10 Greatest Novels Ever Written

From The Iliad, Beowulf, and Shakespearean literature in the West to the Chinese Classic of Poetry, the Indian Ramayana, and the Middle Eastern Epic of Gilgamesh, classical poetry is the foundation of literature in almost every culture historically. Today, if you can understand, appreciate, and write a sophisticated classical poem, certainly you can do so for a sophisticated essay or novel. Indeed, half of the books on this list are books written entirely or half in poetry. The classical poem is a highly condensed and powerful nexus of ideas and language. Thus, by grasping this foundation of literature—classical poetry—we can naturally command other literary genres and, in this case, determine the 10 greatest novels ever written. This is what I have intended to do here.

By novels, I do not mean novels in the strict sense but rather something closer to what today are sometimes called “class novels,” or books that one might be given to read in middle school, high school, and, to a lesser extent, college. The reason is that the majority of people only read great novels when forced to do so by their teachers. The books on this list are books you should be forced to read. (The down side here is that this target audience is primarily pre-college and thus excludes some of the more philosophical but excellent texts such as John Milton’s Paradise Lost and Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy.) These are books that everyone, English major or not, college education or not, should pick up and read at some point in their lives. They will enrich you immensely.

Of course within this framework, there is plenty of room for disagreement. Please feel free to list your picks below in the Comments section.

10. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910)

Tolstoy’s historical fiction novel follows a handful of upper-class Russian families during the era of Napoleon Bonaparte—that French conqueror who might be compared to George Washington or less affectionately to Adolf Hitler.

Tolstoy accurately portrays historical events of the Napoleonic era in Russia (1805-1820) and gives us characters who are deep and complex. His genius comes in the way he shows how the individual’s very real experience is connected with the sweeping force of history. For example, in the first words of the book, an aristocratic woman close to the empress of Russia speaks to another aristocrat just arriving at her soiree:

Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca [Italian states] are now just family estates of the Bonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist—I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened you—sit down and tell me all the news. (Book I, Chapter I)

As the first chapter plays out, we realize that the man on the receiving end of these words, Prince Vasili, in fact has little interest in politics. He is far more interested in pleasing the powerful speaker, Anna Pavlovna, and securing a high position for his spendthrift son or at least a favorable marriage. Of course, these circumstances are not random. Napoleon, whom she calls “the antichrist,” precisely represents a modern world where such backdoor dealings in high positions and favorable marriages would, in theory, not exist. People would rise on merit and achievement, as Napoleon himself did, and have a greater degree of individual choice and freedom. It is in these juxtapositions of history and intimate character-driven scenes where Tolstoy succeeds.

Tolstoy also succeeds in his visceral spiritual ponderings that run through situations and characters’ dialogues. For instance, when one of our main characters, Pierre, tries to steer his friend Prince Andrew away from his atheistic impulses, he states:

There is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the universe, in the whole universe there is a kingdom of truth, and we who are now the children of earth are—eternally—children of the whole universe. Don’t I feel in my soul that I am part of this vast harmonious whole? Don’t I feel that I form one link, one step, between the lower and higher beings, in this vast harmonious multitude of beings in whom the Deity—the Supreme Power if you prefer the term—is manifest? If I see, clearly see, that ladder leading from plant to man, why should I suppose it breaks off at me and does not go farther and farther? I feel that I cannot vanish, since nothing vanishes in this world, but that I shall always exist and always have existed. I feel that beyond me and above me there are spirits, and that in this world there is truth. (Book V, Chapter XII)

There is this kind of profound insight hidden in the pages of War and Peace. And I do mean hidden, for the book is a behemoth. Unabridged print versions can easily reach over 1,400 pages—even abridged versions are over 700 pages. For that reason, it is the only book on this list that is not readily digested in its entirety in an ordinary classroom setting. Nonetheless, excerpts may be real options.

The Louise and Aylmer Maude translation, from which my quotes are taken, can be accessed in the public domain on Gutenberg.org. There is also a good version edited and abridged by the Russian princess Alexandra Kropotkin.

9. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (1812–1870)

Dickens’s Great Expectations follows the coming-of-age story of an orphaned boy named Pip, who begins as a blacksmith’s apprentice but rises to become a wealthy gentleman through mysterious circumstances.

