etc.) pulls from a particular sphere. A spiritual “battery” of sorts. Faith magic seems to be one of these batteries. A really powerful one, but just one lithium-ion Duracell among many in the pack. This doesn’t gel with any sober understanding of God, as in my mind all power must proceed from His essence. In other words, faith magic should be the one and only battery, an entire power station that all others plug into and draw from. Anything else would lead to pluralism—and ultimately Manichaean duality, relativism, or other limits to God’s omnipotence.

But let’s not get too technical here. This is commercial fiction after all, not a theology exploration. Plus, admittedly, Harry might not himself understand the full scope of faith magic, and since we only learn from his limited POV, his explanation could be unreliable. I’d be surprised, but maybe. Or heck, maybe this is cleared up elsewhere in books 4 - 17, which I haven’t yet read.

But enough. I’m simply happy in this day and age that a mainstream author dares to paint a complimentary picture of Christianity. Thank you, Mr. Butcher.

Final Thoughts:

As I’m sure you’ve gathered, I enjoyed my foray into The Dresden Files. In the coming years, I plan to continue to book 4 and beyond, treating it as the relaxing, shoes-off, feet-up distraction it’s meant to be. This is certainly not my sweet spot for novels, and I’m definitely not its prime audience, but I can’t deny getting a big kick out of it.

So as long as you don’t expect much more than the fun rollercoaster ride Dresden offers, I don’t see how you could be disappointed.

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room! I’d love to hear your thoughts: whether you’ve read The Dresden Files or not, what do you think? What have I missed in these early books or the series as a whole? Where have I gotten something wrong? Let’s chat.

Some have told me in no uncertain terms they dislike this two-pronged framework. It’s too simplistic, they say. Too subjective. Comparing books is a block-headed idea in the first place.

Fair enough.

It works for me, and I’m pretty confident I can defend it as both useful and accurate, but I can’t and won’t force you to use it (even if you should.)

What’s most interesting to me, though, is that in the debate, the first quality, engagement—meaning how much a novel pulls you in and keeps you reading—is rarely a point of contention. Most people agree that this ephemeral, personalized aspect doesn’t really need defining, and we can simply defer to the impressions of “most educated readers.”

That second quality, however… that’s a different story.

Meaning is far more likely to cause a ruckus. Folks will shout until they’re purple-faced, banging spears against shields, insisting that some book that affected them is imbued with mind-boggling depths of meaning. They snort and shout…

“The Hunger Games is ackchyually really deep. It’s all about the dangers of oppression!”

“Harry Potter is ackchyually every bit as smart as Dostoevsky–it shows really important ideas, like love and loyalty.”

“Ackchyually, Oprah’s latest book club read is really smart: it shows that racism is bad. What’s more important than that?”

Now, I would never spit on any book someone finds personally enlightening. However, methinks they protesteth too much.

We have strong personal reactions to some novels, especially those that helped us through tough times, reminded us to be better persons, or (usually) reinforced our sacred-cow beliefs. And it’s hard to see clearly through all that fog. A novel we adore is rarely simplistic to us. Instead, we make excuses for its flaws, shoring it up, defending it tooth and nail. We become like a mom defending her average, straight-C kid, convinced he’s in fact brilliant... if only that dumb school would challenge him more.

It’s also true that—owing to the very nature of judging books—”meaning” takes a lot of discernment. What I mean is that one must not only be well-read in order to make comparative assessments, but also be skilled enough to recognize what an intelligent book is (and isn’t) while reading it. Many of us are simply not (yet) capable of doing that, so when we read a smart-sounding YA book, we assume we must have just scaled up to the golden heights of philosophy. We don’t yet have the chops to make the judgment, so we go with what we know. Perfectly understandable, though it results in skewed conclusions.

Finally, literary ‘meaning’ is, admittedly, fuzzy in and of itself. There’s no science here. There’s no absolute scale, no perfect litmus test. Each novel is different. Fiction is a creative, artistic endeavor—and authors are wildly creative. This often leaves us readers adrift in a sea of unique works, trying to figure it out as best we can, comparing and wondering.

I think this is the main reason it’s so easy to argue that “meh” books are “ackchyually” deep: many, many novels do in fact toy with important ideas, and many do so with incredible style. It’s just that few are outstanding at it.

Still edifying and worthy of praise? Yes, of course, but nowhere near fully mature, in-depth, or (in the truest sense) groundbreaking. Crime and Punishment stands mountains above YA, genre, or upmarket fiction, both in what it explores and how it explores it.

Let’s jump into this a bit more.

To reach specifics, I’ve set up a simple “scale” for depth of thought presented in literature. I’ll lay it out below and present four stories to show what I mean. For ease of illustration (and for fun) I picked four benchmark films all on a similar topic: seafaring. Specifically, age-of-sail tales of pirates, frigates, and strife on the high seas.

And to make the illustration fair, the exemplars are each highly engaging. These are all great films—it’s the depth of meaning that really differs, not the engagement. Just like novels, some films are simply “smarter” than others.

You’re welcome to disagree with my taxonomy of meaning here—I disagree with myself all the time. (No you don’t, Don, pipe down.) I’m just a reader who thinks too much, and like you I’m trying to get it right. Hopefully this helps us get closer to that end.

Level Zero: Pure Entertainment (or, Unintentional Meaning)

I’m calling the first “level” of meaning in stories “level zero” because there is zero intended meaning. These works are created solely to provide entertainment, diversion, relaxation—to transport us to someplace else, usually someplace exciting. The creator has no goal to instruct, no cohesive theme or message to convey—and that’s fine. Thrill and spectacle is the thing. In the literary world, this is typical of run-of-the-mill commercial and genre fiction.

For our film example, let’s use Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003). I hadn’t watched this film in fifteen years or more, and upon revisiting it I was pleasantly surprised by what a solidly fun picture it is.

For those of you who’ve been under a rock since 2002 and so have never seen it:

Pirate Captain Barbossa sends his crew to kidnap Elizabeth Swann, who holds the last remaining piece of stolen Aztec gold. A blacksmith named Will Turner joins a recently captured pirate named Jack Sparrow to rescue Elizabeth. It isn’t until they all meet up that they discover the terrifying truth behind the gold: it has cursed the pirates into becoming undead—and now they need to sacrifice Elizabeth to end their living nightmare.

This film is a fun romp filled with big explosions, exciting swordfights, special effects, and boatloads of humor. But did the creators have a point to make? No—absolutely not. They wanted to (and succeeded in) creating a movie as thrilling as the Disneyland ride that inspired it.

But here’s the thing: it still contains meaning—just haphazardly.

Every artifact from a broken urn to a movie tells us something about the culture that created it. Sure, we have to extrapolate what it unconsciously says, but it’s there. Looking at this first Pirates film as, say, historians or ethnographic researchers, we can learn quite a lot about turn-of-the-21st-century Hollywood. For example: the pirates are brutal and savage, but also alluring—so much so that Jack Sparrow is depicted as a beloved hero, labelled a “good man” despite his selfishness and great capacity for immorality (he even says those who tell the truth are more dangerous than liars…). The romantic lead (Will) is, in the end, called a pirate, and it’s a compliment. Perhaps this has to do with our modern American obsession with personal freedom from constraint. While established government is stodgy, constricted, and dispassionate, the pirates–however saucy–are entirely unconstrained, operating outside society (to Jack Sparrow, “a ship is freedom.”)

Furthermore, as was common in the late 90s/early 2000s, gender roles are wantonly bent. This film falls squarely in the start of Hollywood’s “girl boss” fixation: Elizabeth is plucky, feisty, and surprisingly competent in a fight—though not yet completely so (that would wait for the Mary Sues of 2010–2020). We also get a female pirate captain taking no guff.

Did the writers, directors, and actors intend any of this? Surely not. They meant to make oodles of money by manipulating our emotions with two hours of “cannon go boom.” This is the same with your favorite Jack Reacher novels, fantasy epics, cozy mysteries, or romantasy smut. Their purpose is to titillate, no more. We can find what they accidentally say, of course, by putting the muddy water under the microscope—the organisms are hiding inside there—but there’s no purposeful method behind the madness.

Level One: Pedagogical Meaning

The first true level of literary meaning is what I’ll call “pedagogical”: the direct teaching of an idea.

How this usually looks is the author chooses some concept—“greed,” “capitalism,” “trauma,” “love”—and focuses on presenting a “lesson” about it through their plot. Some may be shallow (“capitalism = bad”), and some may have more meat on their bones (“immoral behavior corrupts society”), but in either case what’s being said is overt.

These works can become very obvious–even eye-rolling. A great example (which my fellow Gen X’ers will relate to) are those old “very special episodes” of sitcoms, wherein across 30 minutes we learned how dangerous drug addiction is, or that sometimes mommies and daddies get divorced. And just so the most thickheaded audience couldn’t possibly miss it, a character often sermonizes in the final scene, usually to somber background music . (“So, Bobby,” says Mike Brady, “telling a lie may seem like the easy way out, but it never is, son.”)

In literature, pedagogy dominates children’s books and middle-grade fiction, and for good reason: teaching is their primary purpose. And yes, it’s in some YA, too, as well as some mainstream sci-fi and fantasy.

For our film example, I’m choosing Treasure Island, though it’s a touch more complicated than the sitcom example. Stevenson’s 1883 classic presents simple ideas—it is a book for young boys, after all—but he isn’t quite so superficial about it.

Here’s a quick summary of the most famous adaptation, Disney’s 1950 film:

Treasure Island follows young Jim Hawkins, who is given a treasure map by a dying pirate named Billy Bones. Jim teams up with Dr. Livesey and Squire Trelawney to embark on a voyage aboard the Hispaniola to find the treasure of the infamous Captain Flint. However, they soon realize that some crew members, led by the cunning Long John Silver, are plotting mutiny to seize the treasure for themselves.

Although we might struggle to state the theme in one sentence, it’s obvious this is not simply a fun quest (though it is that, too). It’s about the challenges of growing up and becoming a proper man. Jim navigates big questions about the real world, like how to manage greed, overcome fear, and face brutal, deceitful men (ie, pirates). He shifts from under the influence of one role model to another, learning from each father-figure—including Silver, who is anything but black and white—until he discovers the true nature of loyalty, learning that courage means doing what’s right, what’s honorable, in the face of all danger—even a pistol pointed in your face.

Look up any vanilla Cliff’s Notes or SparkNotes summary to find other simple, applicable “lessons” Treasure Island presents for our edification. While no character comes out and states the moral for us, the takeaways are direct, basic, and easily understood.

Level Two: Representational Meaning

Let’s call the next step up “representational meaning.” Here, rather than prepackaging an idea and shoving it into our palms, the novel explores it more fully—often depicting (“representing”) its multiple facets from different angles.

As I was laying this out, I almost combined this level with pedagogical meaning, since both are ultimately intended to “teach” an idea. But I see a slight distinction between a novel that gift wraps a lesson with a bow and one that embodies it more broadly yet with more subtlety. Sometimes it’s about style, sometimes about authorial intent.

Jumping straight to the example helps. For this level, I’ve chosen Mutiny on the Bounty (specifically, the 1962 Brando version):

During a 1780s voyage to transport breadfruit from Tahiti to the West Indies, the HMS Bounty is seized by mutineers led by second-in-command Fletcher Christian. The crew, discontented under the command of the harsh Captain Bligh’s cruel leadership—and reluctant to leave the hedonistic life they tasted in Tahiti—sets him adrift in a small boat. The mutineers escape to establish a settlement on Pitcairn Island…though with questionable happiness, and an even more questionable future.

Essentially, this film is a long probe into justice.

Bligh states clearly that his harsh treatment of the crew (floggings, water deprivation, brutal workload, coldhearted negligence) is not cruelty but “efficiency.” He claims fear is what makes men obedient, and he’s justified to cause fear and pain–even death–by both naval rules and the importance of their voyage. We are shown Christian and the crew pushed past the brink until they rally around the idea that “decency is worth fighting for”--ultimately leading to mutiny.

