What is a classic?

Universals clothed in particulars, beauty in form and language, dead white men, ongoing conversations, textual elephants, and bridges

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For several months, I’ve been working my way through Nadya Williams podcast, “Christians Reading Classics.” In each episode, she asks her interlocutor(s) the question: What is a classic? Listening to the varied responses, I contemplated how I would answer that same question. And, predictably, I put pen to paper (for the first draft) in attempt to do so.

At the most fundamental level, a classic work of literature is one that persists not only across time, but also across space. Different cultures will have different “canons;” but a true classic is one that can “cross” cultural boundaries, even if an individual might need some additional context to deepen their understanding of a given text.

For example, I read Confucius’Analects, Laozi’s Tao te Ching, and Valmiki’s Ramayana as part of my great books major. Aside from a basic knowledge of Chinese and Indian history (acquired mostly in middle and high school classes), I had very little context with which to understand these works. They are not part of the cultural and historical milieu to which I belong unlike, say, Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Nevertheless, I could appreciate the wisdom each work offered, and find elements within each work that spoke to the human nature I shared with its author.

That shared human nature helps answer the question of “why” certain texts persist across time and space. For a great book, a classic, is one in which readers experience some sort of recognition. We recognize a shared human experience which the author describes, or the “big questions” with which the author wrestles. I may very well disagree with the conclusions the author might come to about the meaning of these shared experiences, or the answers she offers to these “big questions.” But the shared language of our human nature allows me to engage in a dialogue with the author about the areas where we might disagree. Though a classic is clothed in the particularities of the historical context which birthed it, the universal (universal experiences, questions, ideas, etc.) is its true “body.”

A good teacher of classic texts should try to explicate the particularities of a text such that the universal shines through all the brighter. And an education rich in theology, philosophy, history, and art, where different subjects are treated as part of a whole (rather than as isolated units of information) will help with contextualizing and understanding the particularities. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that our STEM heavy, tech heavy, productivity-loving culture is one in which the ability of students to read great books is nose-diving.

On the other hand, I do think we can cheat ourselves out of reading the classics when we get too caught up in questions of context. Some basic introductory material and simple foot-notes (as well as a high-quality translation) are often sufficient. I don’t need to know anything about the Napoleonic Wars in which Captain Fredrick Wentworth wins his prize money to recognize the pain of separation between two people who love one another, or to understand that the uncertainty of a naval officer’s fate in the middle of a war is one of the reasons Lady Russell objects to his engagement with Anne. I may not be able to identify where, on a map, Beowulf ostensibly takes place; but I do recognize the grief his people feel when he finally dies, and they are bereft of a skilled leader who sacrificed his life for their sake.

With classics, a deep understanding of the particularities that clothe the universals can enrich and add depth to our understanding of what an author is trying to convey about these universals. But a true classic is one in which the universal experience, or question, or truth is so strong that we recognize it even if we don’t fully understand the purpose of the particulars with which it is clothed.

If I may offer a metaphor: Say I were to attend a wedding of a couple whose cultural background was completely different from my own. I might not understand the significance of the traditional dress the couple wears, or the purpose of certain ritual activities. But I would be able to understand the tears running down the face of the bride’s parents, as they watch their daughter take this important step. I would recognize the tenderness with which the groom touches his beloved bride. I would be moved by the pride shining in the faces of the groom’s parents, as they watch him form his own family. True, knowing more about the couple’s traditional dress, or the ritual activities would enrich my understanding of the ceremony. But the universal remains recognizable and comprehensible to me because of our shared human nature; my heart is still able to receive the truth, the goodness, and the beauty which this particular couple embodies. In the same way, a classic text is one capable of touching our hearts and intellects even when we don’t comprehend every detail that contributes to the whole.

In addition to conveying universal experiences, ideas, and truths, a true classic must also do so in a form that is beautiful; whether that beauty is of structure or language (and most likely both). Beauty of form enhances and honors the importance of the universals with which a classic engages. As a Catholic, I am heir to a long tradition which recognizes the importance of beauty. During mass, the stories of Scripture, the oratory of a skilled homilist, and the act of consecrating the Eucharist can touch my heart more deeply when I am surrounded by beauty. The beautiful language of a classic can be likened to the beautiful music of a church liturgy, while its beautiful structure can be likened to a beautifully decorated (and built) church building. The heart of a Church (for Catholics at least) is Christ present in the Eucharist, and in his people. And the heart of a classic is still the universal ideas, experiences, and questions it explores. But beauty has a particular power to soften our hearts and clear away the mud and muck that darken our vision. As a result, we are better able to recognize, and receive, that which our intellect recognizes to be true and/or significant.

So, to recapitulate, a classic is a work that persists across time and space because it speaks to universal human experiences/questions/truths in language and form that is beautiful. But of course, there are some works of literature that might fulfill some, or all, of these criteria and not be considered part of the “official” canon, the kind that appears on surveys and syllabi. It is worth asking the question of why some works aren’t included in these sorts of lists. Any student of history knows that societal beliefs about sex roles, race, and class (and how these relate to the educational/experiential opportunities needed to create a classic) have shaped what works are read, preserved, and promoted. However, acting as if the works of authors like Shakespeare or Dickens are only in the canon because they were written by “dead white men” is absurd. Both men undoubtedly benefitted from cultural forces interested in preserving and promoting the works of white men over others. But plenty of dead white men have been consigned to the dust heaps of literary history because, unlike Shakespeare and Dickens, they were not literary geniuses.