Dickens weaves a tale that successfully straddles both a humorous children’s fairytale and a real-world drama. For example, Pip’s miserable childhood is painted in ordinary ways, through tombstones, a dreary setting, and an abusive parent, but it also comes to life fantastically through his imagination. When Pip is forced to commit a bad deed, through no real fault of his own, even the cattle seem to accuse him:

The cattle came upon me with like suddenness, staring out of their eyes, and steaming out of their nostrils, “Halloa, young thief!” One black ox, with a white cravat on,—who even had to my awakened conscience something of a clerical air,—fixed me so obstinately with his eyes, and moved his blunt head round in such an accusatory manner as I moved round, that I blubbered out to him, “I couldn’t help it, sir! It wasn’t for myself I took it!” (Chapter III)

Additionally, at a time when the Industrial Revolution was in high gear, Dickens boldly put forward a Romantic theme about the high value of keeping the simplicity and innocence engendered by country living, childhood, and lack of education. This theme is found throughout the book, but perhaps never so vividly and humorously as when Pip’s old pal and father-figure “Joe the blacksmith” comes to visit him in London. Pip, now an educated and cultured gentleman, sits across from Joe, who is dressed very uncomfortably in formal clothing and can’t eat his food in a formal manner. Joe gives this monologue before escaping:

Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded together, as I may say, and one man’s a blacksmith, and one’s a whitesmith, and one’s a goldsmith, and one’s a coppersmith. Diwisions among such must come, and must be met as they come. If there’s been any fault at all today, it’s mine. You and me is not two figures to be together in London; nor yet anywheres else but what is private, and beknown, and understood among friends. It ain’t that I am proud, but that I want to be right, as you shall never see me no more in these clothes. I’m wrong in these clothes … I’m awful dull, but I hope I’ve beat out something nigh the rights of this at last. And so GOD bless you, dear old Pip, old chap, GOD bless you!

The illusory distinctions melt away and Pip suddenly sees Joe with clarity. Pip narrates:

I had not been mistaken in my fancy that there was a simple dignity in him. The fashion of his dress could no more come in its way when he spoke these words than it could come in its way in Heaven. He touched me gently on the forehead, and went out. As soon as I could recover myself sufficiently, I hurried out after him and looked for him in the neighboring streets; but he was gone. (Chapter XXVII)

Here and throughout the book, the beauty of simplicity and innocence is made clear through Dickens’s attention to detail. This includes his authentic use of language; for example, “divisions” becomes “diwisions” and God gets all capital letters, giving us a subtle but clear feeling for Joe’s uneducated, God-fearing character. Dickens also makes this beauty elusive by having Joe disappear down the street, which aptly captures the elusiveness of beauty in modern life. In fact, Dickens’s depiction of beauty’s elusiveness was so pronounced that the somewhat sad ending he originally wrote was criticized and he created a second happier one. This results in an unsatisfying feeling when you finish the book and are unsure of what Dickens really intended—though perhaps this unsatisfying feeling itself is his ultimate depiction of modern life.

Great Expectations can be accessed through the public domain on Gutenberg.org. There are a number of good abridged versions as well.

8. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (1802–1870)

Dumas’s page-turning saga follows the life of Edmond Dantès as he goes from a young man with his bright future ahead of him—a beautiful fiancée, a new promotion, and a pocket full of money—to a hopeless prisoner victimized by three jealous and conniving men. While imprisoned, Dantès acquires knowledge of an enormous treasure hidden on the small island of Monte Cristo. He then escapes, finds the treasure, and reinvents himself as the Count of Monte Cristo in order to carefully orchestrate a complex plan of vengeance.

The great beauty of Dumas’s writing is not in the revenge plot itself, but in a setting of refined French culture—the ballet, the opera, beautiful art, poetry, and gentlemanly behavior are common features—and in undercurrents of a profound spirituality. For example, Dumas’s narration preaches about the imprisoned Dantès:

Pride gave way to entreaty, yet it was not to God that he prayed to, for that is the last resource, but man. The wretched and miserable should turn to their Savior first, yet they do not hope in Him until all other hope is exhausted. (Chapter XII)

There is a palpable sense that Heaven or a divine realm is never far and exists just beneath the surface: “For an hour he slept thus, and was awakened by the roar of a tremendous clap of thunder. A flash of lightning that seemed to open the heavens to the very throne of God.” (Chapter XVII). This spirituality is also intensified by the fact that, in order to carry out his plans, Dantès carries on for much of the novel as an abbot, speaking lines that both a real monk and the real Dantès might sincerely say, such as, “There are times when God’s justice tarries for a while and it appears to us that we are forgotten by Him, but the time always comes when we find it is not so, and here is the proof.” (Chapter XXII).

Through the refined culture and spirituality, Dumas brings the eternal law of retribution, “what goes around comes around” or “you reap what you sow,” to the very peak of human aspiration. He then takes it one step further in the latter stages of the novel, when he realizes that he must rise above his own revenge and submit to the will of a power that is higher than himself.