But in an ironic twist, not all is happy once they revolt: hunted down, Christian realizes he has given up everything; he wants to return home to face the consequences in court, thus regaining his honor, even if it means being hanged. Unfortunately, the crew disagrees, so burns their ship, accidentally killing Christian in the fire.

This investigation demonstrates what is just, but it does so through representing a spiderwebbed nexus of ideas: obedience, cruelty, duty, selfishness, and personal honor. Its creators have a point, but their film doesn’t simply state it: the audience experiences it, and must then think it through, deciding what it all means, often referring back to events, character choices, and even lines of dialogue (“Justice and decency are in the heart of a captain.”)

The film has a message, but it doesn’t superficially instruct us. It delves in to prove the gist.

In literature, many great works follow this same formula. In The Grapes of Wrath, Steinbeck beats down “Okies” to demonstrate the obvious need for human compassion. Ray Bradbury teaches us the various ills of a society ruled by oppression–intellectual and physical–in Fahrenheit 451. Whenever an author “has something to say” and does it well—through many story elements, in an integrated way—they’re working at this level.

Level Three: Exploratory Meaning

At last we come to the highest point—the literary crow’s nest of our ascent. These novels not only represent or promote meaning, but grapple with it.

This is the most difficult to talk about, since the greats are great in wildly different ways. Still, if we narrow down to some general signposts, they tend to indicate three things:

1. They focus on complex ideas with no easy solution. While the lower levels tend to be clear, often presenting typical or popular notions, here we leave the map of known lands to new, undiscovered countries.

2. They investigate ideas deeply, often including counterexamples and half-examples. There’s no preaching or tidy conclusion here. And its often mixed with the creative elements of fiction (symbols, allusions, poetic prose, etc.)

3. They usually leave us with an impression, but rarely an “answer”--more intuition than a slogan slapped on a bumper sticker. In fact, these novels can raise more questions than they answer. Their purpose is to explore meaning more than to state preconceived ones. In fact, if asked, even the author might not be able to lay it out clearly, and we readers can spend endless hours trying to do it for them.

To complete our sailing theme, I think Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003) is an excellent example (not to mention, one of my all-time favorite films). The plot is easy enough to summarize:

The year is 1805. Europe has fallen to Napoleon, and only the Royal Navy stands in his way. Captain “Lucky Jack” Aubrey of the HMS Surprise is ordered to sink or capture the French privateer Acheron. The Acheron strikes first, nearly crippling the Surprise in an engagement during which Aubrey realizes his enemy’s ship is superior to his own—yet he refuses to back down. As time passes, dangers increase and close calls abound. Aubrey’s close friend and confidant, Stephen Maturin (the ship’s surgeon), questions Aubrey’s near-mania to pursue the larger ship at the expense of everything else. Aubrey, however, is determined to catch his enemy and defeat it—somehow. But how far is he willing to go?

The tension and excitement of this film’s script, acting, and cinematography are all top-notch—rivaling all other films on this list. Yet there’s something more (and I don’t mean just the intense realism the film is famous for.) No, it’s the meaning the film derives from both strong characterization and a brilliant plot. As with all works at this high level, it’s difficult to boil down, but essentially we’re exploring duty—specifically the tension between responsibility for others (their wellbeing, their humanity) versus duty to one’s captain, mission, or country. But unlike Mutiny on the Bounty, the moral terrain is nuanced here, with no pat answers. There is no villainous Bligh, no evil pirates, only real debate among real people, changes of heart, and sacrifices both small and large that constantly force the question: what is duty, really, when real people must pay its costs?

I’d love to go into minute detail about what this film says and how it says it, but that’s not my purpose here. Suffice to say, Aubrey initially believes that all must be subservient to the will of their country—especially when at war. Duty reigns supreme. “Men must be governed,” he says. “Often not wisely, I will grant you, but they must be governed nonetheless.” The captain is not unduly cruel, but he pushes hard, and this has dangerous and surprising consequences, including the suffering and death of crew members. Aubrey bristles at Maturin’s view that compassion should trump mission, that all tyrants justify their deeds by saying it’s necessary.

Yet Aubrey later tempers his beliefs when Maturin himself is injured; he does not abandon his zeal, he simply learns that duty is hollow without humanity. He sidesteps his duty to save Maturin’s life. And tellingly, the result from that one generous act ultimately allows him the success he could not heretofore achieve through ambition or force of will alone. By choosing the lesser of two evils (errr… weevils)—saving his friend’s life over unrelenting pride—he gains both: he preserves the human core of his command, and he also captures his enemy.

There’s so, so much more to say about not only what this movie explores, but also the highly skilled way it does so, but I’m sure you can see the parallels with literature of great meaning: exploration of the human condition rather than instruction, questions rather than moral certainty. Dostoevsky is famous for this. Shakespeare, too. And a slew of others—nearly all the classics.

Conclusion: The Point of the Exercise

Looking back on this four-tier structure, I’d hate someone to accuse me of trying to create a literature police state where you’re issued a badge and asked to arrest anyone who enjoys Pirates of the Caribbean. I like fun. I like popcorn. I like a good romp. Level Zero is not “bad.” It’s just Level Zero.

And Level Zero is not Level Three.

The basic argument here is simple: not all meaning is equal. Some stories are content to entertain. Some teach straightforward lessons. Some represent complex moral terrain. And the rarest, greatest works explore difficult ideas with honesty, perspective, and intelligence.

So yes—some books are dumber than others. Some are smarter. The adult question isn’t whether you’re allowed to enjoy the dumb ones. It’s whether you can recognize what you’re holding in your hands—and whether you’re willing, at least sometimes, to read the smart ones.

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room, where we take a shot at figuring out everything and anything about sci-fi, fantasy, and classic literature! Let me know what you think—how can I improve this structure? What have I missed?

As my last post of the year, this will be a quick update for you wonderful subscribers–quite different than the lumpy mashed potatoes I typically dish out. So only read on if you’re interested in…

1. The two best books I read in 2025

2. Getting your hand shaken (shook?) for helping The Reading Room substack go from obscurity to the stars

3. Learning 10% more about the antics Little Old Yours Truly has been up to here in the unruly wilds of SW Michigan

In all sincerity, though, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I hope “the-year-that-was” proved a good one for each and every one of you. Mine did. Not perfect, but I’d say pretty doggone good, all things considered.

I’ll be back in early January with more rants and ramblings about books, reading, and other topics essential to our lives, but until then I wish you both peace and joy.

2025 Reading

2025 stands as one of the best reading years in recent memory—and certainly among the top two or three of the 21st century.

For a molasses-slow reader like me, that’s no small thing. I try to read fairly wide and as thoughtfully as I can muster, but it takes me forever, so color me shocked when I happened to stumble on not just one but two (!!) novels so good they shot straight into my list of all-time favorites.

Wow! Pinch me: two truly great novels in one year? It’s like winning the lottery!

The first was Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun. It had been recommended to me for decades, but I could never seem to crack the thing, it was so dense and long. I bought it sometime in the 2010s, then let it gather dust on my shelf, its black binding judging me for ten years. This year, I finally committed the brainpower to it—and holy cats. Eight months later, I’m still reeling. It’s one of those books that doesn’t stop working on you once you’ve finished it. A great book, possibly on its way to becoming a classic. (Read my recommendation here, and further thoughts on it here.)

The second was Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi. Now, I’d read Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell around 2012 or so and enjoyed it immensely, but this was something else entirely. Piranesi’s concept, characterization, prose, theme, execution—absolutely astonishing. Piranesi is quiet, strange, luminous, and incredibly uplifting. This little book not only entertained me but contained so much meaning–more than its relatively-short page count should contain. (My thoughts on it, especially its use of “enchantment” are here.)

For the bizarrely curious, I’ve listed all my 2025 reads at the end of this post. I’m not sure why you’d care, but hey, for all you nosey busybodies out there, enjoy!

I didn’t include the dozen or so books I DNF’d. As a slow reader with a full life, I’ve learned to be ruthless about what earns my time. Getting halfway through a book and realizing it isn’t for me for one reason or another (looking at you, The Midnight Library) is pretty normal in my world.

2025 Substack Growth

2025 was also the year I jumped into Substack—obviously, as you’re reading this now. I can say without hesitation that it’s been one of the best decisions I’ve made in a long, long, LONG time.

I gave this a shot hoping to find a few kindred spirits to talk about books (fantasy, sci-fi, and classics) as well as writing, faith, and culture. What I found instead was an entire population of lively, thoughtful thinkers who’ve helped me sharpen my thinking and enjoy the process far more than I expected. Nowadays I read Substack articles in all my downtime, and have found so many sharp, witty, and kind colleagues here.

My Substack publication, The Reading Room (oof, what vanilla boobie came up with that name?) launched on March 26 with my first post on the search for a “great American fantasy novel.” I proudly shared it with both my subscribers, one of which was my mom. (Thanks, Mom!) It went on to receive a whopping 225 views, 8 likes, and 17 comments—and I felt like I’d won a Pulitzer.

So I kept posting every other week, mostly because I was having fun writing about whatever peas were rattling around in my tin-can brain. To my surprise, two articles really took on a life of their own: “The Christian World of Redwall” (co-written with ) and “Why Tolkien is Great, and Sanderson Isn’t.” My latest, “Stop Reading Like a Child,” seems to likewise be generating some interest. Most importantly, all have sparked genuine conversation—plus a fair degree of (kind) pushback–and that’s exactly what I’d hoped for.

As of December 26th, The Reading Room sits at an amazing 531 subscribers and over 40,000 views. I still have no idea how that happened—wasn’t I just chatting about books and stuff? I’m deeply thankful and having a great time!

Also, one small but meaningful addition late in the year was personally recording voice-overs for each article. I’ve come to love this. (Although I used to be a DJ, so it’s tough not to break into announcing a song artist and title.) I plan to keep recording in 2026, and possibly expand it.

2025 Writing Life

One thing I haven’t yet posted much of anything about is my own fiction. I’ve mentioned that I’ve written poetry and fiction on the side for 30 years, but I haven’t yet formally announced that I’m editing a full novel. It’s a character-based “flintlock fantasy” called The Last Tale of Vastland. I describe it as Redwall–if Redwall were co-written by Twain and Dostoevsky. (Yeah, it really is that weirdly awesome.)

I’m now twelve months into editing Vastland. I get up before work and write for an hour a day, six days a week—aiming for one edited page per session. Slow. Steady. Utterly unsexy, but effective.

This novel was first drafted around 2017, then languished for seven years, so getting this far along in hammering it into something that doesn’t make my stomach churn feels incredible. And special thanks to —whom I met right here in Substack Land—for being a generous, perceptive alpha reader and an endless source of encouragement.

I’m currently working through the final hundred pages, which will likely take another six months. After that, I’ll be editor-hunting, hopefully in summer 2026.

2025 Personal Life

The good news:

In late 2024, my doctor delivered a pretty ominous warning: borderline high blood pressure and cholesterol. No, that’s not the good news. I took it hard. I’d thought I was doing fine, pretty healthy, aside from getting older and fatter… But hearing that, I decided this wasn’t going to be my story.

So on October 1, 2024, at 6:30 a.m., I joined the Fit Father Project. I worked out regularly, learned how to eat right, and tracked my progress. Sometimes it was hard, and I stumbled a lot—but in the end it worked. Today, one year later, I’m down 25 pounds, every red flag is gone, and my doctor told me she’s proud of me. (Aw!) Best of all, I feel better than I have in twenty years.

Other than that, all are well. The kids, the dogs, my friends and my work. Except…

The bad news:

The hardest moment of the year came last month when my lovely wife of 35 years, Jennifer, was bitten by a dog, tearing her lip and cheek. It was bad. Thank God for the University of Michigan Hospital–those people are amazing. A few weeks past surgery now, she’s healing beautifully. Tough cookie that she is, there’s no stopping her! There’s still a road ahead, but the outlook is bright.

(Still, prayers are always appreciated.)

