Contemplating the Canon: Who Gets a Place on the Classics Shelf?

We're told which books are 'great' long before we pick them up - but how does this shape our reading?  Can a book be objectively 'great' at all?  It might be time to look a little closer at the literary canon, our role in shaping it and why some books endure...
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​How do we define the Western literary canon? It seems to be the sort of elusive concept that everyone generally knows what it is, and what belongs to it, yet there’s no solid definition. Many critics have tried of course, and even created lists of canonical texts, yet the contested or controversial nature of their arguments makes me hesitate to draw on any one of them for a simple definition. 
 
With this in mind, the general consensus amongst critics, bloggers and readers is that the canon consists of the ‘classics’; texts that are considered culturally significant and worth preserving in Western history and tradition. Other keywords that popped up in my reading were original, essential, timeless, influential, enduring, and the universally agreed upon ‘greats’. The idea of the canon as an academic tool also came up, used to determine which texts are worth teaching to younger generations. Interestingly, the word ‘canon’ itself is derived from the ancient Greek word for ‘rod’ or ‘standard’, which feels particularly relevant; canonical texts being those that we take as standard in literary studies: the benchmark to which other authors must aspire to, and the standard that we, as readers, compare them to. Some authors that come to mind are Orwell, Tolstoy, Austen – you get the picture.
 
The logical follow up question, to me, is: what is its purpose? Why do we have one at all? While I’m sure defenders of the canon could think of many, these seem to be the main three that have stood out to me:
 
Firstly, very simplistically, as a reading guide. The sheer volume of literature produced over centuries makes it impossible to read everything; the canon presents a list that, at the very least, is generally agreed upon to be worth reading and have something to offer. 
 
Secondly, and possibly the most logical reason for defending the canon, is for cultural teaching and preservation. Sometimes books are canonical not because of their inherent literary qualities, but because of what they tell us about the culture and experiences of the periods in which they were written. They become cultural artefacts, detailing historical moments, social values, political movements, even linguistic developments, portrayed through the literature we preserve through granting them canonical status.
 
Thirdly, as an educational framework. Faced with centuries of literature, schools must decide which texts are the most valuable to teach to their students. The canon offers a framework for making those decisions, highlighting works considered culturally significant, influential or foundational to literary study.
 
Now, the problem for me in this seemingly straightforward perception of the canon is that the very existence of a canon opens up far more questions than it answers. Primarily, if the canon is a reading guide, who decided these texts were the ones worth recommending? If it exists as a form of preserving cultural history, who decided which select parts of Western culture are worth preserving? What experiences, historical moments, social commentaries, the very perspectives from which they are written are worth taking forward? Similarly, which texts are influential enough to teach in schools? By what criteria do we judge them and who does the judging? And if the answer is that canonical texts have simply been declared the most timeless, influential, important books we possess as a society, what exactly do these words mean and who judges them as such? Can these qualities be judged objectively at all? 
 
This line of questioning got me thinking about something I read in Grayson Perry’s book, Playing the Gallery. He talks about beauty, and how we perceive and judge beauty, particularly Proust’s idea that ‘we only see beauty when we’re looking through an ornate gold frame’.
 
What he means, as Perry discusses, is that our idea of what is beautiful is often socially conditioned. Things do not necessarily possess an inherent quality that makes them beautiful, but rather become perceived as beautiful through exposure, reinforcement and cultural agreement. We see the gold frame and assume what sits within it must be worthy of our respect and admiration.
 
And perhaps literature works much in the same way.
 
How much of ‘great’ literature do we consider great, simply because it has been presented to us as great? We very rarely encounter a canonical text out of context: we approach canonical texts as canonical texts, and with the reputation and influence that comes with this rather than every really experiencing it on its own terms. The more something is praised, discussed and taught, the more established it becomes, the more its reputation precedes anyone’s individual opinion of the writing itself. The canonical status becomes the gold frame we see before we see the painting. 
 
This ideology also has a clever way of reinforcing itself. Let’s say that particular books survive because people continue to read them, teach them, rewrite, re-enact, republish and recommend them, and once a text has survived this process for a while, that survival itself becomes evidence of its greatness. The ‘timeless’ nature of canonical books therefore becomes somewhat self-perpetuating; we preserve books that we decide are worth preserving, then used their preservation as proof that they’re worth continuing to preserve. 
 
Just to be clear, I’m not saying canonical writers are underserving of being recognised; Shakespeare’s reputation can’t be explained away simply by generations of people being told he is brilliant. But my question remains: do we recognise and respect the canon because these books are objectively great, or do these books feel objectively great because we’ve spent generations recognising and respecting them?
 
For me, this is where the canon becomes problematic. Reading is an entirely subjective experience. A novel that changes one person’s life could be sentimental drivel to another. Yet the canon presents itself as objective. It establishes a hierarchy of texts, elevating some works as more valuable, more important and worthy of elevation than others. Harold Bloom, for example, asserts that Shakespeare “sets the standard and limits of literature” – but how did we establish this standard? 
 
And this is where my difficulty with the canon lies. If literature is experienced subjectively, can there ever really be a universal standard? 
 
And the best thing to do looking forward, I think, is to stay curious, stay critical and keep questioning the canon. Taking the canon as an absolute verdict seems to me a very restrictive and, honestly, lazy way to think about reading. If you think Dickens deserves his canonical status, that’s great, but why? Is it the gold frame around his novels or is it his compelling writing style and social commentary? Are there any authors never mentioned in discussion of the canon but you think they should be? Diversifying and modernising the canon is a hot topic in the humanities, but are we questioning the need for a canon at all?
 
As Grayson Perry wrote, “the art world needs more people to keep asking it questions, and thinking about those questions helps the enjoyment and understanding of art.”
 
Happy reading!

​Hannah Grogan
​ August 2026