This inner awakening climaxes when his old love, Mercédès, asks the Count of Monte Cristo (Dantès) to spare her son from the revenge that has driven his life for the last 20 years and to give his own life away in a duel. It is the son too of the man who so vilely conspired against Dantès:

“Have you seen your father die in your absence?” cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his hands into his hair. “Have you seen the woman you loved give her hand to your rival while you were pining away in the depths of a dungeon? …”

“No, but I have seen him who I loved about to become my son’s murderer!”

Mercédès said these words with such infinite sadness and in such tones of despair that they wrung a sob from the Count’s throat. The lion was tamed, the avenger was overcome!

“What do you ask of me?” he said “Your son’s life? Well then, he shall live!”

Mercédès uttered a cry which forced two tears into Monte Cristo’s eyes, but they disappeared again immediately; doubtless God had sent some angel to collect them, for they were far more precious than the richest pearls of Guzerat or Ophir. (Chapter LVII)

Thus, giving up everything, the Count of Monte Cristo accepts a higher truth about the impotence of human hatred in the grander scope of the universe and the greater power of compassion.

Although this book is almost too long for any class to tackle at 1,200 pages or so, abridged versions do an acceptable job, without too many confusing gaps—although, there definitely are some. The quotes I use are from the nearly 600-page abridged version produced by Tor, which I recommend. An unabridged English translation is also available on Gutenberg.org.

7. The Odyssey by Homer (circa 8th century B.C.?)

Homer’s epic poem tells of the Trojan War veteran Odysseus (also known as Ulysses) trying to get home and reclaim his palace from the suitors who have set their sights on marrying his beautiful wife, Penelope. Standing in his seafaring way are Cyclopes, giants, sea monsters, a sorceress, a sea nymph, sirens, intoxicating lotus fruit, ghosts in hell (Hades), and the sea god Poseidon himself—yet those are just his external foes. His own internal issues are perhaps even greater: pride, paranoia, hunger, lust, and sleepiness. In a word, The Odyssey is the ultimate adventure.

The eternal theme of perseverance plays out grandly since Odysseus spends 10 years trying to get home after 10 years already at war. His family, unsure if he is even still alive, must persevere too. His son, Telemachus, must quickly mature and seek out his father despite an assassination attempt by his mother’s suitors. His mother, Penelope, keeps the suitors at bay herself with the now immortalized method of endlessly weaving and then secretly unweaving a shroud that she says she must finish before picking a new husband.

Although the narration and dialogue can be long and daunting, some leeway must be given for the fact that it was all originally written as ancient Greek poetry that had a particular rhythm. Alexander Pope’s 18th-century poetic translation catches some of this enchanting beauty, as can be seen in this description of the sorceress Circe’s lair:

A palace in a woody vale we found
Brown with dark forests, and with shades around.
Access we sought, nor was access denied:
Radiant she came: the portals opened wide:
The goddess mild invites the guests to stay:
They blindly follow where she leads the way.
I only wait behind of all the train:
I waited long, and eyed the doors in vain:
The rest are vanished, none repassed the gate,
And not a man appears to tell their fate. (Book 10)

The bouncing rhythm of the iambic pentameter and rhymes echoes their foot steps through the forest and the narrator’s nervous heartbeats, giving movement to what is otherwise relatively static prose.

Yet, greater than all of this genius is Homer’s perspective or paradigm itself. Every moment of his epic is pervaded by a sense of hierarchical yet accessible divinity. The gods are usually superior in physique, superior in powers, and superior in morality to the humans depicted in the epic (though we certainly might find some of the gods’ deeds questionable today). It is one thing to ponder, “Perhaps there is a god or gods out there who look down on us as we look down upon children,” but Homer vividly paints what this might really look like in sublime and profound colors. For example, the father of the gods, Zeus, comments: “It’s disgraceful how these humans blame the gods. They say their tribulations come from us, when they themselves, through their own foolishness, bring hardships which are not decreed by fate.” (Book 1). In a few lines, Homer has covered what might be done in many volumes of philosophies and carefully nuanced stories. And that’s just in The Odyssey’s first 100 lines!

Finally, a comment on translations: There are countless translations of Homer’s works. The newer translations tend to have more accessible language, which is good and necessary for first time readers, but they also unnecessarily insert a lot of sexual language and swearing. The older translations by Pope and Samuel Butler are free in the public domain and are much cleaner and closer to the original in my view, with Pope’s having the added benefit of being consummately poetic. I also helped produce an adaptation that provides a clean and clear modern translation suitable for middle school students and up, and also includes 10 lines of Pope’s poetic version at the beginning of each chapter. The quotes in this piece are all from this adaptation.

6. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1775–1817)

Austen’s quintessential comedy of manners follows the Bennet family and its five daughters who face gloomy prospects in life if favorable marriage partners are not secured. The story begins with two potential wealthy suitors materializing, including the prideful—as well as tall, dark, and handsome—Mr. Darcy. He and his ego must face the prejudice of the sharp-witted and beautiful-eyed Elizabeth Bennet, the second eldest daughter.

Austen’s genius is in her ability to bring to life characters who strike the difficult balance between being conservative, prudent, and proper on the one hand and charming, quirky, and humorous on the other hand. For instance, in this dialogue, Mr. Darcy writes a letter to his sister, Miss Darcy, while Miss Bingley vies unsuccessfully to gain his interest:

“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
He made no answer.
“You write uncommonly fast.”
“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”
“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.”
“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”
“Thank you—but I always mend my own.”
“How can you contrive to write so even?”
He was silent. (Chapter 10)

These two aristocratic characters are strangely enthralling with their proper language, like “by your desire” and “I am afraid,” and their idiosyncrasies, like Miss Bingley’s obsession with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Darcy’s insisting that he mend his own pen. There are a number of other unforgettable characters too like the hilariously smarmy Mr. Collins and the shockingly pompous Lady Catherine.

Building on such brilliant characterizations, Austen then takes her story to a loftier level by clearly showing the inner transformation of Elizabeth Bennet. After pointing the finger outward for much of the book, Elizabeth realizes her own deep and disturbing flaw. While she had thought Mr. Darcy excessively prideful, prejudiced toward those beneath his class, and wickedly conniving, she later finds out that reality was not what it seemed and that it was she herself who was prejudiced against him:

“How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candor of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself. (Chapter 36)

It is this moral lesson about the mechanics of human pride and prejudice that truly elevates the novel to a work of greatness.

Pride and Prejudice is available in the public domain on Gutenberg.org.

As a final note, Pride and Prejudice and other Austen works share striking similarities to one of the four great novels of China, Dream of the Red Chamber (Hong Lou Meng), by Cao Xueqin. Both Austen’s works and Cao’s work revolve around the arranging of marriages and provide detailed and realistic depictions of the culture of upper class families in the same era—indeed Austen penned her first work in 1790 (23 years before Pride and Prejudice), only a year before Cao’s work was published. Both present moral lessons on propriety and etiquette. From this, we see the universal appeal and genius that Austen has harnessed.

5. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe (1660–1731)

If Homer’s Odyssey is the ultimate adventure, as I have called it, then Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe is the most exciting adventure. The novel’s stranded-on-a-deserted-island plot has been so influential that it created an entire genre that includes the classic 1812 children’s story The Swiss Family Robinson, the 1960s TV show Gilligan’s Island, and now the Survivor reality TV show that is still being made today.

Also, Defoe uses diary-like first person narrative and shrewd attention to detail to keep the illusion of reality vividly alive at every turn of the page in Robinson Crusoe. This approach to fiction writing proved so effective that countless later novels, from Herman Melville’s Moby Dick (1851) to Yann Martel’s Life of Pi (2001), have used it. In this passage from Robinson Crusoe, for example, our titular protagonist faces the reality of a devastating storm that has stranded his boat and forced him and his shipmates to gamble on taking a smaller boat to land:

As to making sail, we had none, nor if we had could we have done anything with it; so we worked at the oar towards the land, though with heavy hearts, like men going to execution; for we all knew that when the boat came near the shore she would be dashed in a thousand pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we committed our souls to God in the most earnest manner; and the wind driving us towards the shore, we hastened our destruction with our own hands, pulling as well as we could towards land. (Chapter III)

Do they make it? You have to read on. Such exciting tangles with death are sprinkled, not too much and not too little, to create the right flavor of excitement throughout the story, making it feel perfectly real, engaging, and uncontrived. Such scenes are also balanced by delightfully detailed descriptions of island life: “I saw here abundance of cocoa trees, orange, and lemon, and citron trees; but all wild, and very few bearing any fruit, at least not then. However, the green limes that I gathered were not only pleasant to eat, but very wholesome; and I mixed their juice afterwards with water, which made it very wholesome, and very cool and refreshing.” (Chapter VII).