Looking Ahead to 2026

At the risk of sounding too terribly sappy, I’ll say this plainly: if you’re here—reading, commenting, even disagreeing—you’re part of what made this year so good. Thank you.

In 2026, I plan to keep reading deeply, writing honestly, and talking about books and ideas that actually matter—without chasing trends or pretending certainty where I don’t have it. I want this space to remain one for grown-up reading, patient thought and understanding, and real conversation about things we all care about.

Thanks for being here, friends. Thanks for reading. And here’s to whatever good, strange, challenging things 2026 has in store for us. Bring it on!

Don’s 2025 Reading List (for the Curious)

Print, Digital, and Audiobooks Completed in 2025

• Longfellow, The Song of Hiawatha

• Reynard the Fox (my post here)

• Journal of Nicholas Cresswell, 1774–1777

• Connolly, The Book of Lost Things

• Clarke, Piranesi (my post here)

• Abercrombie, The Blade Itself (my posts here and here)

• Butcher, Storm Front

• Butcher, Full Moon

• Butcher, Grave Peril

• Leonard, Pilgrims (my post here)

• Jacques, Redwall (my posts here and here)

• Wolfe, Book of the New Sun (my posts here and here)

• Card, Seventh Son

• Drake, Old Nathan (post here)

• Scalzi, Old Man’s War

• Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea (my post here)

• Raspe, The Surprising Adventures of Baron Munchausen (my post here)

• Peterson, Mouse Guard (graphic novel)

• Asimov, Foundation (my post here)

• Larkin, The Reshaping of Everyday Life, 1790–1840

• Heidler & Heidler, Daily Life in the Early American Republic, 1790–1820

Current Books:

• Simmons, Hyperion (Omnibus)

• Chondropoulos, Saint Nektarios: Saint of the Century

My taste buds aren’t sophisticated enough to detect “notes of blueberry and walnut,” but I love good java. Fresh-ground beans, taken black, with just a touch of half-and-half to bring out the flavor. Heavenly. I’ve cycled through pour-overs and French presses; now I’m settled comfortably with my (way-overpriced-but-much-adored) Jura espresso machine. Two cups a day brighten even the grayest mornings.

But if you’d asked me in my twenties, I would’ve called coffee the most disgusting drink ever to defile a mug. Back then, I was on team Dr Pepper (I called it “drinking my medicine”) and compared to my beloved pop, coffee tasted like pig swill. But then Starbucks mania swept in and I eased my way up through sugary mochas and flavored lattes—training-wheel coffee—until eventually my palate matured enough to appreciate the smoky bitterness, the complexity, the savor of the real thing.

I’m sure, smart as you are, you’ve deciphered my analogy: reading fiction requires a similar maturation as my coffee enlightenment.

This is a rather snobbish argument to make in modern America, I know. We’ve become obsessed with “I’m ok, you’re ok” thinking. Right out of the womb you’re exactly who you’re “meant to be,” we’re all told. You’re perfect just the way you are. Naturally, whenever we like or dislike something, whether it’s pineapple on pizza or a seething hatred of math, we jump to saying, “Well, that’s just the way I am.” And there is some logic behind that, I’ll admit. Both genetics and personal experiences can grant us a proclivity for one thing or another. I think it’s often overused, but I’m generally fine with that. Taste will be taste.

But there’s an insidious aspect to this self-affirming too, which my reading argument hinges on.

Namely, it implies that a person can’t or (worse) shouldn’t improve themselves. If you’re perfect, why try bettering yourself? When cornered, it’s doubtful anyone would say this outright, but the notion’s there in both belief and practice. Repeating Popeye’s “I am what I am and that’s all that I am” is a bold flag planted in the ground, but for many that ground is still their childhood sandbox. They haven’t matured or progressed. Thus we have an epidemic in our society of “man-babies” and middle school “mean girls” who are strangely proud at being little more than older versions of their adolescent selves.

How Dare You?!?

I think of this often when talking about books or when I see Booktubers gush over this or that new series. Often they try to convince me that some commercial author–especially YA–is not only a fun read (which I could accept), but full of meaning and significance.

Most recently this happened in my interactions surrounding Brandon Sanderson’s epic fiction, but in the past it’s been Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, Hunger Games, or even (hot take alert!) Robert E. Howard. Again, all these are fine—good, even. Highly entertaining. Worthy of enjoyment. But to put them on level with great, impactful, mature literature? Yes, these authors may be enjoyable, but depth is a different pursuit. That’s a failure of discernment by developmentally-arrested readers.

We can see it manifest itself in the opposite, too, with these readers calling masters such as Tolkien “slow” and “boring.” (Tolkien—boring!?) What’s happening here, I think, is that these sugar-addicts can’t detect the difference, as they only ever drink soda.

Oh, I can hear the knives sharpening now. 100% guaranteed, someone in the comment section to this post will rage-write the likes of:

“How dare you criticize me for what I like to read?”

“Who are you to tell me ____ isn’t mature reading–it’s actually really deep!”

Calm down, friends. I’m not doing either. Not really.

I’m a proud, card-carrying literary curmudgeon, but I’m no fascist. You can read whatever you like and you can find personal significance in those works to boot. Go ahead, have at it. What I’m suggesting is that if that’s all you read, you’re shortchanging yourself. You can be so much more! You’ve barred the door to your nursery with toys and refuse to leave your crib.

Childhood Reading as On-Ramp

You see, when we’re young the syrupy sweetness of simple, undemanding stories is a necessity, but they’re meant to be an on-ramp, not a destination. Children’s books should naturally lead to YA, YA to fun genre adventures—but ideally, we should eventually make our way to deeper, more demanding works. Why? Because these enlarge us, help us become both fully-developed adults as well as full-fledged members of our culture.

But what if you only enjoy commercial fare? Romantasy? Cozy mysteries? What if you were pummeled with so-called “great literature” back in high school and it sucked. It was boring. Confusing. More like a chore than entertainment. Fair point–especially about high school teachers (I was one, and we do have an annoying capacity to ruin books for kids.)

In response I’ll return to my coffee analogy: when one only drinks pop, even one sip of coffee or red wine makes you sputter and spit. Until your taste buds “level up” from the insta-gratification, “Coke and a smile” stage, you’ll stay stuck in “kid mode.” You have to work your way up and out of it.

I’d actually argue this is a common facet of maturing:

• Exercise hurts until it becomes a habit and you feel better, stronger, healthier.

• Casual flings never reach the depth and joys of lifelong, mutual fulfillment through marriage.

• Neither relaxing meditation nor emergency-only prayer become sustaining, lifegiving faith that not only helps you through rough patches in life, but offers eternal solace.

In other words, all growing up takes effort. Commitment. Time. Discipline. Work. We must decide to push ourselves, even when the payoff isn’t instant. Even when the easy path seems obviously “better” to our insulated little libido-centric brains.

But we’re meant for something more, friends. We are the inheritors of a Western science and literature so beautiful it’s beyond comprehension–but you have to choose it, you must want to “grow into your clothes,” so to speak.

My favorite expression of this comes from Hamlet (4.4):

What is a man,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more…

We have the capacity for so much more than base pleasures (“to sleep and feed”). We are meant to grow up. This includes in our intellectual lives, too–for which reading, while not the only way, serves a prime conduit. Adults who consume only simple, chocolate-like novels written for children or who only read in a childish way resign themselves to thinking small, to superficial feelings, to being “a beast, no more,” rather than fully-developed men and women. This isn‘t snobbery, it’s concern for my neighbors’ wellbeing, not to mention the continuation of our culture.

Teaching Teenagers to Taste

So how to do it?

Back when I taught AP Literature in the early 2000s, tackling this was the first step to helping seniors enter the world of literature. Now, these were the best, most bookish readers in the school; they devoured novels, but their reading habits were overwhelmingly immature.

My favorite way to initiate students was to assign two vastly-different stories, both about hunting.

The first was Richard Connell’s “The Most Dangerous Game,” which is as soda-pop-simple as adult fiction gets. A shipwrecked man is saved by an urbane, polite gentleman who lives on a remote island–unfortunately it turns out he sociopathically hunts people for sport. Let the chase begin. It’s exciting, dramatic, and even flirts on the outside edge of big questions about morality.

Second was Tobias Wolff’s “Hunters in the Snow.” In this story, three friends go hunting. One, Kenny, is a jerk—he mocks Tub for being fat, Frank for having an affair with a minor. Kenny keeps pushing until Tub shoots him—maybe by accident, maybe not. Tub and Frank rush Kenny toward a hospital, but stop at a diner to warm up. Over pancakes, they reassure each other that overeating and affairs with babysitters are fine…all while Kenny lies freezing to death in the bed of the truck. The end.

After reading both stories, my seventeen-year-olds unanimously preferred Connell’s. It had momentum, excitement, a hero, even a cliffhanger ending. Wolff’s hunters? Those idiots just made them angry. Furious, even. They hated all three characters, hated the ending, and labelled it “pointless.”

And I sat back and smiled. Welcome to your first sip of fine black coffee, kids.

That exercise taught them what every adult reader should eventually learn: great fiction is often unsettling. It doesn’t need to be hard to read, but it’s rarely simple to grasp, plus it requires a distinct skillset to truly understand and enjoy. “Hunters in the Snow” indicts indulgence and selfishness, and does so by showing rather than telling. In other words, it’s written for nuanced readers.

I told my students the same thing I’m arguing here: although leaving behind our childish ways takes time and effort, once earned, the reward of literature is so much greater—both intellectually and emotionally—than the saccharine titillation that YA or genre fiction can possibly achieve.

Step One: Exposure

So how do we reach this mystical land of reading pleasure?

I recommend first aiming for exposure. Maybe set a simple habit of reading one literary book for every two or three of your typical comfort reads. If you’re a masochist, you can of course dive headfirst into nothing but classics for two or three years, but that’s unnecessary for normies like you or me. Exposure through inclusion is enough—what I call the “golden mean” of reading.

As for what to read, you’re aiming for quality. I wrote a guideline for what makes a “great” book that may help, but generally I’d start with the classics—especially those 100 or more years old. Ignore whatever publishers now label “literary fiction,” and definitely ignore “upmarket.” While some of these may be fine, most are mediocre at best, and a lot are just crap. No, I say stick like superglue to the “moldy oldies.” They’re battle-tested and time-worn. Within that parameter, choose whatever appeals to you. Like romance? Try Austen or Brontë. Fantasy? Tolkien or Homer. Politics? Dickens or Shakespeare. Humor? Twain or Swift. You get the idea.

This exposure to the greats will widen your field of vision, allowing your “reading muscles” to develop. You’ll start distinguishing amusement from nourishment. I’m speaking from experience here, as in my late twenties, after a long immersion in classics, I returned to the sci-fi and fantasy I once considered profound only to discover Asimov and Terry Brooks much diminished. They were still okay—but pretty cornball and (often) poorly-written. I’m still fond of them and always will be, but I’d outgrown them. I’d found a more refreshing well to draw from.

Now, don’t misread me as an overeducated elitist claiming the only worthwhile fiction comes from “highbrow” PhDs who need a thesaurus and five semicolons to describe a head of lettuce. Not at all. Great art shows up everywhere. Fairy tales, for example, can be quite profound. “Sleeping Beauty” is simple enough for a four-year-old but is laced with meaning. Quality children’s literature deserves adult attention—but not exclusively, and not before we’ve developed the tools to go deeper. As Lewis said, as we age we’ll grow old enough to read fairy tales again—but I think “old” here means not “advanced in age,” but wiser.

Step Two: Skill

Reading difficult fiction is more than decoding syllables or googling words. It’s entering a conversation. Early on, these books cause most of us to feel like we’re eavesdropping on a discussion of nuclear physics. We finish Gatsby and think, “What the heck was that even about?” But with time, our familiarity increases and patterns of meaning emerge.