Furthermore, to truly succeed in the admirable work of expanding the “canon” to include works unjustly excluded by their authors’ background, or the vicissitudes of fortune, you have to have some sort of grasp of what makes a work worthy of inclusion in the first place. To recognize potentially “missed” classics, it is a good idea to start reading works our ancestors have asserted, time and time again, already fit the bill. Those of us who are part of (or influenced by) the western world live in a cultural context that tends to distrust any kind of authority and promotes a narrative of constant “progress.” As a result, we’ve developed a sort of contempt for our less socially and culturally enlightened ancestors. But for all that our ancestors, like ourselves, had moral blindspots conditioned by the time period in which they lived, they weren’t all idiots either.

Authors like Austen, Homer, the Brontës, or Tolstoy are beloved by individuals as far removed from these authors’ cultural and and social contexts as can possibly be imagined. And this fact proves that while our ancestors may have been deficient (as we all are) in living according to what is true and good and beautiful, they were not (always) deficient in their taste for the true, the good, and the beautiful in what they read. And note, that while I am using authors and works taken from my own (western) cultural context, the same precepts can apply to individuals from different cultural backgrounds. We can (and should) begin with the classics particular to our own cultural context (which may be based on our geographical location, our family’s culture of origin, our religion, or a mixture of all of the above). And from that base, we can expand our horizons by seeking out beautifully composed texts that speak to our universal human nature in other parts of the world.

In educational spaces, it is popular to promote reading more contemporary novels that kids will “connect” with. The problem I have with this approach is not that I believe all contemporary literature to be unworthy of time or attention. Indeed, by reading and recommending quality works of contemporary literature, we are casting a vote as to what will become a classic long after we have gone. The problem with this approach is that studying mostly, or only, contemporary literature in school is dropping students into the very tail end of a very complex, multifaceted, and utterly fascinating conversation. For of course, contemporary writers are, consciously or not, responding to the authors that came before them. Even explicit rejections of classics in modern literature, like Game of Thrones vis-à-vis The Lord of the Rings, are operating within a framework defined by what came before. Our contemporary entertainment culture, both literary and otherwise, cannot be separated from what came before.

Indeed, by reading the classics, students will come to realize that such works are not, in fact, confined to the classroom. True classics cannot be contained within the bounds of academia or the educated elite. They leap out of the ivory tower and diffuse themselves among the “common folk;” many of them, in fact, started with the common folk and only gradually came to be considered the property of the intellectual elite. The classics lurk in the background of all of our conversations; whether or not they are explicitly literary ones. They have left behind bits and pieces in our cultural memory. We dive down a rabbit hole with Alice, get stuck in Pandemonium with Satan, or embark on an odyssey with Odysseus. We find ourselves in a Catch-22 because of Joseph Heller, and we listen to the angel or the demon on our shoulder thanks to Marlowe. What speaks to and represents the truth of human experience makes its way into the conversation we are all, consciously or unconsciously, having all the time about the meaning and purpose of our lives, and of the universe itself. And the classics are those works which permanently alter the terms of this never-ending conversation.

As I wrote at the beginning, different classics offer, of course, different answers to those “big questions” centered on the meaning and purpose of life. Indeed, depending on the reader, the very same classic can offer different (even contradictory) answers to the same question(s). Often, how we read and interpret a classic work of literature has much more to do with the biases and beliefs through which we make sense of the world than they do with the text as such. Yet, classic works tend to be those that have the strength and elasticity to accommodate differing interpretations. This is not to say that I believe that there is no textual truth to be found, or that all interpretations of a text are equally correct and/or valid.

Rather, I think classics are works of great complexity and fertility, written by complex beings with fertile imaginations, and read by complex beings with fertile imaginations. And such complex beings are also flawed beings. Someone who has lost their glasses, or is wearing glasses with tinted lenses, may be able to recognize significant geographical landmarks in a scene, but there will be details they misunderstand (or miss entirely). And if they are unaware of the fact that their vision is compromised, they don’t realize what they are misunderstanding and/or missing. Indeed, in the act of reading a classic, we may very well become aware of such compromised vision for the first time. The text become that which judges and interprets the reader, rather than the other way around. To read a classic is, thank God, to be humbled, to be forced to “know thyself,” and to ask if the self that is known is truly good, and truly worth knowing.

To use another metaphor, reading a classic may be akin to the parable of the blind men and the elephant. Each man feels a different part of the elephant and so come to opposing conclusions about what, exactly an elephant is. A reader who willingly encounters a textual elephant again and again will gain a deeper understanding of what it is each time. And a reader who engages with, and learns from, those who have already examined (and reexamined) the textual elephant will gain still deeper insight. Ideally, in conversation and in rereading, we can, together, arrive at a clearer picture of the elephant. But of course, an elephant is a living being, subject to change. And so, to some extent, is a classic. We can never fully contain or grasp it, not the least because we ourselves never read it with the exact same thoughts, feelings, or circumstances as we did before. Thus, a classic is a work we can never truly get tired of, whether as individuals or as a society. We may lose sight of the textual elephant for a time in the jungle of historical circumstances or in a herd of similar elephants. We may even purposefully avoid it out of fear or frustration. But when we rediscover a classic, we will find that there is always a new treasure to mine from its depths because of its engagement with universal human experiences, ideas, and questions..

And this, ultimately, is one of the most hopeful and wonderful things about a classic: its ability to unite the hearts and minds of individuals who might not have anything else in common but admiration of that particular text. Thus, the classics can be much needed islands of common ground in our increasingly fragmented society. There may be readers of Austen I find absurd, or lovers of Tolkien I find personally repellant; but they, like me, have found something attractive in these authors. And maybe we can build a bridge to one another out of that shared love, and together draw closer to the eternal verities, eternal goods, and eternal beauties that the very best classics allow us to see through a glass, darkly.

Sound out in the comments; how would you define a classic? What are some books that you think do (or don’t) belong in the canon?

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