The whole adventure runs parallel to a plot of moral and spiritual awakening. This is clear from the narration at the beginning, when Crusoe disobeys his father multiple times by running away to seek fortune on the high seas and refusing to return after his failure. When he ends up tasting success through a tobacco plantation, he is still unsatisfied and is drawn into seeking slaves to further increase his wealth. Then, when he ends up frightfully sick on the desert island, he dreams he saw “a man descend from a great black cloud, in a bright flame.” The man tells him, “Seeing all these things have not brought thee to repentance, now thou shalt die.” (Chapter VI). He does not die, but thereafter deeply reflects and slowly gains “divine knowledge,” realizing that he was being punished for his bad deeds, or sins, all along. Through this process, his inner being is stripped down as bare as his outer circumstances on the deserted island. He realizes that he should be hoping to be rescued not from the island, but from his own wrongdoing and evilness. From these realizations he ultimately arrives at peace and happiness:

“I learned to look more upon the bright side of my condition, and less upon the dark side, and to consider what I enjoyed rather than what I wanted; and this gave me sometimes such secret comforts, that I cannot express them; and which I take notice of here, to put those discontented people in mind of it, who cannot enjoy comfortably what God has given them, because they see and covet something that He has not given them. All our discontents about what we want appeared to me to spring from the want of thankfulness for what we have.” (Chapter IX)

Thus, the deserted island and Robinson Crusoe’s adventure are both physical and spiritual. This is Defoe’s greatest achievement.

Robinson Crusoe is available in the public domain on Gutenberg.org.

4. The Iliad by Homer (circa 8th century B.C.?)

For any civilization in human history, there is no escaping war. In an age when nuclear weapons have prohibited any conflicts between major world powers, war seems distant. But, we must remember that for millennia people could not escape it and in fact desired it. As the American World War II General George Patton said, “Magnificent! Compared to war all other forms of human endeavor shrink to insignificance. God help me, I do love it so!”

This reality of war is brought to life in all of its sprawling effects and magical glory like nowhere else as in Homer’s Iliad. The epic poem details a few weeks in the war between the ancient Greeks, or Achaeans, and the Trojans. It focuses on the anger of the Greek Achilles toward Agamemnon, who is his commander and the king of the Greeks, as well as on the saga of the Trojan hero Hector. (One might use the term “warrior” here, but the original Greek term for the warriors on both sides is literally “hero,” or “hērōs,” and that really captures the proper romance of the epic much better.) There are many other characters and subplots as well.

In The Iliad as in The Odyssey, the story can feel tedious at times, but out of this arises the beauty too. In particular, there are the epic similes that provide what seems a plain enough comparison at first, but then just seem to keep going, holding the moment in a state of sublime creativity that literature today generally does not achieve:

Ajax struck him in the chest, by the right nipple.
The bronze spear went clean through his shoulder.
He collapsed in the dust, like a poplar tree,
one growing in a large well-watered meadow,
from whose smooth trunk the branches grow up to the top,
until a chariot builder’s bright axe topples it,
bends the wood, to make wheel rims for a splendid chariot,
letting the wood season by the riverbank. (Chapter 4)

Although this is a violent and gruesome scene, the epic simile gives us a whole new perspective on the beauty of the killed man’s death and the good, the “splendid chariot,” that may come forth from this death.

Of Homer’s two great works, his Iliad is distinguished by the moral lessons it imparts more explicitly. The central problem the Greeks face is that Agamemnon has stolen the woman with whom Achilles is in love. This situation mirrors the war’s cause: Paris of Troy stole Helen, the wife of Agamemnon’s brother. The lesson is that if the Greeks can show themselves morally superior to the Trojans by overcoming this internal conflict (woman stealing) within their own ranks, then they have met the threshold to emerge victorious. The entire plot is the resulting misery of Agamemnon and Achilles while the Trojans triumph until finally Achilles abandons his hubris and apologizes:

Fewer Achaeans would have sunk their teeth into this wide earth at enemy hands, if I’d not been so angry. That’s really helped lord Hector and his Trojans… Still, though it hurts, we should let all this pass, repressing hearts within our chests—we must do that. (Chapter 19)

And, in all of this fighting over women, it is not the word “war” or “love” that appears most, but “god”—by far. Dovetailing with this divine focus is a sense of celestial balance and order that is pervasive. Relatable heroes and gods are on both sides and either army may pull ahead at any moment depending on the gods’ designs. We are left, too, with the sense that balance and order are among the higher principles and powers that the Greek gods themselves must adhere to, as in this scene:

Father Zeus raised his golden scales,
setting there two fatal lots for death’s long sorrow,
one for Achilles, one for horse-taming Hector.
Seizing it in the middle, Zeus raised his balance.
Hector’s fatal day sank, moving down to Hades.
At once Phoebus Apollo abandoned him. (Chapter 22)

Here it seems that the golden scales, not Zeus (at least directly), decide and that the sun god Apollo has no choice but to obey. This rich insight into the order of the universe, human civilization, and war make The Iliad truly epic.