How to read mature fiction is a huge topic–more than I have time for here. Entire books have been written about it (Adler’s How to Read a Book is a great one.) For now, though, here are a couple habits I’ll humbly submit that may help when starting out:

1. Clarify the literal story.

This is the easiest step: first be sure you understand the characters and actions.

You’d be shocked how many readers can’t summarize what they’ve read because they’re so used to being spoon-fed everything. This is especially true if you go one step beyond just stating what happened to why it happened. Take a relatively simple little read, like Steinbeck’s deceptively-simple Of Mice and Men. Most readers would be able to list the plot events in order, but when we ask why George, Slim, Curley’s wife, and the others did what they did, that’s another matter, because for mature fiction this often takes reading between the lines, inferring motivations or figuring out the subtext of what they aren’t saying as opposed to what they do say.

Someone accustomed to this depth of thinking will naturally do it, but when getting going it’s helpful for us to force the process to the surface. I used to recommend reading the book twice–the first time for plot, the second for analysis. But let’s be honest, most of us rarely if ever do this. So nowadays I’d suggest the most simple method imaginable: after each chapter, jot down the who, what, and why. That’s it. It’ll take you like 10 minutes at most. If you want to go to the next level, you can also predict what will happen as the story progresses, too. But that’s up to you. Just be sure you’re not mindlessly reading, skimming pages going, “yeah yeah yeah, yadda yadda yadda.” That’s what a child would do, not the intelligent reader you are becoming.

2. Notice what “bubbles up.”

This is a bit tougher, but gets easier with experience. Essentially, it’s asking the author “why.”

Why did you, Dear Author, name your character “Kenny?” Why did you have them eat pancakes with syrup, not eggs and bacon? Why make the story about hunting instead of, say, attending a Superbowl party?

As an example, when I first read Moby-Dick, Melville’s repeated use of “monomaniacal” caught my eye, so I wondered if it had greater significance. Turns out it did. In Gatsby, the repeated reference to eyes raises that same hmmm.

Early on, it’s hard to sense significance. If you haven’t yet thought about the meaning of rain or snakes, they seem coincidental, like window-dressing. But once you learn more, you notice rain signaling cleansing or sorrow; snakes hinting at Edenic corruption. This is where exposure really starts to pay off: you’ve seen that style or image before, it must mean something here, too. (Also, check out Foster’s How to Read Literature Like a Professor, which does a great job jump-starting you.)

A quick word of warning: a common beginner trap is assuming everything is symbolic. My students did this most with poetry—conjuring elaborate systems of meaning for every word or image with no textual evidence. This is normal when learning, however it’s easy for the well-educated to do it too. Just last week I read a piece claiming Kipling’s animal story “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi” is secretly about British imperialism’s dominance of India. Please. Sometimes a mongoose is just a mongoose.

And that’s where we’ll stop for now. Entire books have been written on developing close-reading skills, and I’m not trying to turn this into a grad-school seminar. I’m simply saying this:

To grow a mature mind, you must read mature books. Not exclusively. Not joylessly. But deliberately.

Because the palate matures more and more with every (initially-bitter) exhilarating sip.

Thanks for visiting the Reading Room today! This is and always will be a free publication. One of my great pleasures is hearing what you have to say, so we can extend the conversation. Go ahead and comment, and let’s figure it all out together.

I was always a voracious reader. Throughout high school and early college I devoured science fiction and fantasy novels by the dozen. At university I discovered a love of philosophy and studying world religions, so my reading shifted to Plato and Kant, to the Bible and the Tao Te Ching. After my BA, though, while miserably working at Enterprise Rent-a-Car my passion for reading re-ignited. I realized literature was in my DNA. Not merely studying it, but writing it.

So the next fall, at age twenty-two, I returned to college to pursue an English degree with an emphasis in creative writing. My goal was crystal clear: I was going to become a poet.

With a couple dozen poems tucked under my arm, dot-matrix printer ink still fresh, I marched across campus to the class I was both most excited and most nervous about: a graduate-level poetry writing course. Taught by the university’s poet-in-residence, Liz Fletcher1, I somehow got myself accepted to join the class, despite no credentials other than being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Step one to becoming a poet: check. Now to wow everyone with my amazing verse.

I had no idea this class would become a watershed moment in my life.

From day one, it did not go well.

Liz Fletcher didn’t teach; she judged. Each week, students read one poem aloud to the class. Fletcher would then rank the group from best to worst, pontificating aloud on the merits—and the hairy warts—of each poem, one after the other. The top selections were praised thoughtfully. The middle received the scalpel of her sharp opinions. The bottom poems were savagely eviscerated. It was like watching a carcass being torn apart by a hyena.

Mine were always at the bottom.

I no longer have any of those poems (probably that’s for the best), but I vividly recall an imagistic piece in iambic pentameter I was so proud of. It described a spring morning in the forest: dew drops, sunlight on leaves, a personified garter snake—the usual suspects. I was trying to emulate William Carlos Williams, but apparently my lines weren’t fit to be run over by a red wheelbarrow.

Fletcher hated everything about it.

It was immature. Ham-fisted. Downright dumb. Eventually she gave up ripping it apart and simply read line after line aloud, sneering after each, “Give me a break.”

After a few weeks of this same brutal honesty–very brutal–I was thoroughly beaten down. I dropped the class, limping home to lick my wounds and think over what had happened.

Lesson One: What Doesn’t Kill You…

I think most people can look back on their lives and point out a handful of moments—happy or painful, quiet or ear shattering—that changed everything for them. Though only three short classes occurring over thirty years ago, this was one of mine.

And as unpleasant as it was at the time, it ended up being for the best.

First, my career path bent (mercifully) away from my youthful delusions of grandeur. Yes, I still kept writing poetry now and again. I even won a local contest, plus placed a poem in a small chapbook. But my fantasy of being a poet was over. Instead, I went into teaching, literally embodying the old stereotype, “Those who can do, those who can’t teach.”

At first I taught out of necessity, to make a living. It soon grew into something more. I discovered I loved not just teaching, but teenagers—sharing literature, language, and writing with students who were still forming their minds. Making them laugh. Hearing them admit with surprise they actually liked Of Mice and Men or Shakespeare. Teaching was, unexpectedly, my element.

Although my career path worked out well, in hindsight I took Fletcher’s acrid verdict far too personally. I wasn’t incapable; I was inexperienced. Anyone who writes knows the truth of this: you must write—and read—an enormous amount before you can even produce something merely mediocre. Pooping out hundreds of drafts is frustrating, but you have to do it. When I look back now on my early writings, it’s with what I call a “fond cringe.” It’s ugly, but it made me the (only-half-bad) writer I am today.

This reminds me of a story I once heard: a young writer hands his best verse to a poet, something he thinks is brilliant and innovative; the poet reads it, hands it back, and says, “No, kid. Write the rhymey-dimey stuff first.” That was the advice I needed to hear back then, too. I just missed it in Fletcher’s sarcastic, demeaning delivery. While I wish she’d been kinder, she wasn’t entirely wrong. My work was juvenile. I needed time—decades, in my case—to mature, to practice, to fail productively.

Also in hindsight, a fringe benefit I can directly tie to that class is the ability to take harsh criticism. That which doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. When it comes to my writing, I’ve developed rhino-thick skin.

I’ve now shifted entirely to fiction writing, for which I’ve joined dozens of critique groups over the years. Some have been generous, some brutal (especially the online ones). My stories have been attacked so hard that twenty-two-year-old me would have shattered like glass—just as I did under Fletcher. But nothing fazes me now. In fact, I’ve come to value straight talk far more than polite evasion. I crave it. Publishing is not a gentle world; improvement requires honesty. It’s my job as an author to decide which criticism is valid, of course, but I can’t do that if no one is willing to say it out loud.

That said, anyone who asks me to critique their writing efforts nowadays gets served a dish of straight talk in just the way I wish I would have received it way back then: with a heaping side-helping of love. I’m always clear yet kind. Although I am indebted to Fletcher for my growth, living through your own personal Whiplash isn’t fun.

Lesson Two: The Past Shines Through

There’s a larger story to that tough experience that I couldn’t see at the time, too, and it’s shaped how I understand literature—and authority—ever since. In 1992, all I knew was that Liz Fletcher was a fairly well-known poet. I’d read a few of her pieces; they did nothing for me, but that seemed irrelevant. She was famous. Only later did I understand the full context.

Fletcher had come to prominence in the 1960s, riding the rising wave of free-verse, hippie poetry—think Ginsberg, Kerouac, and their ilk. Untethered, confessional, rebellious: the literary arm of the counterculture.

And this movement won.

If you’d browsed contemporary poetry journals in the early 1990s—as I did one day in the university library—you would find free verse everywhere. Sonnets? Blank verse? A lonely couplet? I found none. Not one single one.2 The Beat Generation, now older, dominated.

Worse, dissent was not tolerated. As the 60s passed, Fletcher and her contemporaries enthroned themselves in academia and consolidated power. They wielded their influence and policed the gates of taste with barbed wire and bazookas. Fletcher published a polemic in the 80s insisting free verse and only free verse was a truly democratic, American form. Anything structured—anything traditional—was artificial at best, backward conservatism at worst. That a new generation (such as the wonderfully brave Dana Gioia) dared questioned this, promoting a New Formalism, brought scathing insults, both personal and professional. Using the language of leftist politics, their work was labelled drivel and they themselves fascists.

The rebels had become the elites. The avant-garde the professors. The revolutionaries an iron-fisted establishment.

By the time I entered her classroom, Fletcher seemed not to be nurturing poets; she was enforcing orthodoxy. Using positional authority, she crushed deviation. Had Robert Frost sat in that class, he would no doubt have been shot with verbal arrows in the name of “the Work.” My little iambic pentameter piece about spring? Clumsy and juvenile though it most certainly was, it also violated the new regime’s accepted parameters. Fletcher probably saw it–and me–as “problematic.”

And right she was. I am. And ironically, she unwittingly helped make me that way.

One way I coped with the experience was to throw myself into reading, into studying poems and novels. Surprising even myself, I was attracted less by Whitman’s “barbaric yawp” and increasingly toward form, tradition, and the long inheritance of literature. Homer. Longfellow. Eliot. Tennyson. In fiction, too, the dreaded “dead white European men” became my heroes, and they still are today.

The past, I realized, is not a prison but a treasury. To sneer at it is not enlightened; it’s provincial. Tribal. Political, even. Yes, modernity has its virtues, and I’d argue many modern authors can easily stand alongside the greats. But to stifle creativity, to gatekeep what is or isn’t acceptable, to either literarily or philosophically mock what came before us (not to mention those who love it) is neither stunning nor brave. It’s definitely not free or democratic. It’s myopic.

Not only do readers and writers suffer, but all the arts—our entire culture—suffers.

Lesson Three: Take Up Your Cross

Finally—and this is by far the most important lesson—I learned to take up my cross. I didn’t convert to Orthodox Christianity until years after that class, but the framework my faith gives me now, looking back on that experience, is invaluable.

Suffering is not “good”—far from it. But it can be useful. As my beloved Dostoevsky said, “There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings.” All our suffering teaches us, if we allow it to, preparing our way for a glorious future.

Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t want to relive that poetry writing workshop (heck, I wouldn’t want to be 22 again!), but I plainly see now that I brought much of the pain on myself, naively rushing into that class before I was ready and thinking I could just become some published poet. On the other hand, I see that while Fletcher wasn’t wrong, she was more wrong than right, and certainly more cruel than caring. But I am astonished at how indebted I am to her nevertheless. Harrowing as it was, I’m so very grateful for the experience for all its fruit. It hardened me where I needed hardening, humbled me where I needed humility, and pushed me down a longer, deeper, better road. I wouldn’t trade those bruises for the world.

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room! This publication is and always will be entirely free. I’d just always appreciate your thoughts, ideas, and feedback.

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Dear Mr. Sanderson,

Hello there, Brandon. (May I call you Brandon?) How are you?

We’ve not met–and probably never will, as my schedule is pretty doggone busy with reading, writing, family, feeding dogs, etc. But I wanted to shoot you a quick letter with what I hope is helpful advice.

