Why The Classics Matter
Every so often, I ask myself why I keep reaching for the same books. With so many new novels published every year, it makes sense to move on, to chase whatever is current or trending. And yet, I always seem to come back to the classics, especially Charles Dickens and Jane Austen, two writers who feel less like distant literary figures and more like familiar companions.
I don’t read classics because I feel I should. I read these because they continue to resonate with me.
What I love most about classics is that they survive without trying to be relevant. Time removes what’s fashionable and leaves behind what’s essential. When I read Jane Austen, I’m aware of the manners and social rules of her world, but what really holds my attention is how precisely she understands people. Pride, insecurity, longing, self-deception, these things haven’t aged at all. Her characters feel real because they behave the way real people do. They misunderstand themselves before they understand anyone else.
Dickens, on the other hand, pulls me in through emotion. His novels are crowded, messy, and deeply humane. He cared fiercely about injustice, and he wanted his readers to care too. What stays with me isn’t just the scale of his stories, but his empathy. He refuses to let the poor, the forgotten, or the inconvenient disappear into the background. Reading Dickens feels like being reminded again and again that everyone’s life carries weight.
Returning to these books has taught me that human nature is far more consistent than we like to believe. The world may look different, but our fears, hopes, flaws, and desires remain stubbornly familiar. There’s something grounding in realising that people centuries ago wrestled with the same emotional truths we do now.
Classics also ask something of me as a reader. They slow me down. They don’t offer instant gratification, and they don’t rush to make themselves easy. Over time, they’ve taught me to read more carefully, to sit with discomfort, and to pay attention to language. That kind of reading has shaped the way I approach all books, not just old ones.
That said, loving classics doesn’t mean defending them blindly. Some feel distant. Some reflect values that deserve questioning. But I’ve learned that I don’t have to excuse a book’s flaws to appreciate its insight. In fact, reading critically is part of what keeps these works alive.
What I try to resist is the idea that classics belong on a pedestal. Dickens and Austen weren’t writing to become sacred texts; they were writing to be read, shared, argued over, and enjoyed. Their work feels strongest when it’s allowed to breathe, when it becomes part of an ongoing conversation rather than a test of cultural literacy.
The classics that matter most to me are the ones I return to willingly, the ones that still make me pause, smile, or rethink something I thought I understood. They remind me that good stories don’t expire, and that insight doesn’t lose its power just because it comes from the past.
For me, that’s why classics still matter. Not because they’re old, but because some of them are still very much alive.