Recommended translations by Alexander Pope and Samuel Butler are free in the public domain. There is also an adapted version that provides a clean and clear modern translation suitable for middle school students and up, and also includes ten lines of Pope’s poetic version at the beginning of each chapter. The quotes in this piece are all from this adaptation.

3. Hamlet by William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

The nation, controlled by your worst enemy, is against you. Your own mother, who is all the family you have left in the world, also seems to plot against you. Even reality itself, which is supposed to be distinct from ghosts and imagined foes, seems unreliable, threatening your life and possibly worse, your sanity, at every turn. This is the position in which Prince Hamlet finds himself when he returns home to Denmark from college in Germany.

The immense and soul-tempering nature of this struggle is what has turned Hamlet into a time-honored classic and many of its lines into famous quotes. What Hamlet goes through colors and adds depth to the rest of the play. When Polonius tells his son, Laertes, “this above all—to thine own self be true,” we realize that these words are really about Hamlet and the lesson we are supposed to take away from the play. When Hamlet strongly suspects that his father, the king, was killed by his own brother in order to take the throne and marry Hamlet’s mother, he could ignore his suspicions, play it safe, and be smart. But this would be denying his own conscience, honor, and dignity. He would not be true to himself.

From Hamlet’s predicament also arises Shakespeare’s most famous soliloquy, beginning:

To be, or not to be—that is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? (Act III, Scene I)

It is debated whether this refers to Hamlet’s contemplating committing suicide or killing his villainous uncle. (I would argue a bit of both, but especially the latter.) Yet, in either case, it is a perennial contemplation of the human condition, of the need to take action, and of the aspiration to a nobler state of being. His actions themselves demonstrate throughout the rest of the play that human beings must follow their consciences, seek justice, and aspire to have a noble spirit. In a moment of truth, Hamlet chooses the tough but right path.

There are also profound insights into the workings of human beings and society as a whole. For instance, there are the lines: “Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, / Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.” (Act I, Scene II). In a world that may be ruled by corruption and people fighting to make profits, it is nonetheless inevitable that any bad deed committed will sooner or later be duly repaid. These rhyming lines also highlight the beautiful poetic nature of the play, which is composed almost entirely in a poetic meter, or rhythm, called iambic pentameter.

Yet, Shakespeare does not stop there. Although he shows that Hamlet is doing the right thing by following his conscience and being true to himself, he also shows that there are higher powers and principles. He does this with a subplot about the prince of Norway, Fortinbras, whose father was previously killed by Hamlet’s father. Shakespeare subtly suggests that Hamlet’s home, Denmark, should in fact belong to Fortinbras. In the end, Denmark indeed ends up in Fortinbras’s hands. Thus, despite Hamlet’s pained struggle to bring justice to his kingdom, it was all the while fated for his kingdom to collapse. From this perspective, hypothetically speaking, if Hamlet had had insight this profound and had he already relinquished his fear of death, we might say that had he not taken any action against his conniving uncle and not sought anything, then that would have been even nobler than what he did. This is perhaps the ultimate revelation that the play offers. “To be or not to be” really is a question without a specific answer. The answer depends on an individual’s state of mind at any particular moment and under the circumstances of that moment in history. Whichever answer will advance his or her particular path upward toward a greater and profounder nobility, or state of being, is the correct one.

Hamlet is available in the public domain on Gutenberg.org.

As a final note, Hamlet’s position as the greatest of Shakespeare’s plays has in recent years been supplanted by Macbeth. This trend is idiotic. Macbeth is an interesting play with many good aspects but it is far behind Hamlet, Henry V, Julius Caesar, Richard III, and many other plays by Shakespeare. Whereas the general premise of Hamlet is moving and profound, the central premise of Macbeth is flawed at best and ridiculously sloppy at worst. Since there is no deeper motives, other than greed and hunger for power, for Macbeth’s killing his own king, Macbeth strangely shifts from a valiant wartime hero loyal to his king and country into a lowlife murderer who seems to have not a single shred of integrity. Such a character is bizarrely contrived, unrealistic, and, like the recent trend, idiotic since conception.

2. Journey to the West by Wu Cheng’en (1501–1582)

Up to this point in our journey through great literature, every story has had an ordinary sort of focus that forms the plot of the story. For instance, protecting the nation, moving up the social ladder, finding love, returning home, seeking revenge or justice, and basic survival. Of course, they have deeper and richer spiritual themes that are universal, but they are grounded in these very common secular goals. Journey to the West by Wu Cheng’en is quite different. The main focus is the history of the real seventh-century Buddhist monk Xuanzang (pronounced “shwen-zahng”) who traveled from China to India in order to bring back Buddhist scriptures. The grounding of the story then is chiefly spiritual and altruistic.