You’re now entering, I think, the next phase of your career as an author: no longer building (congrats, you’ve made it), but maintaining it—which I imagine is equally tough, though different.

I realize you really have no reason to listen to what anyone else has to say. Especially me personally, as to be honest, I’m not a fan. I’m no hater, either, just a reader with different tastes. I gravitate toward fiction shaped more by clever and beautiful language, by exploration of ideas, by Dostoevsky, Gene Wolfe, Tolkien, and Twain. Neither expansive magic systems nor high-output, plot-driven storytelling attract me.

Now, I have read Mistborn (one of my wife’s and daughters’ favorites, by the way), as well as part of The Way of Kings—enough to understand why so many readers love your work. It’s just not for me.

However, after a recent Substack post of mine used your novels and Tolkien’s to compare “good” to “great” fiction, I received 174 great comments—many of which centered on you. So while you might not listen to me, necessarily, you definitely should pay attention to these intelligent commenters. This sincere, thoughtful, unfiltered feedback from everyday readers–many who admire your work greatly–generously give perspectives you could find helpful.

You have said you maintain a network of feedback partners, including a writing group, beta readers, and the editors on your staff. Great. But I humbly wonder whether the fine folks of Substack might frame things differently for you? You see, while most recognize your influence, many are disappointed. And all—including me—genuinely want you to keep growing.

This letter, then, is a synthesis of those 174 voices. I can’t include everything these fine folks said, but here’s a sampling, offered in the spirit of helpfulness.

Note: I quote a lot from the 174 commenters below, but do not cite them. This is intentional. While their responses are publicly out there in plain view for all who may want to dig through and discover who said what, I want them to retain the rights to their own attributions—including the ability to change, add, or retract.

I. What Readers Love

Let’s start with the good, Brandon, because there’s a lot of it.

A dominant theme I noted from the comments is awe at your worldbuilding, your fertile mind. Readers repeatedly called you a “genius” at construction, both of the Cosmere and your magic systems. One put it simply:

“Ultimately, Sanderson’s books are not really about Vin, Kaladin, Sarene, and their lives—they’re about Allomancy, Surgebinding, AonDor, and the overall concept of Investiture.”

Admittedly, I only recognize one of those words, but the idea is loud and clear: you are successfully building a universe from scratch, and your readers respect that. They admire your ambition. They love the big ideas. Another added:

“There is possibly no bigger fantasy author than Sanderson currently… If he manages to complete the Cosmere, he’ll very likely be considered one of the greatest fantasy authors of all time.”

Some praised your plotting, too—your ability to line up dominoes across thousands upon thousands (upon even more thousands) of pages and then knock them down, which they felt, when it works, really works:

“Like a good architect, his construction is sound, if not entirely sublime.”

Still other commenters—some of whom have admittedly cooled on your recent work—express gratitude for how many young writers you’ve inspired. One of the benefits of your long career with such consistently popular novels is that readers have grown up with you. They value you in their personal mythologies–and what an honor that must be.

And, of course, your generosity was mentioned more than once:

“I appreciate Sanderson for providing his university classes for free on YouTube… he seems like a great guy.”

Even I’ve noted this. With astonishing transparency you share freely about the writing process, publishing, and your own experiences. Not for profit. Not for popularity. But simply to be helpful. And it’s all done with a down-home friendliness that draws people to you, even sparking them to follow your lead:

“Sanderson inspires countless new writers to try their hand at fantasy, which makes the genre grow and evolve”

II. What Readers Struggle With

Okay, so let’s get to the concerns.

The following critiques came up again and again. I’m not presenting fringe gripes here—I’m giving you what commenters clustered around most.

1. Unpolished Prose

Multiple readers critiqued your ham-fisted prose:

“His greatest flaw as a writer, IMHO, is the wooden, clunky prose.”

“There was no care for language… which is what it takes for me to be transported.”

“Juvenile is exactly right. It’s the exact word I have used to describe Sanderson’s writing.” [Note: to be fair, I used “juvenile” in the original article, too.]

Another said:

“He’s a genius at worldbuilding… but I wish he put that same effort into the prose.”

A great author needs a great editor, Brandon, but clearly your novels are showing what a commenter called:

“A lack of editorial rigor.”

Plus, I’m seeing concerns that your writing seems to be getting simpler over time, not richer, which might speak to your drive to publish more, faster (more on that in a moment.)

I know you liken your prose to a “clear glass window” (as opposed to more ornate, “stained glass” prose), but it appears that paradoxically it’s not working. Your prose is simple, but it’s also so plain, so wooden that it’s more like a cracked glass windowpane–it draws attention to itself by its being so clunky.

2. Functional Characterization at Best

One commenter suggested, quite positively:

“Ultimately… Sanderson is exploring ideas more than developing deep narrative.”

While your “ideas” receive your focus, I’m gleaning that your characterization may be touch and go.

“…his writing is basic and utilitarian. Not my thing, especially since, for me, his characters and stories didn’t pick up the slack.”

While only a few mention your stories like above commenter, a few did point to your characters. Yes, many enjoy your protagonists–in fact, this was one of the strengths I heard frequently before I myself tried your books. But it appears to some readers your characters often feel like delivery mechanisms for your intricate plots and worldbuilding, instead of the organic centers of the story. They’re not real, fully fleshed-out persons, but borderline “types.” Comic book figures. Caricatures.

Sure, simple, flat, one-dimensional characters can work in plot-centric fiction, but it seems yours aren’t. Not always, but sometimes. As a result, your emotional beats sometimes feel engineered rather than earned. A byproduct only.

Furthermore, combining characterization with prose, it’s also pointed out that characters in your fantasy settings often speak and act like contemporary Americans with internet access, which jars the tone and demolishes the fictional dream. One wrote:

“He writes characters whose attitudes and actions are wildly anachronistic at best, and sometimes just don’t make sense in any era.”

Another commenter gave a specific example of the mismatch, too, in which a character (Tress) nonsensically said:

“I dropped it like a streaker’s pants.”

I recall this myself during my own reading, but I heard much, much more after Wind and Truth was published. Some pretty big eye-rollers came from that one book, with culture-war DEI rearing its ugly head and oddly modern diction abounding. To my mind, here’s the best example of both:

“How?” Ishar repeated. “What are you?” He gestured toward Szeth. “Are you… are you his spren? His god?”

“No,” Kaladin said. “I’m his therapist.”

(Chapter 139, p. 125)

I can’t imagine a more jolting sentiment or wording to kill a medieval-style fantasy. You’re better than this modern, angst-filled teenage writing, Brandon. And if you’re not, hire a sober, harsh editor to help you.

3. Expansive but Overgrown Worldbuilding

This surprised me, because your fans love the Cosmere. As one said:

“Sanderson has moved the genre in new directions with his focus on world building, hard magic systems, and creating his own private Wikipedia to chronicle every detail of the setting.”

But other comments reveal this facet is more and more tinged with concern. Readers admire your ambition, but are beginning to feel a creeping sense that cosmology is overtaking the human story, becoming fat and unwieldy:

“He’s slipped into mediocrity. The thematic insight seems to have been edged out by a Cosmere with more cross-references than Marvel comics.”

One person put it beautifully:

“I find a lot of his ideas (in the Stormlight archive) really intriguing but somehow the sum of the parts feels lesser than each one in isolation.”

You are treading new ground here. Although your readers are fascinated by your intricate, complex, and expansive worldbuilding, it seems it’s in danger of becoming a blob unto itself. Not serving the story, but overgrowing and overshadowing it. Readers obviously love being transported by the adventures you tell, but the cosmology is just an Easter egg. Your fans adore the Cosmere, but they want it to support the stories—not dominate them.

Along with this, I did engage with a few commenters who debated whether your writing has any greater meaning. Some felt it did, others did not. This is a tricky one for a commercial writer of epic fiction such as yourself, and unfortunately I can’t help with this. I’ve not read enough. However, one commenter singled out Mistborn Era 1—especially The Hero of Ages—as containing real emotional and philosophical depth:

“It handled the topic of faith with a surprising amount of nuance.”

I can only imagine readers would appreciate more of that Brandon. The Brandon who had something to say—not just something to build.

4. Speed Over Craft

This was the most universal critique. A lot of suppositions go into it, I think, but the strong suspicion is that you have become a writing factory, not a caring author.

Now, nobody resents your output. They’re in awe of it. But they clearly worry that production speed is coming at the sacrifice of quality:

“He just isn’t willing to put the necessary time and effort into his writing…Instead of rewriting and refining his prose and characters, he rushes each book so he can get on with the next one.”

One tellingly called out the bloat your massive output engenders:

“I read 600 pages of the first Stormlight novel and dropped it…Everyone told me to keep reading; they said it gets better after that point. I thought, ‘Buddy, if you need more than 600 pages to become engaging, I think something’s wrong with your book’.”

It’s my suspicion that Wind and Truth shook your fanbase most, as I said before. No one mentioned this in the 174 comments per se, but I recall it was all the talk on the Interwebs last year–and I personally know fans who ranged from disappointed to downright enraged. It aligns well with the worries fans mentioned.

Rightly, one commenter framed you as at the crossroads in your career:

“I think some of his earlier works did point toward mastery and meaning… but since then he’s become too much a part of his own fanbase. Interested only in the twist, the technical magic, etc.”

Now this might be just as much about managing your booming popularity as it is your prolific output—and I can’t imagine the pressure that must bring. But either way, your readers are telling you to slow down. Obsess not just over the number of pages published, but what those pages contain. Especially these days when AI can vomit out “content,” readers crave something magical from you, and magic cannot be manufactured. It must be cultivated.

Everyone wants you to succeed (even me, and I’m not even a fan!) This can only happen if you slow down—not like a glacier (*cough* Rothfuss *cough cough* Martin), but like a skilled, caring craftsman.

Best of Luck, Brandon

Brandon, your readers admire you. They eagerly await your new books. They respect your contribution to the fantasy genre. Some believe you may very well end up a defining voice of 21st-century fantasy. Even the critical comments to my post came from people who, by and large, want to love your work even more than they currently do.

That being said, rising from it all I saw a striking sentiment emerge: Your readers believe you could be something even greater than you are right now.

You’ve already built something enormous. The question I think many, many readers are now asking—often with real affection—is: “What would happen if Brandon Sanderson slowed down, just enough, to craft something not only big… but well made?”

Whatever direction you choose, Brandon, your influence on the genre is secure. Your kindness is admired. And your ambition is unmatched. But 174 commenters—many longtime fans—are rooting for the next evolution in your artistry.

Best of luck.

Sincerely,

Don Beck
…and all the people who cared enough to say all this

Thanks for visiting the Reading Room! I love exploring fantasy, sci-fi, and classic literature. Let me know what you think—I’m always interested in learning more deeply.

They used to ask this about George R.R. Martin, but it appears his heyday is over. (Finish what you start, George.) Nowadays, Brandon Sanderson’s name is most often tossed into that arena. While his latest Stormlight Archive entry, Wind and Truth, dimmed his star a bit (for now), fans still ask if he’s our modern master of fantasy. Our Tolkien.

And every time I hear this, I sigh, rub my temples, gulp down some Pepto, and unreel a tired little diatribe.

I won’t reproduce my long and boring rant here, but my answer is basically, “No. He is not.”

Suffice to say that Sanderson is a talented writer of competent, entertaining, commercial fantasy, and he’s wildly popular. The man’s a giant among his peers. He seems pretty nice, too. But he’s simply not “great” in any literary sense—much less is he a towering juggernaut like Tolkien. As I often say, if Tolkien is fine dining, Sanderson is McDonald’s.

I’m not just saying this because my personal taste is more in line with the Professor than the Prolific One–although that’s 100% true. No, I’m speaking objectively, from a framework, an impersonal criteria. Long ago I realized we readers and authors have to be able to speak about a novel’s quality without immediately stumbling into the two tiger pits of modern literary discourse:

1. Everything is subjective, man. You like what you like, I’ll like what I like.
   

2. My favorite is the greatest thing ever written because it’s my favorite

Sigh.

