There’s something sacred about opening a book, entering a whole new world, and becoming entirely immersed in a story. English classes were always a favourite of mine for this very reason. Although my education is focused on a very different field of study, I think that everyone can benefit from the practice of literary analysis, especially the classics—often the ones we disagree with or find uncomfortable.
The value of studying literature is often disputed, with some claiming it useless due to the problematic nature of many classics. However, the skills gained through literary analysis are applicable to any discipline of study, be it the sciences or the arts. What can be acquired through reading and analyzing a text on a profound level encourages critical thinking and confronts readers with new ideas and perspectives. Perhaps most crucially, though, literary analysis offers social critique not only relevant to when the stories were written, but contextualizes the present day as well. It is vital to understand not only what is happening in a story, but also why it is happening and what that means.
Critical thinking is a soft skill that’s instrumental to every facet of living. Literature teaches us to read between the lines, spot biases, and form interpretations backed by evidence. Anyone can read a summary and learn the plot of a novel, but being able to read a novel in its entirety gives insight into its minute themes—reflections of ourselves and others. Reading literary works demands that we question, interpret, and evaluate. Readers learn to spot patterns, analyze symbolism, and weigh conflicting perspectives. Over time, this practice sharpens the ability to dissect arguments in any field and to defend our own conclusions with evidence and nuance.
Not every protagonist is going to be likeable or moral. The terms “hero” and “protagonist” are not interchangeable, and some of them are not people we root for. Engaging with these particular stories can teach readers about the complexity of morality or to understand the false dichotomy between good and evil. Understanding other points of view, no matter how much one disagrees with them, is a life skill that can be gained through analyzing the media one engages with.
In my English 151 class, we were made to read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby—one of the few books where I’ve found every single character unlikable. The story is centred around wealthy, entitled, old-moneyed New Yorkers during the Roaring Twenties. They get away with all the awful things they do, including, but not limited to, bootlegging and vehicular manslaughter. I was furious when I finished reading it, because I was hoping that at least one of them would get their comeuppance. But they didn’t, and that was the point. The rich got away with everything in the end, because the author was making a point about the privileges that come with wealth. Even though I loathed everyone in that story, reading how the characters justified their actions to themselves was enlightening.
One thing I did love about The Great Gatsby, and something I love in literature in general, is the use of an unreliable narrator via Nick Carraway. Unreliable narrators are characters whose credibility is compromised, whether by intentional deceit, mental instability, limited knowledge, or personal bias. Nick is very biased in favour of Gatsby, and his storytelling invites readers to peel back layers, constantly asking What really happened? rather than accepting his narrative at face value. To an extent, everyone is an unreliable narrator. It’s impossible for a person to be completely objective in events that occur to them or people they know. Through reading stories with these unreliable narrators, it helps readers question what is really going on in a story and can help them ask how objective they really are in their own lives.
Reading has made me more open minded and empathetic; this is universal. When readers immerse themselves in a novel or poem, we step into another person’s shoes, witnessing joys, sorrows, and ethical dilemmas from the inside. Through navigating a character’s fears, hopes, and flaws, we can learn to recognize those same emotions in others, even when circumstances differ wildly from our own. This intimate connection transforms abstract ideas about kindness or injustice into lived experiences, training readers to respond with compassion and understanding in real life.
A major criticism against the study of English literature is its lack of diversity. Most of the books in the literary canon are from the same group of people: wealthy, privileged, white, men. While classism and racism have been at play historically, I’m seeing now in contemporary literature that we are beginning to right those wrongs. The classics aren’t necessarily going anywhere in English class, but we’re seeing a more diverse syllabus.
In English courses I took recently, we read Brother by David Chariandy and Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo, two excellent novels written by Black authors that helped me, and my fellow students, gain more perspective. In ninth grade we read The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian by Sherman Alexie, which was inspired by an Indian teenager’s experience going to an all-white high school while living on a reservation (“Indian” is Alexie’s preferred term over “Indigenous” or “Native American”). The diversity of stories being taught and studied is increasing, adding to the most meaningful aspect of reading: gaining empathy and insight from someone else’s experiences.
I think there are still things to be learned from the classic texts. One of the most uncomfortable stories I’ve ever read was Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, the story of a British man sailing down the Nile deeper into the Congo in search of ivory for The Company’s profit. The descriptions of the Congo natives are disgusting and extremely racist, but the protagonist Marlow concludes that their treatment of these people is wrong toward the end of the story. The language used is outdated at best, but a major theme of the novella is the detriments of colonialism. It’s a very influential modernist work that introduced new narrative structures and a more individualistic perspective. Alongside the novella, we also read an essay, “An Image of Africa” by Chinua Achebe, which provided the perspective of a Black man who teaches African literature. Achebe was very critical of Heart of Darkness, and rightfully so, but books like these should be studied because of their influence.
An important point to keep in mind while reading these old books is that many of them were progressive for their time. John Steinbeck’s novella Of Mice and Men is an example of this, wherein Steinbeck refers to the only female character as “Curly’s wife” and never by her name. When I was reading this story in twelfth grade English, I flipped through the book repeatedly searching for her name. But she is never even given one, just her relation to a man. This infuriated me until we discussed the reason why in class. Back when this was written in 1930s America, women were seen as the property of their husbands. She is only Curly’s wife because that’s all society would allow her to be. That is the point that was being made. Steinbeck was using her as a symbol that represented women’s role in society during his time. While many people consider the decision problematic, it’s simplistic to reduce it as sexist; it’s relevant to both her place in the story and the critique Steinbeck was making against the world he lived in.
Other social critiques seemed to have aged better than others. A poem I read last semester reshaped how I viewed the events of World War I: Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est.” In this poem, Owen recounts the horrors of trench warfare and his post-traumatic stress disorder from watching a man die from mustard gas. He wrote this in 1917, while in the Craiglockhart military hospital, denouncing the idea that there is any honour or glory in warfare. The descriptions he gave for the man he watched die still echo in my mind when I think about chemical warfare. It’s one thing to read about battles or death tolls in a history textbook, but nothing made it feel more real or immersive for me than Owen’s poem.
Literature invites us into others’ lives. I’m not saying every single person needs to start reading Victorian literature like Charles Dickens or Thomas Hardy to do this, but dismissing the boring old book you read in high school fails its value. Literature is so much more than the literary canon of classics that come to mind. It’s poetry, plays, new and old novels. Reading literature equips us with creativity, analytical rigour, and compassion—skills essential for navigating today’s complex world and forging genuine connections with others.