The label “classic” evokes reverence—a status reserved for books that have supposedly withstood the test of time, resonated across generations, and shaped our cultural imagination. We talk about Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Austen, and Tagore as if they were predetermined landmarks on a literary map. Yet this assumption masks a profound question: what makes a work a classic? Why have certain books been canonised while others, perhaps equally radiant, remain obscure? As critic Alok Mishra points out in a recent editorial, the term “classic” is routinely misunderstood, treated as if it were merely shorthand for something old or esteemed. He urges us to revisit the foundations and ask: must a classic be permanent? Or might we need to rethink, even redefine, what deserves to live beyond its moment?
To begin, it is essential to recognise that calling a book a classic is not strictly about its age. A novel does not automatically become timeless simply because it was written centuries ago. The works of kindergarten favourites or 19th-century firewood compilations don’t qualify. Instead, classics emerge through two interlocking processes: selective preservation by gatekeepers (such as publishers, critics, and educational institutions) and active engagement across time. There is an element of power in canonisation. Early Smith’s selections in Penguin Classics or academic syllabi confer legitimacy. Institutionalised reading lists—like those of St. John’s College or Western liberal arts—reinforce them. The result is feedback: those canonised works are assigned authority, leading to further study and reverence in a self-perpetuating cycle.
Yet at its heart, literary value is richer than institutional imprimatur; it requires resonance—what Italo Calvino called “a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.” Classics are works that seem to reinvent themselves with each reading and that respond to changing contexts. Ezra Pound insisted that a classic is a piece that retains a pulsating freshness across eras. The Mahabharata is not a classic just because it’s ancient; it’s a classic because it continues to speak to contemporary human dilemmas—conflict, dharma, identity—in evolving ways. Similarly, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice remains a classic not only for its refined narrative technique but for its continued relevance to discussions of class, gender, and social mobility.
But does that mean anything truly capable of interpretation qualifies? Here lies the problem. If everything is a classic, then “classic” conveys nothing. Criteria have to evolve beyond longevity or adaptability. Alok Mishra, in his editorial, suggests examining the values embedded in classics—their moral, cultural, and philosophical depth. He urges us to ask whether classics still stand as benchmarks of human aspiration. Traditionally, canonical works have offered ethical insights, societal critique, or universal imagination. But what happens when literature changes so rapidly that today’s moral crises demand different kinds of cultural works—ones not anchored in canons 100 years old?
In one of his articles, Alok Mishra writes: “Poetry should be written with permanence in mind…” and so too should fiction. But permanence for what? The poet’s permanence was then measured against parameters cherished in reading. Mishra warns that too often, classics are rescued from the past without regard for whether their values align with what we need today—equality, diversity, and ecological awareness. Similarly, classics drawn from colonial heritage may affirm racist power structures or fundamentalist ideas that contemporary readers need to confront, not lionise uncritically.
We are seeing more activism within literary criticism precisely for this reason. Once the canon was a closed circuit—white, Western, male—it is now being challenged openly. Feminist, subaltern, and anti-colonial critics ask: why do we still treat Kafka or Hemingway as universal while refusing even to read Premchand or Toni Morrison? One reason is familiarity and safety; another is institutional inertia. However, a classic that fails to address the concerns of a pluralistic, global present may no longer be considered a classic at all. It might still be excellent. But excellence alone does not guarantee permanence.
Here lies the tension between the two functions of classics. On the one hand, they educate, offering insight into human nature and experience across boundaries. On the other hand, they frame our literary benchmarks, establishing what counts as success. That double role must be constantly revised, as our benchmarks evolve. Shakespeare’s poetic grace cannot describe the experiences of intersex individuals. Dickens’s social realism, brilliant as it is, cannot capture the realities of Dalit life in postcolonial India. We need new classics—works that do more than amuse or instruct. They should interrogate, dissent, and disrupt.
Changing the canon doesn’t mean abandoning the old. Instead, it means regarding the canon as a living archive rather than a mausoleum. We should read Moby‑Dick not only for its poetic grandeur, but as one revolutionary strand alongside Toni Morrison’s Beloved or Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude. We might teach Pride and Prejudice alongside Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake, juxtaposing models of identity, assimilation, and domestic and transcultural dynamics. In doing so, we preserve the classic’s power to engage, while tempering its universality.
What makes a classic, then, is fluidity. Two intertwined criteria should guide our assessment today. One is aesthetic integrity: craftsmanship, depth, clarity, the ability to bear repeated readings. That is necessary but insufficient. The second is ethical resonance: does the work invite reflection without glorifying injustice or dominance? Does it provoke the discomfort that emerges when entrenched systems are shaken? A true classic contains moral cores—questioning class, race, gender, and empire—rather than upholding them through nostalgia and selective critique.
Alok Mishra reminds us that permanence should not be mistaken for comfort. A text survives not because it uplifts, but because it unsettles—like Camus’s The Stranger, which refuses easy moral clarity. Or Kafka’s Metamorphosis, which makes us squirm with existential vertigo. These books are classics because they have the power to change us. They recast our sense of agency, history, and vulnerability—not just leaving us entertained, but unsettled.
Rethinking the canon also means recognising plurality. In the global South, we already have powerful classics in Tamil Sangam poetry, the Mahabharata, Naguib Mahfouz’s Cairo Trilogy, or Nadine Gordimer’s post-apartheid reflections. These are not substitute classics—they are parallel classics. A richer literary world contextualises them alongside Shakespeare, Tagore, Goethe, and Toni Morrison. It breaks free of hegemonic whiteness without minimising aesthetic excellence. Mishra implies that a “true” classic is a bridge: it connects terrain, disciplines, and cultures. It enriches by acknowledging margins.
If permanence is not merely survival but expansion of meaning, then classics must crowdopen the canon—demanding inclusion not tokenism. Works by African, indigenous, Dalit, migrant, and queer writers should be allowed to claim classic status without being relegated to “special categories.” If they endure, they may stand taller and more inclusive than the narrower works of earlier centuries. We should have no fear of new classics redefining literary possibilities.
Of course, classics will still hold their place in curricula and libraries. But curricula shouldn’t remain fossilised. We read ancient texts anew when we challenge our values. Just as postcolonial pedagogy rescued Manto, Fanon, and Aimé Césaire from obscurity, our age demands that the classroom become a space of rotation, where each era rescues or reframes one or two works that carry moral urgency. Classics should inform us, not officiate over us.
To answer the original question: what makes a work a classic? It is not the date on the title page, or its mention on syllabi. It is the act of enduring interrogation. A classic is a book that changes meaning as its readers change, carries within itself the complexity of human crises, and engages with new historical questions. Classics should no longer be permanent only in accumulation. They must be permanent in renewal. They should not merely confirm tradition but challenge us to rethink it.
As Alok Mishra summarises it in his well-received article What Makes a Literary Classic?,
“If a novel does not induce readers to continue reading, it will never be a classic. Seriousness and readability should go hand in hand, along with the publication date and recommendations by critics.”
We should understand that merely being perplexing or obscure may not make a book a classic for everyone. It should also be readable, appreciated by the masses, and relatable to the audience, regardless of when it is being read.
In this century—riven by climate breakdown, mass migration, and digital fragmentation—we urgently need literature that shows life’s complexity without bows to sanctity. The classic must be the work that outlives its time, not by nostalgia but by its capacity to renew. Revisiting the idea of a classic is not dismissing Shakespeare. It is refusing him as an unassailable authority. It means reading him alongside Liu Cixin and Natasha Trethewey, remembering that all classics began in their time—and that our time deserves new classics too.
By Priya for the BooksToRead platform