Instead of these paragons of anti-intellectualism, I’ve cobbled together a simple system for myself that helps me sort the literary wheat from the chaff. Admittedly I’m a lowly armchair critic who knows just enough literary theory to be dangerous, so take it for what it’s worth. But maybe it’ll help you, too.

If not, it will at least be an interesting conversation-starter, right?

I. Four Tiers of Novel Quality

In my private taxonomy, I sort novels into four broad levels. Constructed over decades of reading and arguing (not to mention that old dust-covered English degree), I present it here to you, from worst to best:

1. Crap
   

2. Mediocre-to-Good
   

3. Great
   

4. Classic

I know, I know: blunt categories. Unforgivably simplistic. Dangerous, too, once we start slotting books into their respective buckets. (“Whaddaya mean The Handmaid’s Tale is only ‘good’?!”) Regardless, I find this “ladder” both practical and useful. Plus it maps fairly well onto how I see most readers think about books.

Okay, but now let’s get into the nitty-gritty. What differentiates each “level,” other than vaguely-suggestive labels?

Well, to my mind a book climbs (or descends) the ladder based on two criteria: Engagement and Meaning. Again, unforgivably simplistic, but as a litmus test for the quality of a novel, these wonder-twins work great together:

• Engagement tells how deeply the book pulls us in: the pleasure, immersion, tension, beauty, and/or delight.

• Meaning tells us how much the book says, how well it speaks to us, informing and enriching our lives. Its insight, wisdom, resonance, layers.

Here’s the trick: the more a novel has of both, the higher it rises in the taxonomy.

A book that’s wildly engaging but says nothing? Fun, but “good” at best.

A book that’s meaningful but a slog? Important, but not “great.”

When the two intersect—as in The Lord of the Rings—now that’s greatness.

And “classics”? They sit on a throne above even that: not just “great” in their own era, but powerful across centuries, often transcending all cultural and linguistic barriers.

II. Crap: A Baseline

Before we discuss the nuances of engagement and meaning, taking the elevator all the way up to the penthouse of “great” and “classic” novels, let’s pack some bedrock under our feet, shall we?

In 1957 Theodore Sturgeon famously said that “99% of everything [written] is crap.” If so, what separates all that “crap” from the 1% that rises above, becoming at least “mediocre”?

I won’t spend much time at this level, mainly because to me, very few novels are truly crappy. Obvious factors can spoil a book, like poor editing, utter lack in the fundamentals of storytelling, or a tale so tired and worn as to be painfully trite. A novel written at less than adult, workmanlike levels is going to stink, and (fortunately) outside the poorest of self-published works these days, stinkers are normally weeded out before they ever see a printing press.

There is one craptastic feature, though, that can and sadly does rear its ugly head more often than I’d like: poor “mimesis.”

Aristotle defined mimesis in his Poetics about 2,360 years ago, and in essence he meant “writing that convincingly imitates real life.” A narrative “works” in the mimetic sense when it imitates the world as we all understand it–especially the world of real human behavior. If a book doesn’t at all times reflect believable causes and effects, motivations, reactions, or emotional truths—even if it’s about wizards riding polka-dotted space-dragons through the fifth dimension—it collapses into crap. Good fiction of any type must behave like the real world, even when it doesn’t look like that world.

This is the “sustained fictional dream” idea: we enter a novel to be transported anywhere from Middle Earth to Middle America. But if something in the writing jars us from the narrative, it pulls us from that story, and we think, “that could never happen” or “these characters are so fake.” Thus the “fictional dream” is ruined. Genre fiction, especially, frequently bends common sense and pushes boundaries, but to bend isn’t to break. Mimesis applies even here: as long as the work is internally consistent and presented as if it were believable, it rings true.

So, to rise above the “crap” category, a book must not only be competently written, it must represent (or warp) reality in a way that makes sense to normal readers.

III. Engagement: How Stories Pull Us In

Not being “crap” is the floor, not the ceiling. Let’s now turn to the elements that elevate a book to mediocre, good, or even great. Starting with engagement.

“Engagement” as I use the term is “how well a story pulls readers in.” It’s the quality that makes a book interesting. Even irresistible. When a book grabs you—really grabs you—you know. Like, you’re turning pages at 1:30am even though you have to work tomorrow.

But how does it do that? At the risk of stating the obvious, engagement is notoriously slippery to outline, despite how easy it is to experience.

For all its fuzziness, I like to think of engagement resting on two pillars:

Pillar A: Story Elements

These are the building blocks of narrative, and every reader—scholarly or casual—instinctively understands them. We humans are hardwired for stories, and an engaging tale encapsulates timeless elements, using them in undeniably satisfyingly ways. Whether you’re reading Dostoevsky or Chandler, Tolkien or Sanderson, you’re engaging with some combination of:

• Plot

Not necessarily action-packed explosions, but movement. Cause and effect. Rising tensions and satisfying resolutions. A novel doesn’t need to be an action-packed nail-biter, but it does need to go somewhere interesting. Even wildly experimental novels usually rely on some kind of flow for readers to follow.

• Characters

Many readers say this is the most important aspect to engagement, and it’s hard to disagree. Characters need not be “relatable”--and much less need they be “likeable”--but they must be believable and compelling. Readers engage when characters want things, struggle for them, change/grow as they go–surprise us in logical and stimulating ways.

• Setting / Worldbuilding

Engagement deepens when the story-world feels authentic, consistent, and interesting, whether that’s 1950s New Orleans or the Cosmere. Details matter. Internal rules matter. The sense that events ripple through a living environment matters.

These together—the three story elements—form the basic engine of engagement. Without them, even beautiful language breaks down. With them, even mediocre prose can carry you a long, long way. When plot, character, and world harmonize, a reader is swept away almost without noticing.

Pillar B. Language

Language is not decoration. It’s the medium of literature itself. The exact words in the exact order are what create tone, rhythm, emotional resonance, and—for great novels—that strange, enchanting sense of elevation that separates ordinary storytelling from art.

Good language pulls you deeper into the story’s world; great language creates that world. “Aesthetic splendor,” as Harold Bloom once put it.

Now, language doesn’t have to be ornate to be great. It merely has to be alive. In our day and age, readers seem to value function over poetics: the “purple prose” which generations ago was a must-have, is today a no-no. This raises some difficulties for authors, as it limits their toolbox, but still, the range of effective style is enormous:

• Tolkien’s mythic elevation
  

• McCarthy’s sparse, biblical cadence
  

• Twain’s sharp, comic snap
  

• Le Guin’s clear, flowing minimalism

This is why you can’t summarize a great book–not really. The summary (plot, characters, setting, etc.) is not the thing. The personal experience of the words on the page is the thing. Language is the spell by which meaning and emotion enter the reader, propelling them through the story.

This aspect forms the first smear on Brandon Sanderson. While his story elements are fine–sometimes even good, as he always creates likable characters, interesting plots, and dizzyingly complicated worldbuilding–his language use is…fine. Basic. Sometimes clunky, clanky, or juvenile. Typical of commercial authors. Contrast this to Tolkien, a master of style and usage, every word being well-chosen for both meaning and form.

IV. Meaning: Where “Good” Becomes “Great”

If engagement pulls you in, meaning is what stays with you—and this is where I usually detect the real dividing line between a merely “good” novel and a genuinely “great” one.

If engagement makes a story enjoyable, meaning makes it memorable. Even powerful. Lots of books entertain us, but far fewer have something to say—and fewer still say it in a way that actually changes our lives.

To be clear, by “meaning” I don’t mean a moral, a message, or a theme statement. Those are for Aesop and high school English worksheets. Meaning is the deeper insight, the felt wisdom that arises through the story rather than being haphazardly pasted on top. Great books aren’t just “about something.” They offer a kind of truth in and of themselves—the story itself gives insight into human nature, society, suffering, desire, or the divine, and these books force readers to encounter it for themselves. We learn why and how people should care for one another by traveling to California with the Joads, not because Tom says so (though he does do that, too, in a great speech!)

Note that this can be intentional or not, as (strangely enough) authors often don’t fully realize what they themselves are saying. They usually have an inkling, but never the whole picture. I’d argue that an author can even tell us what they meant and be wrong. Proof’s in the pudding, pal: the work itself says what it says, means what it means.

Regardless, what “great” novels never do is either 1) ignore meaning altogether, or 2) sermonize.

All novels at this high level ask questions and present honest examples, even if they propose no solutions. They’re honest about people—their motives, contradictions, and moral complexity. This is why Milton’s Satan fascinates us, why Lady Macbeth unnerves us, why Gatsby lingers with us, and why Frodo wrenches our hearts. Great stories grapple with real human experiences, they don’t contort situations to fit ideology. Only mediocre novels give slogans (I’m looking at you, Margaret Atwood.)

Truly great works also contain symbolic resonance—images, archetypes, and mythic moments that elevate the story beyond plot, representing and deepening their meaning. I nearly wrote that symbolism is a requirement, as I’m struggling to think of great works void of it. Tolkien’s white tree, Gatsby’s green light, Dante’s dark wood, Orwell’s allegorical farm animals—these aren’t puzzles, but ways authors intensify their meanings for readers.

In the end, meaning-rich books become companions. They reward rereading, grow with us, and illuminate us. This is why, on my four-tier ladder, “great” books require high levels of both engagement and meaning. Drop either, and the novel slides downward—into good, mediocre, or, God forbid, crap.

V. So What Makes a “Classic”?

I want to drop a quick “bonus point” here about classic literature.

In my little schema, “greatness” is the marriage of engagement and meaning, while the “classic” surpasses even that. These top-of-the-list novels are–quite simply–”great” books that endure, that outlive their moment, and stand up to endless rereadings. As Italo Calvino put it:

“A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.”

Classics still have something fresh to offer long after lesser works have faded into period curiosities.

Not every objectively great novel becomes a classic. Some fade for one reason or another, losing their resonance in long-term cultural memory. Others may linger undiscovered in the wings for a time before “find” them (Exhibit A: Moby-Dick), whereas others may (unfortunately) never find their foot holds. It ain’t easy, the climb to the top.

Some of this is tied to cultural adoption, yes, but that’s not the whole story. There is no secret committee of elitist college professors deciding which books enter or exit the canon; rather, the “winning” books are continually embraced by the culture itself. Readers find something profound and essential within these novels, so they endure. Readers from different eras—medieval monks, Victorians, TikTok teens—can all look into the exact same text and find something that speaks to them.

What is the quality that causes that to happen? Obviously, there’s no one ingredient. Harold Bloom points to what he calls a “strangeness in the familiar.” Canonical works carry an originality that we cannot fully assimilate, or that becomes so foundational we stop noticing how strange it really is. Shakespeare is the poster child for this: the Bard’s distinctive genius is what allows him to remain evergreen, even though he’s become foundational in Western letters. But no great literature is ever great in the same way. The very riskiness of their creation—the refusal to follow a recipe—is part of what makes them classics.

This is also why genre fiction such as epic fantasy—bound by conventions and focused on entertainment—struggles to climb that mountain.

Matthew Arnold supplies the final ingredient, to my mind. In his 1867’s Culture and Anarchy, he argues that literature’s highest purpose is to make us better by exposing us to “the best which has been thought and said in the world.” Classics are exactly these works: not just enjoyable, not only skillful, and definitely not merely popular. They are among the best humanity has produced. Encountering them stretches us. It sharpens our perception and deepens our humanity.

Conclusion: Why the Distinction Matters

You are absolutely allowed to enjoy books from any and all tiers of my little ladder. Go ahead: love your comfort-fiction. Read thrillers and romantasy. Devour YA. Enjoy your literary fast-food. I do this all the time, myself.

But let’s not pretend a Tootsie Roll has either the same nutritional value or social capital as filet mignon. You can love Tootsie Rolls! Just don’t claim they are a full meal. Or fine dining.