Wu successfully takes this spiritual grounding and turns the story into an ordinary adventure with action and exciting characters that compare with other stories on the list. For example, Xuanzang’s fellow Buddhist priest, the magical Monkey King, is never far from a fight. He is known for lines such as “Stand your ground, and eat old Monkey’s fist!” When they come across six roadside robbers, he simply kills them all, leaving Xuanzang distraught. Xuanzang says, “One has no right to kill robbers, however violent and wicked they may be …You have behaved with a cruelty that ill becomes one of your sacred calling.” (Chapter XIV). What Xuanzang doesn’t realize is that these robbers were no ordinary robbers; their names translate to “Eye that Sees and Delights,” “Ear that Hears and is Angry,” “Nose that Smells and Covets,” “Tongue that Tastes and Desires,” and “Mind that Conceives and Lusts,” which hints that they represent attachments to be relinquished in one’s quest for enlightenment.

Further, with an allegorical spiritual grounding, the action and adventure need not obey human laws and can be like a fairy tale and even a cartoon—basically, whatever one can imagine goes. This model is not unlike Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, or John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, but Wu takes it to unparalleled heights of fantasy and brilliance. For instance, at one point, the Monkey King enters into a wager with the Buddha as to whether he can fly off Buddha’s enormous hand. The Monkey King then flies to the end of the universe, where he finds five pillars that he marks with both his name and his urine. The Buddha says, “You stinking ape, you’ve been on the palm of my hand all the time.” “Monkey peered down with his fiery, steely eyes, and there at the base of the middle finger of Buddha’s hand he saw written [his name] and from the fork between the thumb and first finger came a smell of monkey’s urine.” (Chapter VII). Somewhere between sacred and hilarious, it’s a weird balance but Wu makes it work. His greatest achievement is this ability to take spiritual, altruistic, and idealistic goals and make them seem doable, fun, and immediate.

There are also strong themes of perseverance over a long journey, as one would expect, and of the hidden order and meaning behind the seemingly random events of human life. Strangely in line with the latter theme, while reading Journey to the West, I found that a long episode in the book uncannily mirrors Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Stranger still, I found that both were published in the 1590s. Both stories begin with the ghost of the king visiting and explaining that he was improperly murdered by a brother while in a garden and that the current king is that brother. Both revolve around the prince of the kingdom trying to unseat the murderous king currently on the throne. Both also end with the murderous king’s removal and a sublime twist the puts all of the events into a different light. If nothing else, this demonstrates that, while there is an abundance of magical powers and cartoonish animal people in Journey to the West, its main events and realistic plot developments are ultimately as profound, or arguably more profound, than those we might find in the realism of Shakespeare.

As a digression, you may be wondering where exactly the similarities in story lines came from. If you are an average sort of scholar, you may troll the internet for some kind of scientific explanation. You might conclude that both Hamlet and Journey to the West possibly drew on earlier stories and perhaps have some ancient progenitor. (There are similar Cinderella fairy tales in both cultures as well.) However, the precise similarities in the plot and times of publication are too uncanny to make that a rational explanation. In fact, ancient Chinese wisdom suggests that changes in human society unfold according to specific celestial arrangements. The human body, human society, and the universe are all connected. Such arrangements naturally control both Eastern and Western civilizations and have also been observed by 19th-century German historians. They noted that Buddha Siddhartha in India, Lao-zi and Confucius in China, and Socrates and Plato in Greece had profound effects on civilizations and all appeared around the same time, leading these historians to call that period the Axial Age.

My particular take on the similarities between the two 1590s works is that, firstly, they were wistful for the great but dead kings of the past—the most renowned being Tang Taizong (who appears in Journey to the West) and King Arthur (who, if real, likely lived around the same time as Tang Taizong). Secondly, they were both prophetically anticipating the great kings and cultural icons who were just about to arrive on earth—Emperor Kangxi (1654-1722) of China’s Qing Dynasty and King Louis XIV (1638-1715) of France … Or perhaps this entire analysis itself is just a fairy tale!

Finally, I note that the recommended version of Journey to the West is an adaptation by Arthur Waley from 1910, called Monkey. The quotes above are taken from it. Waley removes about two-thirds of the adventures, but he does a good job of capturing the essence of the work in under 350 pages. He also wisely takes out most of the poetry, which loses its feeling in English and threatens to bog the story down too much for English readers. For a full unabridged translation, Anthony Yu’s 2012 version is recommended.

1. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (14th-century author unknown)

There are certain parts of our collective cultural consciousness that we cannot escape and do not seem to want to escape. In the literary realm, chief among these is King Arthur. From fragments of Dark Ages poetry to a myriad of books, poems, operas, TV shows, and movies (yet another of which is slated to come out next year), the influence of King Arthur is inescapable. Other literary icons, like Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote and Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, also owe their legacies to the medieval romances of which Arthurian tales are the greatest. Yet, wherein lies the true essence of King Arthur?

Nowhere do the charm, mystery, and grandeur of Arthurian legend come to life better than in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the medieval novella-length poem whose author remains unknown. The words seem to dance off the page since they are written in alliterative verse (that is, similar beginning sounds are repeated in each line) and each paragraph ends in a “bob and wheel” (the “bob” being a couple of words and the “wheel” being a poem of four short rhyming lines), as seen here in this description of a Christmas feast at Camelot:

Delicious dishes were rushed in, fine delicacies
fresh and plentiful, piled so high on so many platters
they had problems finding places to set down
their silver bowls of steaming soup: no spot
________was clear.
____Each lord dug in with pleasure,
____and grabbed at what lay near:
____twelve platters piled past measure,
____bright wine, and foaming beer. (Stanza 6)

The merry mood changes when a supernatural knight and horse who are utterly green from head to toe enter the hall. The Green Knight challenges someone in Arthur’s court to enter into a bizarre wager with him. First the unlucky person is supposed to take one free swing at the Green Knight’s bare, but green, neck with an axe; and then, assuming that the Green Knight lives, he gets one swing at that person in a year and a day. When all are too frightened to come forward and King Arthur himself sees no choice but to do it himself, Sir Gawain steps up and puts his own life in the hands of a higher power.

The unpredictable yet realistic plot of Sir Gawain is intriguing and the descriptions and poetry are lush. Building on these, the greatest achievement is the poem’s ability to so clearly and convincingly portray pure goodness. This is done in a number of ways. Firstly, it is through the character of Sir Gawain, who is pure and good, yet convincingly fallible and human. For example, when he jumps up to stand in the place of his king, he shows a self-deprecating humility: “Of all your men of war I am the weakest and least wise, / and my life little enough to lose, if you look at it clearly. / My only honor is that you are my uncle; / my only boast is that my body carries your blood.” (Stanza 16). This is someone with whom, century after century, readers can identify.

Secondly, Sir Gawain is not simply a tough-guy protagonist. He engenders a complete philosophy that gives depth and proportion to the tough guy—whom we might alternatively name the proverbial manly man or protector. The symbol that he bears and cherishes is the five-pointed star-shaped pentangle, and each point is rich with meaning that is spiritual, sensory, and, most notably, moral: “And a fifth five was found in Gawain: / bounty and brotherhood above all else; / courtesy and a clean heart (these were never crooked) / and the finest point, compassion—these five virtues” (Stanza 28). I note that “bounty” can also be translated from Middle English as generosity; “brotherhood” as fellowship or fraternity; “clean heart” as cleanness or sexual purity; and “compassion” as piety or pity. These are all virtues that Sir Gawain displays through his actions in one way or another throughout the story. For example, he painstakingly seeks out the Green Knight even though it almost certainly means his own death and even though the Green Knight lives far away and is not easy to find. This demonstrates an incredible adherence to his word and reinforces the virtue of brotherhood. He also persistently resists the temptations of a seductive and powerful lady, reinforcing the virtue of a clean heart. Such instances as these, in which a good guy demonstrating good virtues is connected with being presented in a good light, in the grandest and most interesting manner, are invaluable and potent. They reinforce foundational morals generation after generation.

The potency of such virtues is also seen in how similar these virtues are to the five Confucian virtues that were revered for thousands of years in China and kept Chinese civilization strong: Rén (仁, benevolence, humaneness); Yì (義/义, righteousness or justice); Lǐ (禮/礼, proper rite); Zhì (智, knowledge); and Xìn (信, integrity). We can draw correlations in various ways between this list of five virtues and Sir Gawain’s five, but their general goodness and universal morality is what is overriding. The greatest human wisdom that secular literature can impart is this ability to overcome the moral pitfalls inherent in the human condition and create thriving civilizations.

The quotes above are all taken from a publicly available online version by Paul Deane, which does a good job of preserving the poetry and using understandable language. J.R.R. Tolkien of Lord of the Rings fame also created a good translation. I also created a short student skit adaptation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight for public use.