Overrated Classic Novels: Why The Awakening and The Great Gatsby Fall Short
High school was probably a time you’d rather forget. It was filled with awkward phases, social missteps, and cringeworthy memories. Oh, quick side note: remember that dumb thing you said to your crush in 10th grade? Yeah… I talked to them recently, and turns out they still think about it right before they fall asleep too.
But seriously, if you were like most high schoolers, you didn’t exactly love being forced to read for English class. And writing an essay or book report on some crusty old classic that everyone insists is amazing, but you can’t even stay awake past the second chapter? Miserable.
However, here’s the thing: it wasn’t your fault. Those books just weren’t that good. So go ahead, close your eyes, breathe out that lingering guilt, and know this: the books below didn’t deserve your time back then. Maybe they still don’t.
The Awakening
(by Kate Chopin)
I’m going to be honest: I have never hated a book more than The Awakening by Kate Chopin. If I could make this entire post about just one novel, it would be this one. I’ve never read the Geneva Conventions in full, but I’m fairly certain The Awakening is listed somewhere in there as a violation.
Sure, I get it. For 1899, the content and publication of this novel was absolutely radical. The book was groundbreaking in how it highlighted how few real options women had, while also making a case (sort of) for reclaiming personal autonomy in a society that denied it to half the population. That’s important, and I’m fully on board with the cause.
But this book is a terrible messenger.
Edna, the main character, is deeply misguided at best and insufferable at worst. Her entire journey begins with the fact that she’s in a loveless marriage and tired of being a wife and mother. I’m sure that is a situation many people can empathize with. However, as an unmarried male in high school, I could not. Still, I can empathize. But my empathy fell short when you find out Edna wasn’t forced into this marriage by family pressure or the patriarchy. Nope, instead, she chose this man specifically to spite her father. Truly, a “cut off your nose to spite your face” power move.
Still, we’re okay. There’s room for growth. But instead of evolving, Edna doubles down. She runs away from her family, abandons her kids, and has an affair. An affair with a guy that breaks her heart in an entirely expected fashion. So now everyone’s miserable. Neat.
Surely Kate Chopin let her novel’s “heroine” find some insight after all this self-inflicted chaos, right? There has to be a life lesson that is well worth the struggle, doesn’t there? Nope. Edna spends the rest of the book whining. A lot.
Chopin wants us to see her as a tragic victim of a rigid society, but Edna mostly just seems addicted to decisions that aren’t great for her or anyone else. And if you think I’m exaggerating, wait until you hear the ending. This isn’t a spoiler alert because the book’s over a century old and sucks anyways. In her learned wisdom, Edna decides the only way to deal with the mess she’s made is to walk into the ocean and unalive herself.
To be fair, that’s the most relatable part of the book. This book helped to normalize that trope in modern memetics. A meme that I unwilling pay homage to as I threaten to walk into the Atlantic at least once a week at work.
The Great Gatsby
(by F. Scott Fitzgerald)
The Great Gatsby remains a staple on high school reading lists and for good reason; F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel is an ode to the “American Dream,” wrapped in glitz, glamour, and quotable lines. Dreams are chased through self-made success, while untethered love triangles and the Roaring Twenties swirl in the background.
So what’s not to love? Well… the story itself.
Gatsby aims to expose the rot at the heart of the American Dream: idealism, obsession, hollow wealth, and resistance to change. But I’d argue it doesn’t do it particularly well. The characters are flat, their wealth lacks depth, and their choices never lead to growth or change. At the end of the narrative, the system still remains broken and no one seems to care. The tired murder-suicide ending doesn’t elevate the narrative either; it just puts a melodramatic bow on an already thin plot.
To his credit, Fitzgerald delivers sharp social commentary: people don’t really grow up, and money doesn’t buy meaning. But unfortunately, those ideas play out through a cast of vapid, self-absorbed characters who feel more like flat symbols than thriving characters. They drift through life clinging to the past, all while behaving like drama queens in tailored suits.