And when we talk about “Tolkien vs. Sanderson,” remember we’re not talking about popularity or fun—we’re talking about the difference between:

• good fiction that delights us, and
  

• great fiction that enlarges us, and
  

• classic fiction that outlives us.

And that, for me, is the whole point. Sanderson’s books are “mediocre to good” at best, while Tolkien’s are “great”--and undoubtedly also “classics.”

NOTE: If you enjoyed this article and want to keep the conversation going, I wrote a follow up a couple weeks after publishing this—an open letter to Brandon Sanderson, compiled from the 174 comments this piece had at the time. Check it out here:

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room. This is my little way of categorizing books by their quality—what’s yours? What have I missed, forgotten, or misunderstood? As always, I’d appreciate your help thinking through this!

It was the first “real” science fiction I ever read, way back in the mid ’80s, recommended to me by the father of my then-girlfriend (now wife), who was a lifelong sci-fi reader. After his passing twenty years ago, his Science Fiction Book Club edition of the original trilogy came to me—and I still treasure that old, beat-up, taped-together book.

As Foundation reaches its the 75th anniversary, I find it hard to assess the trilogy clearly. My opinion’s too slanted in its favor. Sure, I know they’re not perfect—far from it—but Asimov weaves such a pleasant spell that I regularly recommend this series.

Let’s explore why—including taking as sober a look at their weaknesses.

Note: I’ll keep this generally spoiler-free, but sometimes I have to dip into specifics to make a point. Be warned: here there be dragons. And a mule.

The Premise That Launched a Thousand Galaxies

First, the premise here is outstanding. From the Goodreads summary of Book I:

“For twelve thousand years the Galactic Empire has ruled supreme. Now it is dying. But only Hari Seldon, creator of the revolutionary science of psychohistory, can see into the future—to a dark age of ignorance, barbarism, and warfare that will last thirty thousand years. To preserve knowledge and save humankind, Seldon gathers the best minds in the Empire—both scientists and scholars—and brings them to a bleak planet at the edge of the galaxy to serve as a beacon of hope for future generations. He calls his sanctuary the Foundation.”

Wow.

The story goes that a twenty-one-year-old Asimov pitched the concept to famed Astounding Magazine editor John W. Campbell in the early 1940s. He was reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; why not, he suggested, write about a galactic empire’s demise? And over a set of eight interconnected short stories Asimov did exactly that, later combining them into Foundation (1951), Foundation and Empire (1952), and Second Foundation (1953).

They were a smash, bestsellers praised by readers and the scientific community alike. They even won a special “Best All-Time Series” Hugo Award in 1966—beating both Edgar Rice Burroughs and The Lord of the Rings (and that was back when the Hugos meant something, too).

Moreover, the idea of a galaxy-spanning empire was so innovative and enticing that it became commonplace. Dune, Star Wars, and countless others owe Asimov a tremendous debt.

Chapters in History

Foundation isn’t a unified trilogy. There’s no one, single protagonist, no hero’s journey or character arcs to speak of. If you want that, go watch the (dreadful) Apple+ Foundation series. No, these books are a mosaic of episodes, each set in a different era with a new cast of characters. Each section dramatizes a specific crisis and the figures who rise to meet it. These are vignettes from a far-future chronicle, complete with entries from the “Encyclopedia Galactica” serving as historical epigraphs.

Some readers today call this a flaw, but I’d argue the exact opposite: it’s one of the series’ great strengths. This is not the tale of any one person or moment in time—it’s the sweeping story of an entire civilization.

More than its episodic structure, a 1940s Golden Age tone defines the work: clean, rational, pulpy in the best sense. Every story follows a neat “problem-struggle-solution” formula.

Oh no, the Foundation is threatened by its neighbor!

Oh no, a Foundation diplomat is about to be executed!

Oh no, a warlord is coming!

By the end of each chapter, rationalism and cleverness save the day. Like a mystery novel, not the strong but the smart are victorious. Asimov’s characters puzzle their way out of every mess, speechifying all over the place as they do–and it’s oh so satisfying. It’s what calls “the embodiment of basic ‘geek’ principles: David triumphing over Goliath through superior intellect, brain over brawn.”

I find this pattern–however simplistic–immensely satisfying. There’s something delightfully nostalgic here, the mathematical tidiness of it. But Asimov never falls stagnant. Just when you’re lulled into his rhythm and begin to think the smarty-pants Foundation just can’t lose—boom—the Mule appears, upending Seldon’s Plan. Then comes the shadowy Second Foundation, turning the entire narrative on its head again. As we read on, we truly worry over the fate of the galaxy.

Character Talk and the Charm of the Cerebral

One fair criticism of Asimov is that his characters are flat as pancakes. This, again, is a relic of science fiction’s pulp days, which he himself admitted:

“While I have larger-than-life heroes, that is just because pulp fiction always did. (The Shadow, Doc Savage, etc.—I read them and was influenced by them.)”

In direct contrast with today’s emotional, character-driven fiction, each Asimov figure—Dornick, Hardin, Mallow, Seldon, the Mule—is more archetype than person. Think of it like a 1950s black and white movie: actors may have defining quirks or idiosyncrasies, but they fill a role in the story, that’s it. They serve as stand-ins for traits: logic, ambition, idealism, cunning. Or stereotypes: the warlord, the scientist, the aristocrat, the wife. While I can understand why readers in 2025 might struggle to invest due to this, it helps to see Asimov’s true interest lies in ideas and puzzles, not psychology. Intellectual excitement creates the drama here. Ideas in action, not well-rounded character studies.

The same applies to his “talking head” style. Characters sit around discussing. A lot. I’d estimate the series is 70 percent dialogue, 20 percent action, 10 percent description. Again, I enjoy this. It works. Asimov’s prose is so economical it wastes little time even describing settings before plowing forward–usually with another conversation. That no doubt drives some readers crazy today, but it fits Asimov’s “cerebral” tone. He once said he didn’t see stories in his imagination so much as hear them, and you can tell. Dialogue replaces spectacle, and because the stakes are always high, it remains compelling—think Twelve Angry Men in space, but with Asimov’s characteristic charm and wit. It’s a throwback in the best possible way.

Two Real Cracks in the Foundation

I do have two genuine complaints about the series, despite my affection.

First, if the Seldon Plan is meant to reduce the galaxy’s descent into barbarism to one thousand years, why does the original trilogy end after only about 200? While satisfying as a story thread and ending on a hopeful note, there are still 800 years to go. I remember upon first read being disappointed by that.

Of course, thirty years later Asimov returned in the 80s to extend the trilogy, and after his death in the 90s other authors picked up the ball and ran with it, too–but I’ll be honest, I’ve never reread those later books and probably won’t. Not only did I find them lackluster, they became more and more baroque, incorporating wild ideas like the Gaia “living planet” concept, as well as bringing Asimov’s other novels under the Foundation umbrella, creating an “Asimoverse”–including an outrageously powerful, history-manipulating robot. It just went off the rails for me.

My opinion; your own mileage may vary.

Second and more importantly, Asimov is a fundamentalist of scientism, and it shows. What I mean is that he essentially believes materialism to be the only pathway to truth–that to know something means to logically prove it. At its core, Foundation is written under the Golden Age of Sci-Fi’s hope for a “rational” future. I find it quaint the scientists (or, at least, logical thinkers) are the “good guys.” It’s fine for fiction, though I can imagine real life college professors, psychiatrists, and experimental labs taking over, governing according to “research says,” and manipulating society’s future. No thank you.

At the other end of his spectrum, religion is nonexistent in the galaxy both before and after the empire’s fall. Except, of course, for the hokum mumbo-jumbo used during the so-called “Dark Ages” to keep idiots in line. Not merely an opium of the masses, to Asimov spirituality is a cattle prod, a loaded gun–but without any real substance for anyone with common sense. Yes, the Foundation’s ploy to create a phony “Galactic Spirit” church to control its neighbors is entertaining–but it’s also unsettling. And disappointing. To humanists like Asimov, people are brains-on-sticks with a few renegade emotions to be manipulated by wise empiricists. The spiritual world doesn’t interfere in Foundation–in fact, it doesn’t exist.

And yet…

As with all classic materialists, Asimov has no problem with things so mysterious they border on mystical. To him, God and miracles are “obviously” ridiculous, but mutants and telepaths manipulating others’ thoughts through the power of their minds–even the emotions of an entire planet? Now that, that’s just science we can’t explain yet.

Even the basis of the novels–psychohistory–falls into this trap. As espoused by Hari Seldon, the behavior of societies for a thousand years in the future can be predicted with high degrees of certainty. Mathematically. And that which can be predicted can be controlled. I’ll grant this book was written in the 1940s when psychiatry and sociology were still gaining momentum, but the Seldon Plan is what I quite technically refer to as “bullshit science.” Only someone close-minded could scoff at religion, at Providence, at the supernatural, and yet worship at the altar of scientism like this. When I was a halfwitted teenage atheist in the 1980s, this was a feature of Foundation, not a bug; now as an Orthodox Christian in 2025, at the end of the Enlightenment in the West and the start of a new age of re-enchantment, I see this for the clear crack in the foundation it is. (Pun intended.)

Why I Still Love It

And yet, in the end I still adore this trilogy. The setup, the structure, the sheer ambition—few works have matched it since. Despite its cozy, dated style with cardboard characters and endless talking, it remains sharp, fast, and refreshingly hopeful.

Foundation embodies the optimism of mid-century science fiction: that knowledge can save us, that clever, intelligent people can and will steer civilization through its darkest hours, and that “violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.”

Foundation is a monument not to perfection, but a scientist’s creative dream that human reason and courage might still hold back the darkness—for a thousand years. I do miss that era of confidence, even as much as I disagree with it.

Thank you for stopping by the Reading Room! What do you think? Have you read Foundation? What did you think of it? Does it stand the test of time?

Recently and I published an article about Redwall that, while it earned a pleasant little dab of attention, also produced discussion both on and off Substack. Mainly this was positive, with much happy nostalgia. Folks clearly love Redwall. But surprisingly, a criticism of Brian Jacques also arose that I’d never considered before: “speciesism.”

The gist is that some believe Jacques’ characters are morally cut-and-dry—and even worse, defined by their species. All “vermin”—rats, stoats, and weasels—are typecast as evil, whereas mice, rabbits, and badgers are always heroes. Although some, like voles, birds, and cats, may occupy a twilight land in between, most animals’ birth-breeds fate them to either heaven or hell.

In this way, the critics say, an ethical black hole gapes smack-dab in the center of Redwall.

Now, I’ve only read the first novel, but after some research into the 22 books comprising this series I was surprised to find the speciesism charge actually seems to hold some water. What’s more, as a 21st-century American, I can sympathize with the critique.

We in modern times understand that our choices are what make us. Everyone has the freedom to decide who they will become. America, especially, is founded upon the assertion that “all men are created equal,” and we boast a strong history of asserting freedom, individual rights, and personal worth no matter one’s color or creed. While we don’t always get it right the first time, these values are baked into our national cake, and I’m proud of that.

But before I go belting out the “Star-Spangled Banner,” I’ll concede that in literature the idea was established well before 1776. Free will is foundational in Christianity and has been represented constantly in novels, poems, and plays throughout the centuries. For instance, Shakespeare’s antagonists are not mustache-twirling villains, but have motivations for their villainy. Whether a past event or giving into their base desires, Claudius, Iago, Richard III, Mr. & Mrs. Macbeth, and the rest each choose to do wrong. Heck, even Milton’s Satan decided it was “Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n.” In the West, you choose your own adventure; it may turn out well or badly, but your makeup never rewards you with virtue nor dooms you to vice. You do.

Redwall, though, seems to defy this.

Values appear fixed in Redwall, based mainly on breed. Even in situations where a critter could break the mold, they almost never do. Or can’t. Which leads readers to think free will might be impossible in Mossflower Wood, that it’s not characters’ actions making them evil, but their animal “caste.” Sure, a rat may be revealed to be simply dumb, bit they’re almost never revealed as good.

The nail-in-the-coffin is Outcast of Redwall. Here the ferret son of a horde leader is raised by the kind Redwall Abbey folk, yet he still turns out evil. While I’m detecting some nuance in Outcast, it seems to many readers definitive proof of Jacques belief, “once a vermin, always a vermin.” In Redwall, goodness is determined at birth.

Morality seems predetermined, and it feels “icky.”

Discriminatory.

“Species-ist.”

What Kids See

Although this charge struck an initial chord with me, the more I considered it the more I saw Redwall’s ethical structure is entirely acceptable.

First, “speciesism” is really a projection into these YA books by adults. I’d put cash money down that no normal child—regardless of their genetics, background, or melanin level—finds parallels between themselves and Redwall’s evil vermin, and thereby feels “bad” about themselves. No, they relate to Matthias, Martin the Warrior, and the other heroic characters. And this stands simultaneously true for a white British kid, a Nigerian boy, an Indian immigrant growing up in Texas, and an impoverished girl from a New York City tenement. Adults might overlay race on top of the different animals’ breeds, but children do not.

Too much is made these days, in my opinion, of “seeing one’s self” in the superficial qualities of characters. In good literature, readers of every age fall in love with well-written protagonists. They don’t ask first, “Are they like me?” While it can be a nice Easter egg to discover one’s own race, gender, nationality, disability, or even religion in a novel, the story’s heart is what really matters. Its soul is the thing, not the outer trappings.

Regardless, Redwall’s animal species should not be considered racial stand-ins. Obviously, a book unwaveringly depicting people of any color as horrid would rightly be labelled racist, but Redwall’s evil rats are no analogies for ethnicity–they’re rats. Talking fantasy-world rats, yes, but rats just the same. Transforming them into something else is a serious misreading.

Similarly, I’ve seen some argue the books skew a bit “male”—but so what? Heroic fantasy normally does, and moreover, it’s unreasonable to expect every book to appeal to every reader. Even here, though, Jacques’ books are so profoundly universal they cross gender lines. (Plus, between Constance the Badger and Mariel of Redwall, girls have pretty direct role models, too—though boys root for them just as much.)

Mythic Mode vs. “Realism” Mode

Secondly, children’s and YA lit are morally simple. They’re obvious by design–that’s part and parcel for both their use and their charm.

Why? Because these stories aim at teaching, at demonstrating which values and behavior are better and which are worse. Often a mythic “type” is best for doing that. Aesop’s fables and Grimm’s fairy tales are clear examples of this, and Redwall continues in that fine tradition–exactly as Jacques intended:

“When I was a boy, morality was taught in school and in church but I think that is no longer true to the extent that it used to be. I try to create very clear moral signposts of what is right and what is wrong. The children who read my books are generally at an age where they need to have things spelled out in ‘black and white,’ without ambiguity. I often tell my readers that my baddies are bad and my goodies are good. I won’t have sympathetic baddies and schizophrenic goodies in my books.”
(National Catholic Register)

Again, I understand the desire for a ferret to break the type or for wanting more solid rat redemption arcs. Maybe that would’ve been nice, too, plus opened the possibility for teaching other important lessons to kids. But Jacques did not do it, obviously feeling it was too confusing.

Was he right?

Would “fixing” these “problematic” aspects of Redwall’s structure have improved the series? I’d argue no, it would’ve merely changed both the content and (more importantly) the depth of the story. Redwall would no longer be about the struggle between pure good and pure evil, moral rights and wrongs; it would be about “becoming” or “personal autonomy”—or even about racism, nationalism, sexism, ableism, or some other “-ism.”

Let’s take a recent counter-example: Zootopia. The film deliberately zooms in on a topic (prejudice) by turning predator/prey tension into a direct allegory. Clever? Sure. And pretty decent, too. But does it have the same mission as Redwall? No. As deep a resonance? Hardly. While nice, Zootopia is much smaller, much more limited, only focusing on a specific, contemporary social lesson.

A striking (and honestly, painful) example of “repairing” supposed speciesism gone horribly wrong is Amazon’s The Rings of Power, season two. There, a misguided revisionism turns Tolkien’s embodiment of evil—orcs—into sympathetic families who only want peace and love. I’m sure the showrunners thought they were being quite “realistic” and “inclusive” with this subversion, appealing to “modern audiences,” but it’s no longer Tolkien at this point. “Humanized” orcs make no sense in his grand mythologized world. They are eye-rollers; a progressive agenda shoehorned into Middle Earth.

My underlying suspicion is that deep, deep down many of the critics crying “speciesism” are actually uncomfortable with some behavior being fundamentally wrong.

Not all the critics, but many.

They don’t want demonstrations of “black and white” morality. Strangely, they’d prefer “sympathetic baddies and schizophrenic goodies”—today’s ideals and postmodern realism jammed into Jacques’ sweeping world of children’s fantasy.

To them, in a perversion of therapeutic liberalism, there can be no such thing as “evil.” Even if the person chooses it. No “othering” is allowed, you see. Moral grays? Maybe. But “bad” always gets a big fat asterisk marking it as *tragic*–which inevitably leads to overcooked excuses about the evildoer’s “past traumas,” being “misunderstood” or victims of an invisible “system.” Or maybe they just have “their own truth.”

Why Jacques’s Clarity Matters

But understanding evil does not in fact excuse it.

Explaining away or outright denying villainy brings no positive effect. And it’s of zero use in educating children to strive for absolutes like the good, true, or beautiful.

In adult literary fiction, yes, go ahead and explore real-world ethical and political questions in all their complexities. But to even wish for that in adolescent books is misguided. Our kids and grandkids shouldn’t be taught fuzzy lessons on social justice. Timeless stories shouldn’t be reworked into parables of race (etc.). We need children encouraged through crystal-clear exemplars: right behavior and fearless models of good vanquishing evil so unmistakable that they someday will become and do the same.

As Chesterton said:

“Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.”

We must show young kids how to kill the dragons—and to steel them to do so. This is what a novel for young readers should do, and fortunately, that’s exactly what Redwall gifts us. Its simplicity is not naiveté; it’s moral formation. The abbey stands strong, goodness rallies, evil is vanquished, courage costs—and it’s all worth it.

That’s not “speciesism.” That’s storytelling for children with a strong moral compass.

Thanks for visiting the Reading Room!

What are your thoughts? What have I missed? I’d love to hear what you have to say, so I too can refine my thinking!

Still, I’m not in the mood to review it negatively. Instead, let’s talk about what it does that I honestly love: stories within stories. Its characters tell stories that echo and illuminate the main narrative. This technique, I’d argue, is one of the greatest tools ever devised by storytellers.

Let’s run through it.

What Exactly Is a “Story Within a Story”?

In my personal encyclopedia (which may or may not coincide with the rest of the literary world—take that, Britannica), there are two main branches of this technique.

1. Nested Storytelling: A character tells a story. In The Book of Lost Things, this happens several times: characters pause the action to spin a fable, usually beginning with the classic “once upon a time…” A related version occurs when a character retells their own past as a story—usually with embellishments. Odysseus recounting his wanderings to King Alcinous is the gold standard here. Even narrative poems embedded in fiction can count: “Jabberwocky” nestled inside Alice in Wonderland is one of literature’s most wonderous detours (in addition to blessing English with the verb “galumph,” of course.)

2. The Frame Story: This one’s trickier but punches it to the next level. The “frame” acts as a container, an overarching story, that contains one or more other tales. Think Forrest Gump—Tom Hanks on the bench telling strangers the “chapters” of his life. Or The Canterbury Tales, where a group of pilgrims swap stories on the road to Canterbury. Its Italian cousin, The Decameron, does the same, only with plague survivors hiding from death and passing time through storytelling. And then there’s One Thousand and One Nights, in which Scheherazade’s gift for narrative literally keeps her alive.

Why It Works So Well

1. Clever Characterization

Characters are revealed not only by what they do or look like, but by what they say—and nothing is more revealing than a story told in their own voice. Chaucer was a master of this. The Miller’s bawdy farce mocks the upper classes; the Nun’s Priest tells a fable about a proud rooster surrounded by his hens; the Wife of Bath blows up a romance that perfectly mirrors her bold, worldly nature. Some tellers are unreliable, so we can’t trust either what they say—which only serves to enrich their characterization that much more.

This technique also illuminates Frankenstein’s cast. The novel unfolds through letters from the explorer Robert Walton, who recounts Victor Frankenstein’s confession, which in turn contains the “creature’s” own story. Each narrator reveals not only events but themselves: Walton’s ambition mirrors Victor’s (until the end), while the creature’s eloquence and pain expose the humanity his maker denies him. The nested storytelling becomes a study in self-revelation—each voice illuminating character through what they choose to tell, and what they cannot.

2. Thematic Layering

Stories within stories don’t just entertain, they deepen meanings.

Hamlet’s “play within a play,” The Mousetrap, is the quintessential example. Hamlet stages a reenactment of his father’s murder to “catch the conscience of the king.” In that one scene, the boundary between theater and truth dissolves; art reveals reality, and performance becomes confession. Brilliant.

Or, more simply, take the sheriff’s monologue in No Country for Old Men (the film):

“My grandfather was a lawman; father too. Me and him was sheriffs at the same time; him up in Plano and me out here. I think he’s pretty proud of that. I know I was. Some of the old time sheriffs never even wore a gun. A lotta folks find that hard to believe.[...] I always liked to hear about the oldtimers. Never missed a chance to do so. You can’t help but compare yourself against the oldtimers. Can’t help but wonder how they would have operated these times.”

It’s not just a reminiscence—it’s a lament. The world has grown crueler, and morality more fragile. This tiny embedded story refracts the theme of the entire film.

Or what about Foundation? Asimov pulls off a different kind of framing here: a galactic empire’s collapse and subsequent dark ages are both predicted and shortened by scientist Hari Seldon, whose recorded appearances—long after his death—become guideposts to later generations. Without that ghostly voice reminding us of the overarching story, each chapter’s new characters and crises would likely become a jumble of disconnected adventures. With it, however, it becomes a meditation on destiny, decay, sociology, and human hope.

3. Narrative Interest

Finally, boiling it down to basics—stories within stories are just fun. They’re inherently dynamic, giving us readers the pleasure of pattern, reflection, and discovery.

In Hyperion, Dan Simmons’ spacefaring homage to The Canterbury Tales, a group of intergalactic pilgrims journey to meet a terrifying being called the Shrike. Each shares their personal tale along the way. The stories are wildly different—romance, horror, tragedy, philosophy—but together they form a single haunting meditation on faith, fear, and fate. It’s the frame itself that holds it all together, making the book unforgettable: every new tale transforms the last, until the whole novel becomes something far greater than its parts. Without this technique, Hyperion would be nowhere near as satisfying.

On a simpler level, even a character pausing to tell a story adds depth and enjoyment. I think of the storytelling contest to win a bride in Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun. But for a true crowd pleaser, take The Princess Bride: the grandfather’s narration—complete with interruptions, asides, and the sweetest ending (“As you wish”)—turns a fairy tale into a multigenerational love letter to storytelling itself and its power to connect us.

The Ancient Art of Storytelling

At their best, stories within stories are the literary equivalent of gathering around a fire and tale-telling, as mankind has done since time immemorial. They remind us in the most primeval way that storytelling is, at its heart, communal—one voice sparking another, one tale leading to the next. It’s honest (well, unless the teller is dishonest, but you get my meaning.)

Frames and nested stories multiply perspectives, deepen meaning, and keep literature alive in conversation with itself and us. Our ancestors knew this. Chaucer knew it too. As did Shakespeare, Shelley, Asimov, Simmons, and Goldman. When you read a frame story, you’re not just reading a story—you’re participating in the act of storytelling, which is why we read in the first place.

Thanks for stopping by the Reading Room!

As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Do you agree with my take? Have I missed anything? Am I so far in left field I’m out of the stadium? (Wouldn’t be the first time, won’t be the last.)