Worse still, the book walks a fine line between critiquing and glamorizing the wealth it depicts. The parties are dazzling, the clothes are immaculate, and Gatsby’s mansion is practically a character of its own. For all its warnings, the novel can’t help but drool over the very excess it claims to condemn.
Still not convinced the story falls short? Look at its early reception. When The Great Gatsby was published in 1925, it received mixed reviews. Most critics shrugged it off as a nostalgic period piece. For the first 25 years of its life, the book was largely ignored The book was recognized as existing, but rarely discussed as anything more than the paper it was printed on. Hardly the reception you’d expect for a so-called “Great American Novel.”
Catch-22
(by Joseph Heller)
This is one of the few books I’ve tried (and failed) to reread as an adult. Multiple times. I’ve slogged through its hefty pages and I honestly think I’ve only finished it once. So sure, that might discredit my opinion entirely, but I still don’t like the book. Which is almost a catch-22 in itself because while I generally dislike military novels, I also do appreciate authors who take aim at the glorified myths of American warfare. Quick side note: the phrase “catch-22” is easily the best thing to come from the book. Still, I disliked the novel for a variety of reasons. Reasons that are more varied, ironically, than the handful of punchlines Heller keeps recycling.
As Heller writes, “There’s a right way, a wrong way, and the army way.” And for some reason, people treat Catch-22 like it’s the “right way” to write antiwar fiction. Sure, it’s absurdist. And sure it lays on the antiwar sentiments in thick fashion. But at a certain point, the jokes wears thin. The same bits are repeated over and over until they lose their edge.
What frustrates me most, though, is how hard the book is to enjoy. It isn’t because the language is especially complex or poetic. It isn’t. It’s not enjoyable because the structure is chaotic and bogged down by military jargon and references that have no real place 50-plus years after it was written. Overall, Catch-22 is hard to follow, and thus, often hard to even tell what Heller is trying to say. Reading it feels more like a task than a pleasure. And that’s ultimately why I don’t care much for the hype it receives because reading should never feel like a chore.
Pride and Prejudice
(by Jane Austen)
I’m a male, so maybe my opinion doesn’t matter when it comes to Jane Austen. Still, I was raised by a feminist mother and constantly reminded of the plights of the modern woman. Yet no matter what, I just can’t seem to relate about the struggles Austen’s characters face. At its core, Pride and Prejudice is about the problems of an upper-middle-class woman. So, not exactly a big overlap with yours truly.
Still, in an attempt to re-ingratiate myself to Jane Austen, I even tried Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Seth Grahame-Smith. Yet, even with zombies, the original dullness bled through in his version too. Sure, the zombie bits were fun, but no matter what Grahame-Smith did to spruce up the narrative, Austen’s core narrative was still there. And still, I could not relate and definitely not when I was in high school.
In truth, the prose in the book holds up remarkably well for something written over two hundred years ago. There is no denying that Jane Austen is a strong writer and undoubtedly much stronger than I’ll ever be. She definitely deserves to be on the pantheon of great writers. Yet, when all is said and done — despite the sharp social commentary — Pride and Prejudice just wasn’t for me.
Final Thoughts
Look, I get it. Not every classic is beloved because it has a thrilling, action-packed plot or some mind-blowingly profound perspective. Some books earn their “classic” status because they advanced social causes or sparked meaningful dialogue across generations. That’s valid. But that doesn’t mean they need to be pushed on millions of students every year. We can teach students about influential authors and their works without forcing them to overanalyze every chapter, every symbol, and every meta-theme.
I’m a big believer that reading should be enjoyable and fulfilling. No one should finish a novel and feel worse for having read it. Sure, there’s real value in exposing young minds to unfamiliar ideas, perspectives, and experiences through assigned reading. But I still struggle with the idea that any one book is so profound, so untouchably important, that it must be mandatory. The only books worth the hype are the ones that inspire a love of literature — not the ones that turn it into a chore.